The Genesis Files

by Gwen Richardson

  “And what about the devastation that can be caused and the reputations that can be destroyed because of the false story? That cannot possibly be corrected.”

  Hamisi pressed forward with his inquiries. “Do you put the corrections on the front page?”

  “Well, no. They are usually on the inside, after the major news of the day is reported,” said Lloyd.

  “So you do not think it is important to let the same people who read the original story know that you made an error? Or is it just that you are embarrassed by the mistake and want as few people as possible to know about it?”

  Lloyd shifted his weight in his seat, becoming somewhat irritated by Hamisi’s probing questions. “With all due respect, Mr. Hamisi, what is your point?”

  “Since you are questioning the validity of our oral tradition, I am showing you the fallacy of the written word, which can be completely untrue but have more impact since it can be widely distributed and, thus, influences many more people,” said Hamisi.

  “And what if the error is not discovered? What happens to false information that is published by your newspaper, archived and never discovered to be untrue, but is false nonetheless? It may eventually find its way into some book that is published or be used for historical information and the lie is perpetuated for years to come.”

  “Okay. Let’s say that I believe your oral tradition. What else can you tell me about the Lemba people?” asked Lloyd, as he took his note pad out of his pocket. He thought the use of a recording device might make Hamisi less willing to speak freely.

  “As I said, our oral tradition speaks of a land called Senna, which is now believed to be the country of Yemen. We built Senna Two and Senna Three. These were in Africa. We do not know where Pusela is. I think it means the sea.”

  “We came from Senna, we crossed Pusela,” Hamisi repeated. “Solomon sent his ships to get gold from Ophir, that is Zimbabwe. Some of the Jews who went on those boats stayed in Africa. That is the origin of the Lemba people. Our name means ‘those who avoid eating with others.’ Like the Jews of America, we keep apart from the Gentiles.”

  “I am familiar with the book called Roots by Alex Haley that was published several years ago in your country,” Hamisi continued. “Just like Kunta Kente, who was Haley’s ancestor, our history is based on oral tradition. But it is quite accurate and verifiable.”

  “Our oral tradition says that we settled in the great city of Kimbabwe. The wall that was built there hundreds of years ago still stands.

  “It was built brick by brick, but with no mortar or cement, something that is unheard of among architects today. Archeologists still do not know how it was done, but it shows the tremendous intellect and mechanical expertise of our ancestors.”

  “How long have you been in the United States?” asked Lloyd.

  “I came here three years ago as part of a State Department effort to forge a better relationship with the government of Zimbabwe. In my country, the Lemba people are very learned. Many of us are professors, doctors and lawyers,” said Hamisi.

  “What about your wife, your family? Are they here with you?”

  “My wife passed away several years ago. She was Lemba also, and I decided not to remarry. You see, we are required to marry someone who is Lemba; otherwise, my potential wife would have to go through a very difficult initiation ceremony. Many women do not survive the ritual or are crippled during the process. I have two sons; both of them are still in Zimbabwe and will become honored men when their time arrives.”

  “When you say some women are crippled by the process, what do you mean?”

  “In many Lemba tribes, women who wish to marry a Lemba man have to crawl through a hole in an ant hill. The idea is that the ants will sting and suck off all the pig blood that this non-Lemba woman has eaten in her life. Then branches are placed over her and a fire is lit on top of her. It is hoped that the fire will burn the contamination and then, just before she is roasted, they push off the branches and throw her into the river to get purified.”

  Lloyd’s expression was one of incredulity. “Are you serious? That sounds gruesome. Why in the world would a woman put herself through all that just to get married?”

  “A Lemba man is considered to be among the most wise and prosperous males in many African tribal cultures. The woman knows that if a Lemba is her husband, all of her needs and that of her children and extended family will be met.”

  “It’s still hard to believe that someone would actually volunteer for such a ceremony. It’s a wonder that any of them even survive it.”

  “Most do not,” said Hamisi, “but it is a custom that had been part of our heritage for centuries.”

  Lloyd checked his watch and saw that it was getting close to six o’clock. “You’ve given me some intriguing information, Mr. Hamisi. If you don’t mind, I’d like to digest this and do a little research of my own. I’m not familiar with some of the places you’ve mentioned.”

  “Most of my reporting has been on local issues, but I’m trying to branch out and write some engaging stories where the setting is outside the Houston area. May I come by to see you again in a few days? Better still, would you give me your phone number. That way, I can call before stopping by.”

  “As long as you honor your agreement not to publish my name, then you may return,” said Hamisi. “You are a very interesting man, and I get a feeling from you that you can be trusted.”

  “You have my word that I will keep the information confidential. I am considering writing a story, but I will not release anything you have told me without permission,” said Lloyd.

  Hamisi wrote down his phone number and gave it to Lloyd. Then the two of them shook hands. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hamisi, and I hope we can become friends.”

  “For us to become friends, our relationship must endure the test of time,” said Hamisi, “so we shall see.”

  Lloyd left the apartment nearly in a daze. Hamisi was arguably one of the most interesting men he had ever met.

