Muti Nation by Monique Snyman Read Free Book Online Page A

Grounds, at least then there’s the option of air-conditioning. Here there are no windows and no back doors. There’s only the ancient plastic patio furniture squeezed into the tiny room where Feyisola waits with stale biscuits and cheap cool-drink.
    She’s dressed in a crimson pantsuit paired with a sheer black camisole underneath her jacket. I’m certain if her shoes were in view I’d covet them. Feyisola’s plump lips are coloured in scarlet and twitch into an uncomfortable smile when I approach. Fake eyelashes brush against high cheekbones whenever she blinks.
    Feyisola is drop dead sexy and painfully intelligent. It’s best not to get on her bad side. She knows people, the type of people you don’t want to run into in the middle of the night.
    “Juice,” she asks in an indistinct accent. A manicured hand waves across the perspiring glass jug when I take a seat beside her.
    “No, thank you,” I reply.
    Feyisola’s face smooths out and she shifts in her seat. “I would have sent a text, but you know how it goes.”
    She doesn’t have to continue. A message delivered via courier works just as well as a text.
    “Don’t worry about it,” I say in the most reassuring tone I can muster. “What do you have for me today?”
    Feyisola leans closer and begins in a hushed voice. “When I heard about the girl and woman who recently got killed, I asked around town about any dealings you might be interested in. Turns out, none of the usual suspects are involved. I did, however, learn of a large shipment of body parts making its way into the country from Namibia.”
    “When?”
    “In the next few days,” she says. “From what I gather, the shipment is expected to be distributed from Johannesburg to various parts of Southern Africa.” She slides a small manila envelope across the table. “Some names you might want to look into.”
    I pocket the envelope without looking at its contents. “Do you think the killer placed an order?”
    “I have no way of knowing but your killer took a chance by murdering a white child. Ain’t no way the police will let that shit fly,” Feyisola says, her accent shifts to something resembling a lower-class American gangster’s dialect, without her realising. She sits back in her chair. “I also heard your grandfather will be back in town next week.”
    I raise an eyebrow and purse my lips together in disapproval. My grandfather is off-limits.
    “Don’t worry. He’s got a reputation as a bad ass. Nobody will fuck around with him.”
    “Good,” I mutter, not bothering to correct her on my grandfather’s true persona, which is as far from bad-ass as it gets.
    “You, on the other hand, are considered to be fair game.” She twirls a braided weave around one of her fingers while she regards me. “Good thing you haven’t stepped on any crime lords’ toes.”
    “The narcotics unit can deal with the drugs, I’m not interested.”
    “More than drugs are smuggled into the country.”
    “Yes, but unless there’s a shipment of cursed voodoo dolls coming into South Africa, I really don’t need to know about it.” I stand. These meetings need to be kept sweet and short if they are to be beneficial to both parties. “How much do I owe you?”
    “This one’s a freebie if you can convince your priest to listen to my confession. Normal priests would have a fit if they hear my sins, but yours might survive the ordeal, considering what he does.”
    I imagine this feral woman confessing her deepest, darkest sins to Father Gabriel and smile. “I’m sure Father Gabriel won’t mind listening to your confession. His times at the church vary but he’s almost always there on a Thursday. I’ll tell him to keep an eye out for you.”
    Feyisola nods. “I appreciate it. Be safe, Esmé.”
    “You too, Feyisola.”
    Once outside the claustrophobic store—where rails of clothing and shelves of shoes, most likely manufactured by little hands in an Asian sweat shop, are on display—my