The Real Deal

Skeins of cobwebs hung from the wooden rafters of the mabati shack alongside an assortment of beads and bones on strings. The room had a solitary window that was only partially open and covered with tattered sackcloth. Thick dust motes danced in the pale sunlight that leaked through the numerous holes in the roof. Juma was alone in the room, hurriedly packing his belongings in a sports bag. His work paraphernalia littered the floor. Calabashes, animal figurines and horns were scattered all over; the contents of various bottles spilt onto the ground as he tripped over them in his rush.

“What is this? Who did I wrong? I didn’t kidnap him. He is the one who should be under arrest. I made him win the election, and then the mburukenge never paid me a cent. I hope whoever has him stabs him in his fat belly,” he mumbled to himself as he wrapped a wad of cash in black polythene and stuffed it into his getaway bag.

A loud bang startled him. He ran to the door, slowly opening it and peeking outside cautiously. The small metal gate at the end of the corridor was shaking as someone attempted to kick it off its rusted hinges.

He ran back into the house and picked up the open bag. It was too late to flee, but he had to try. He kicked down the ‘wall’, and the metal sheet opened into a neighbouring room. Luckily,  his neighbours were no longer around on weekdays. The lull in construction projects that always accompanied election season had subsided. He could kick his way to the first house by the gate and lie in wait. The door flew open just as his body was only halfway through the gap in the tin wall.

“Shika yeye!” a voice shouted.

A rough pair of hands grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him back into the room. Three police officers in camouflage jackets and red berets rained kicks on him as the one holding him dragged him outside the house.

“Please, I can give you money,” he pleaded.

The hands around his ankles let his legs fall heavily to the ground. He was lying on his side in a puddle of wastewater and struggled to sit up, but the officer kicked him in his chest, forcing him back onto the ground.

“Show me how much you have, Daktari!”

“It’s inside the house. Allow me to get it,” Juma pleaded.

“Harakisha!” he barked at Juma with a raised boot, threatening to kick him again.

Juma hurried back into the house on all fours and rummaged through his bag that hung precariously in the hole between the rooms. He retrieved a black polythene paper, pulled out a bundle of notes and walked out slowly. He handed it to what he assumed was their leader, who then split the bundle, pocketed half of it and counted the rest.

“Twenty-seven thousand? How long did it take for you to earn this?” he asked.

“Four days,” he answered with a wince.

“How many clients did you see?”

“Only two.”

“All this money from two clients? You must be the real thing, eh?”

“Yes. I promise. I’m not a charlatan like the ones you…”

A sharp slap interrupted his sentence and sent him reeling backwards. The other officers punched and kicked him back onto the ground. The beating continued until Juma was curled up in the brackish water once more.

“Haya! Twende!” the leader ordered.

Two men grabbed him by the ankles once again and dragged him to the gate that was now hanging by a single hinge. A police pickup was parked outside, and they threw him into the tarpaulin-covered back. A small crowd gathered outside the gate, watching and murmuring amongst themselves as the police car drove off at full speed, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

***

The car arrived at a police station he had never been to before. He tried to look for a signboard that would give him a clue of his whereabouts, but he was quickly bundled into the building, lifted by his belt and dragged along like a lamb to the slaughter. He was surprised to find himself led into a poorly furnished office instead of the cold cell floor he expected. The two policemen who had put him in the room left, closing the door behind them.

The room had a small desk standing in the middle. In the furthest corner sat an old office chair with a torn back, exposing the brown stuffing inside. A plain wooden chair stood on the side near the door. Behind the office chair was a grey cabinet too full of files to close; yellowing paper spilt out of the drawers and onto the floor. The white paint on the walls was peeling and hanging in odd strips, and the ceiling was full of stains, evidence of leaking rainwater. Juma glanced at the newspaper folded on the table and recognised it as the previous week’s daily, making him fear for his safety.

“Governor Asiligwa Missing,” read the headline.

He was also aware of the police operation to arrest all charlatans practising as witch doctors. He did not consider himself a charlatan. He knew he had special powers that could be hard to harness sometimes, but worked in his favour many times.

As a child, he caught the thieves who terrorised his mother’s farm by stealing her eggs and replacing them with potatoes in the wee hours of the night. He burnt an assortment of herbs and sprinkled them on the suspects’ footprints while pleading to his spiritual guides to show him the culprits. He remembered the shame on their faces as they begged him to relieve them from the torment of inexplicably swollen bellies.