  311

  Gwen Richardson

  CHAPTER 7

  Lloyd got home at about seven o’clock and his adrenaline was supercharged. He wanted to talk to someone about Hamisi and their conversation, and Stephanie was the logical choice. She knew very little about news reporting, other than reading the newspaper each day. She also tended to be very practical—always thinking about security and stability. That was important to him too, but he wanted to break free of some of the monotony he was locked into by his day-to-day activities. He’d decided to broach the subject carefully at dinner.

  When he walked through the front door, he could already smell the aromas of whatever Stephanie was preparing for dinner. He walked into the kitchen and gave Stephanie a hug from behind.

  “I thought I heard you come in,” said Stephanie. “How was everything at work today?”

  “You know, same old, same old. What’s for dinner?” asked Lloyd, as he kissed Stephanie on the cheek.

  “We’re having shrimp creole with salad and garlic bread. It’s almost ready.”

  “Where’s Bria? Is she upstairs studying?” asked Lloyd.

  “She went to one of her classmates’ houses to work on a group project they have in history class. She should be home no later than eight o’clock,” said Stephanie.

  “That works out because I wanted to talk to you about something. I had an interesting conversation with someone today.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who was it?” she asked.

  “It’s a man that I met last week while I was on assignment. He’s actually not connected to the story I was reporting, other than the fact that he lives in the building where the crime took place. He’s some sort of holy man from Zimbabwe, a tribe called the Lemba people who are somehow connected to the Jews.”

  “Really. It seems I read something about African Jews several years ago when some of them were airlifted to Israel,” she said. “I don’t remember any details, though. What did he say?” Stephanie bega
n scooping the food from the pots on the stove into the serving dishes. She then placed the serving dishes on the table.

  “He’s from a family who retains the oral history of his tribe. He says their history goes all the way back to Solomon from the Old Testament. He even has some artifacts in his apartment and wears the traditional Jewish skull cap that I’ve seen men wear. On top of that, he talks in riddles, but his riddles make sense on a level deeper than I’m used to discussing,” said Lloyd.

  “Does he have any proof about his lineage? Does he have any certificates showing that he has credentials as a priest, rabbi or whatever they call their holy men?”

  “That’s just it. I asked him the same thing and he says that his oral tradition is proof. He actually proved to me how our newspaper reporting has less validity, in some cases, than the oral history that his people have maintained for centuries. Steph, he says they are taught to recite their history verbatim for one hundred generations. It’s really deep.”

  “Lloyd, maybe you should do some research to see if you can find any corroboration. There has to be some information online somewhere about his tribe or their history. Maybe some historians or archeologists have written reports about it,” Steph said, as she and Lloyd sat down at the dinner table and prepared to eat.

  “That’s what I plan to do,” Lloyd said. Then he thought this would be the perfect time to tell Steph that he was planning to write a story and shop it around. She seemed to be genuinely intrigued by the whole thing. Maybe she would be more sympathetic than he was expecting.

  “I’m even considering writing a story about it. If the Ledger isn’t interested, then I could shop it around and see if some magazines or other publications want to publish it.” There. He’d said it. Lloyd was testing the waters to see how Steph would react. He knew he could do this on his own, behind her back, but it would be so much easier to have her support.

  “Isn’t that against company policy?”

  Steph had always been very cautious, which had made Lloyd apprehensive about telling her in the first place. She was always worried about him going against the grain at work and possibly losing his job. “No, as long as we give the Ledger the right of first refusal, meaning they get to decline publication first, then we can pitch it to whomever we like.”

  “Well, then, go for it, Lloyd. You’re a good writer and you’ve been talking about expanding your horizons. Who knows? Some other newspaper or news organization might read the story and offer you a position with a higher salary and more benefits,” she said.

  This was certainly more than Lloyd had hoped for. Steph was actually giving him her blessing to pursue the story about Hamisi.

  “You didn’t tell me the man’s name,” said Stephanie. “What is it?”

  “Hamisi,” said Lloyd. “Rudo Hamisi.”

  311

  Gwen Richardson

  CHAPTER 8

  Lloyd got to work the next morning around nine o’clock and began his usual routine of checking e-mails and voice mail messages. Ed hadn’t given him an assignment yet, so Lloyd decided to browse the Internet to see if he could find anything about the Lemba tribe that Hamisi described.

  Lloyd entered the phrase in the Google search box and, to his surprise, hundreds of listings appeared. It turned out that Hamisi was telling the truth—the Lemba tribe did actually exist, and Lloyd was determined to fill in the blanks about the details.

  He scanned the first couple of entries and there was a New York Times article from May 1999 about the Lemba, a Bantu-speaking people of southern Africa, who say they were led out of Judea by a man called Buba. The tribe practiced circumcision, kept one day a week holy and avoided eating pork or pig-like animals, such as the hippopotamus.

  Even more fascinating was information about a team of geneticists who had studied the DNA of some of the Lemba males. These scientists found that many Lemba men carry in their male chromosomes a set of DNA markers distinctive of descendants of Aaron, the elder brother of the biblical Moses.

