Deadly Harvest (17 page)

TWENTY-NINE

M
ABULO
O
WIDO SAT ALONE
at a table outside the BIG MAMA KNOWS ALL
shebeen
, a cold St. Louis beer in hand. He didn't feel like going inside, where most of the action was. The stares made him feel uncomfortable, even after all these years. Of course, he wanted to make small talk to the Batswana girls who leaned provocatively against the counter, but he knew he would be brushed off. He wouldn't like that.

As if by magic, Big Mama walked out just as he drained the bottle.

“Another one?” she asked in English. He nodded.

A few minutes later, she walked out with two bottles in her hand. “Here, have one on me.” She put them down in front of him.

“You don't have to feel sorry for me!”

“That's not the reason. I want everyone to enjoy being here. The regulars aren't very friendly tonight.” She smiled broadly. “And I want you to come back.”

“Thanks,” he said, returning her smile.

“Do you live around here?”

“Yes, near Broadhurst Mall. Been there for about four months.”

“Where are you from?”

“Tanzania. Left there just after New Year. There's been too much trouble for ­people like me.”

“
Aaii
.” Big Mama rolled her eyes. She'd heard about the awful problems for ­people like Owido in east Africa and knew that prejudice might follow him wherever he went.

Owido looked down. ­“People hate us,” he whispered. “And yet we're just the same as them. Except for this.” He held up a pinkish arm.

Big Mama shook her head. “You don't have to worry. Botswana is very tolerant. Our first president married a white woman, and some of the elders were very upset, but they got used to it and got to love her like they loved him.”

“I like it here. Some of the ­people I work with are very kind.”

Big Mama leaned over and whispered in his ear, “We'll find you a nice girl. It's bad to be far from home and have no company.”

Owido didn't respond immediately as he was distracted by the huge cleavage just in front of his face.

“Um. Yes. That would be nice,” he stammered eventually.

“Next time you come, I'll introduce you to someone. I know just the girl. You'll see.” She winked at him, flashed her infectious smile, and returned to the patrons inside.

He leaned back in his chair, put a bottle to his lips, and enjoyed the cold fizz as the beer slid down his throat. Not bad beer, he thought. Not as good as a Serengeti or a Ndovu. But pretty good.

Two men walked into the
shebeen
, glanced at him, and sat at a nearby table.

“Hi!” Owido said as they passed, but they ignored him.

It'll never change, he thought. He sighed and took another deep swig.

F
OR THE NEX
T HOUR,
Owido sipped more beers and chatted to Big Mama when she delivered them. She was interested in all sorts of things: what it was like in Tanzania, what he thought of Gaborone, where he worked, and how he liked it there. Also, she seemed intent on matchmaking, and kept mentioning a girl called Lemme. Someone she thought he would like. He was nervous of possible embarrassment, but Big Mama assured him that the young woman was not prejudiced, and promised to tell her in advance that Owido was an albino.

Eventually he decided it was time to leave. He had about a twenty-­minute walk home. He said goodbye to Big Mama, grateful for her attention, and promised that he would return the following Saturday to meet Lemme. By then the beer had given him the courage. He even accepted her farewell hug, but couldn't completely ignore the disapproving looks of some of the other patrons.

Once he was in the open, he shivered. He wasn't used to how quickly Gaborone's temperature dropped now that winter was approaching. Where he came from, on the equator, the seasons hardly fluctuated.

He turned into a narrow path that would take him to Segoditshane Way. He'd found the shortcut earlier in the evening, when he saw several ­people turn off the main sidewalk. It saved at least five minutes. Suddenly he had the impression that he was being followed. He glanced back and saw two men some way off. He picked up his pace, trying to distance himself from the men. At the same time he felt a little guilty of suspecting them—­after all, he was in Botswana now.

Then he heard running footsteps. As he turned to look, a body crashed into him, sending him sprawling. Winded, he gasped for air. “Take my wallet,” he croaked. “There's a little money in it.”

One of the men pulled a knife, the other a heavy stick.

“Take my watch, too.” Owido started to feel desperate.

The man with the stick clubbed him on the side of the head. Owido could feel blood dripping down his face.

“Please . . . ,” he pleaded. “Take everything.”

Another blow on the head. The pain was terrible.

“Careful! We don't get paid, if he's dead.”

“Shit! All albinos should be dead.”

A third blow. And Owido lost consciousness.

“Quick. Let's get him to the car.”

The two men dragged Owido back along the path.

“Makes me nervous; touching someone like this.”

“He's just a man like you and me. He just looks different.”

“I'm told they have powerful spirits. I'm sure that's why they want us to find one.”

“Come on get on with it.”

“Why do they want him alive?”

“Shut up. You ask too many questions. Here, tie his hands and feet, and tape this rag in his mouth. I'll fetch the car and bring it over there.” He pointed to the road running parallel to the path and just visible through the bushes. “Get him off the path and out of sight, then wait for me. Think you can manage that? I'll only be a few minutes.”

Ten minutes later they dragged Owido to the road, waited until no one was around, then lifted him into the trunk and slammed it shut. The leader of the two pulled out his cell phone and sent a text message.

“I said we'd drop him off in half an hour.”

W
HEN
O
WIDO
CAME TO
his senses, he was being dragged behind the trunk of a large tree.

“Aaah. Aaah.” Owido tried to shout for help. He thrashed around, pulling at the ties that bound him, causing them to cut into his skin.

“Shut up,
leswafe
!” one of the men hissed and kicked him in the head.