His foray into love spells, however, was rarely successful. He had helped his friend Nzuki, who had trouble talking to girls when they were in high school. He made an amulet for him, then visited the homes of a few girls later on to convince them that Nzuki was a worthy candidate if they ever wanted a good boyfriend.

At least they didn’t think he had anything to do with the missing governor. He wished he did. His thoughts were interrupted by the door swinging open. A woman in brown police uniform walked in and sat on the office chair behind the table.

“Have a seat,” she said to him.

He sat uneasily on the wooden chair, avoiding eye contact with his interrogator.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked him.

He looked at the newspaper and tried to think of how to answer the question without incriminating himself. ‘Because you’re arresting charlatan witch doctors’ would not be an appropriate answer.

“I asked you a question. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes,” was all Juma could mumble.

“How does it feel to make your living lying to people?” she asked.

“I do not lie to anyone!  I help them with their problems.”

“I’m told you made lots of money over the past few days. What did you do for those people?”

“I helped them with their marriage problems,” he replied, his voice shaking.

“Please explain to me how.”

He was surprised that she suddenly sounded polite.

“I gave them a potion to keep their husbands home over the weekends. That was the problem they wanted me to solve.”

“So it was a love potion?”

“It was something to give them diarrhoea.”

The officer let out a loud laugh.

“I knew you were a charlatan. I have nothing more to discuss with you. You will join the others in the cells.”

“No! Wait. I can prove to you that I’m not,” he pleaded.

She reached into her desk, pulled out a flyer with bold black-and-white print, and placed it on the table. It bore his name, Daktari Juma, and a list of conditions and ailments he claimed he could cure with his herbs and magic. He wished he had never printed those out; they probably led the police right to his doorstep.

“This is yours?”

“Yes.”

“It says here that you can find lost people.”

“I can.”

“Then tell me where the governor is.”

Juma looked at the flier and nodded to her to indicate his compliance. He was relieved that he was not a suspect in the politician’s disappearance. He stood up and undid the two topmost buttons on his shirt. He pulled out a small pendant that hung from his neck on a piece of leather string. It was a small glass bottle shaped like a miniature gourd with a brown liquid inside. He stepped to the side of the room as if to find space to manoeuvre and ripped the pendant from his neck. He mumbled a spell and threw the bottle to the ground. There was a bright flash, and the smell of burning leaves suddenly filled the room. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he started whispering incoherently before collapsing to the floor.

The officer rushed to his side and felt a hand grip the back of her neck. He dragged her down until she was close to his face and continued mumbling, all the while staring at her with his ghostly white eyes.

“Afande!” she screamed to the police officers outside the office.

His eyes rolled back into position, and he suddenly spoke in a clear voice, “Sweet Water Hotel!” and immediately fell unconscious.

***

Juma woke up from his seizure on a comfortable bed. He sat up and saw that he was in a hotel room. Two heavily armed men stood on the open balcony. One was looking into the distance, smoking a cigarette, while the other was leaning on the railings, fiddling with his phone. He looked up when he heard the bed creaking and saw Juma trying to sit up.

“He’s awake,” he said, putting his phone back into his pocket.

The smoker threw the butt off the balcony and walked out of the door without looking at the magician as if in fear. The woman officer who’d spoken to him earlier came into the room immediately. She motioned to the other man to leave before sitting on the bed next to him.

“How did you know he was here?” she asked Juma.

“I told you, I’m not a charlatan.”

A puzzled look took over his face as if he had heard her question the second time.

“Here? Why are we at the hotel?” Juma asked.

“I knew where he was. It was a test to see whether you’re the real deal.”

“Now you know I am. May I go?”

“No. Now we need your help. The governor needs your help. Come with me.”

She stood up and opened the room door.

“Follow me.”

He walked behind her down the corridor to a door manned by an extensive security detail, including the two in his room earlier. They opened the door for Juma, and he walked into chaos. On the bed was the governor lying on his back with a look of terror. Beads of sweat poured down his brow, and he seemed in great pain. He let out a groan when he saw Juma walk into the room. A young woman was straddling him and supported herself with her hand on his round, hairy belly. She seemed to be dozing off, tired but not in pain.

“I think you know what’s going on here,” the officer said.

“Yes, I do.”

“We need you to separate them.”

“Very well,” Juma said. “I need you to follow my instructions without question and provide me with the items I need to do it.”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Bring me a knife.”