  In fact, Lemba males, on average, had more DNA markers of the strain associated with Jewish priests than do most of the European Jews. This added even more validity to Hamisi’s claims.

  Hamisi had said that the Lemba people were very cloistered and did very little mixing with other tribes. If they were able to maintain a consistent gene pool within their group, this could explain the relative purity of their genetic markers.

  The article mentioned a professor, Dr. Joseph Gastalt, who had actually traveled to Africa, met some of the Lemba clan and lived among them for a few months. Gastalt had documented his findings in a book and had confirmed some of the narrative Hamisi had told Lloyd. Gastalt was a tenured professor of genetics at the University of Chicago, and Lloyd jotted down his name. He’d do some research later to get the professor’s e-mail address and phone number so he could contact him and find out more.

  Lloyd saw his friend, Charles, approaching and quickly switched his screen to another browser window. He wasn’t yet ready to let anyone else at work know about his project.

  “Hey, Lloyd. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. I’m just checking my e-mail to see if there are any story leads. What about you?”

  “Oh, I’ve been covering this story about a child pornography ring that seems to have started in the Houston area, but has since spread worldwide through a password-protected web site,” said Charles.

  “I hate dealing with the sleaze balls who do this sort of stuff, but the paper’s circulation always seems to go up whenever we do one of these stories. Ed’s had me working on this one for the past week.”

  “Better you than me, man,” said Lloyd. “I’m not sure I could interview any of these guys without punching them in the face first.”

  “They’ll only speak to me off the record with no photographs or recordings. They know that their actions are abominable, but they all say they can’t seem to stop. It’s an addiction, an obsession. Some of them have an arrest record for child pornography or sex crimes, but most of them have been operating under the police radar for years.”

  “By the way, I’m going to happy hour over at the Oasis after work,” said Charles. “Wanna come?” The Oasis Bar & Grill was a popular hangout for Ledger employees. Over the years, Lloyd and Charles had gone there together frequently after work.

  “I might just do that. I haven’t been to happy hour in a while and it might do me some good to have a few drinks and relax,” said Lloyd. “I’ll meet you there at six o’clock.”

  Charles looked up and saw Audrey headed their way. “Don’t turn around now, man, but Audrey looks like she’s about to pounce on you from behind.”

  “Good grief,” Lloyd responded as he sighed deeply and turned around. He didn’t want Audrey sneaking up on him and catching him off guard. She took the last few steps toward his desk.

  “Good morning, Audrey. What can I do for you?”

  “Hi, Lloyd,” she said, as she bent down toward him, her substantial cleavage only a few inches away from his face. Lloyd had to will himself to look into her eyes and not at her boobs.

  “Ed wants you to come to his office. He says he has a big assignment for you,” she said, and then she moistened her lips.

  “Okay, thanks,” Lloyd replied as he gingerly inched his way around her and walked toward Ed’s office. Halfway there, he turned around and said, “I’ll see you at six o’clock, Charles,” and then continued towards Ed’s office.

  “If I’m not there, just wait for me,” replied Charles.

  Lloyd walked into Ed’s office. “Audrey told me you wanted to see me, Ed. Whatcha got for me?”

  “The authorities just found the bodies of a couple in Pasadena, shot execution style. They were babysitting their nieces when they were shot,” said Ed.

  “The girls weren’t killed too, were they?” asked Lloyd, as he braced for the worst.

  “Fortunately, no. They were unharmed. But the girls were the first to see the bodies when their mother came to
pick them up. She rang the doorbell, and the girls came downstairs. Their mother had been calling for over an hour, and when there was no answer, she came by to pick up her girls to see what was going on.”

  “How old are the girls?” asked Lloyd.

  “They are six and eight years old. Really tragic. I’ll need you to high tail it to Pasadena right now.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Lloyd. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

  “The couple doesn’t appear to have a criminal background, but you can double check that with the county and state authorities,” said Ed.

  As Lloyd left Ed’s office, boarded the elevator and pressed the lobby button, he wondered if the victims were African American. Ed normally sent him on assignments that occurred in black neighborhoods or where the victims and/or perpetrators were black. If the victims weren’t black, that usually meant that no other reporters were available or that they had all been assigned to other stories. Ed was a real imbecile, but at least he was predictable.

  Pasadena was about twenty miles east of Houston, but traffic was heavy so it took Lloyd about an hour to get there. He found the address with relative ease; and once he was nearby, the police vehicles and yellow crime scene tape

  let him know he was in the right place. After he parked, he used his laptop to get some information on the victims before going inside.

  The victims were John and Sharonda Price. According to the information he found online, they had lived in their subdivision for five years.

  Some of the neighbors were still milling around outside. Lloyd exited the car and approached one of the men he saw who appeared to be in his thirties. He was wearing one of those throw-back sports jerseys and had on a baseball cap, which he wore backwards.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m with the Houston Ledger and I wanted to ask you a few questions. Did you know Mr. and Mrs. Price?”

  “I’ve been living across the street from them since they moved in five years ago. I can’t believe this happened in our neighborhood. It’s usually so quiet,” he said.