Owido winced and lay still. The rag in his mouth kept making him gag.

This can't be just a mugging, he thought. They would've left me where they attacked me. Did they take my wallet and watch? he wondered. The way he was tied, he couldn't tell. Then he had a thought that frightened him. The men hadn't worn masks; they weren't worried about being seen. Did that mean they were careless, or did they know that it wasn't important? He shivered, his mind going back to the atrocities that had happened at home in Tanzania.

O
WIDO W
AS DESPERATE.
H
E
was convinced that it hadn't been a simple robbery. But why dump him in the middle of nowhere? Maybe it was just a bad joke—­leave him and let him suffer until somebody found him. That calmed him a little since no other explanation made sense.

He lay there, wrists hurting from the struggles against the sharp plastic ties. Every now and again, he'd try to push himself closer to the road so he could be seen, but a steep bank prevented him. The problem was that he couldn't align himself to go straight up. With his feet tied, he was able to go forward, but not change direction.

After what seemed like a ­couple of hours, he heard a car driving slowly down the road. Maybe the men had returned to end the joke. He tried to shout again, but all that resulted was a muffled sound that would not be heard more than a few yards away.

The car came closer, and he could see a torch beam shining in the ditch where he lay. As the car passed, the beam shone on him, passed, then returned. The car stopped. He heard a door open, but not shut. A few seconds later a man walked over to him, like a shadow in the night. He could barely see him, it was so dark. A beam of light shone in his face, blinding him.

The figure leaned over and felt his neck. Then he pulled something from his pocket. The man grabbed Owido's head and slid a bag over it. Owido could feel a drawstring being tightened at his neck. He struggled again, to no avail. All he succeeded in doing was adding to the pain in his wrists. He felt himself being dragged by the feet up the bank, lifted, and dumped in what he thought was the trunk of a car. There was a loud bang as the trunk was closed. Moments later the car drove off.

It wasn't long before the car stopped, then continued slowly. By the bumpiness, Owido thought they must be on a dirt road. A short while later, the car stopped again, and the engine was switched off. Again Owido heard a door open and close, followed by what he assumed was the lid of the trunk. Someone grabbed him under the arms and lifted him.

He was carried and dragged for a few seconds. Then he was dumped on the floor.

The drawstring around his neck was loosened and the bag pulled off. He glanced fearfully at the person above him, but there wasn't enough light to see the face clearly.

The figure stood up and walked out of sight. Seconds later a door closed and was locked, and Owido was left alone.

T
HE ROOM SMELLED AS
though it had just been cleaned with an antiseptic cleaner. Owido lay on his side for several hours wondering what was going on. Lying on his back was extremely uncomfortable due to his tethered wrists. Every now and again he'd push himself around the room to see if he could discover something about it. All he found was that it had some furniture in it—­a ­couple of pieces against a wall and another in the center of the room.

Then he heard a key turn in the lock. The door opened and a man walked in without turning on the light.

“Get up! You can go to the toilet.”

The man pulled him to his feet.

Suddenly his arms were free.

“Don't try anything. Your feet are still tied.”

Owido massaged his wrists. He felt the deep cuts from his struggles.

“Take off your shoes and socks.”

Owido bent over and undid his laces, but he fell over when he tried to lift one leg to take off the shoes. The man pulled off the shoes and socks.

“Now your shirt.” Owido complied quickly, difficult as it was on the floor.

“Stick your hands out. Put them together”

The man put another tether on and pulled it tight. Then he bent over and cut the ties around Owido's ankles. He unzipped the trousers and pulled them off, followed by the underpants.

“Stand up!”

Owido contorted his way to his feet.

“The toilet's down the hall. First door on the right.”

Owido walked down a dark passage, looking for some way to escape. The door at the other end was closed. And locked, Owido thought.

He turned into a small bathroom.

“Do it!”

Owido sat down while the man watched.

When Owido was finished the man led him back to the room.

“Lie down on that.”

In the gloom Owido saw the man pointing at what looked like a table in the middle of the room. Owido first sat down and swiveled his legs onto the table. Then he lay down, feeling very vulnerable in his nakedness.

He felt his legs being strapped to the table. Then his hands were free again, but immediately one was tied to something under the table. The same happened to the other arm. Owido couldn't move. Finally he felt something across his throat. It was pulled quite tightly—­but not enough to make him choke.

The man left the room without saying another word and locked the door.

Owido lay like that for another interminable length of time. Every now and again, a muscle in his left arm would cramp. There was nothing he could do but try to relax it. That didn't work, and he tried to call for help. All that came out was a muffled “Aaah.”

Then he heard another car drive up.

What was going on? he wondered.

Again he heard the key in the door. He turned his head and saw two figures. He gasped. One had a baboon mask on his head and a leopard skin round his waist. Owido screamed—­he knew it was a witch doctor.

The other man was shorter, nervous. “You are about to receive power you have not even dreamed about,” the witch doctor said to him as he opened a small suitcase.

“I can't do it.” The short man stammered. He was sweating and continually mopped his brow.

“It's too late. You can't go back now.”

The short man took a deep breath. He looked very frightened. He nodded his head.

“I'll do it,” he croaked.

The witch doctor closed the suitcase and stood next to Owido.

“Here,” he said, handing something to the short man. Owido strained to see what it was. It flashed in the light. He screamed as he saw it was a scalpel. He shook his head from side to side, trying to shout, “No!” All that came out was a muffled sound. He pulled and pushed as hard as he could against his restraints, to no avail.