Muti Nation by Monique Snyman Read Free Book Online Page B

lungs decompress with hot air from the sweltering African afternoon. The hustle and bustle of Marabastad continues unhindered even though the heat of the day seems to intensify with each passing minute. Between me and the main road is a group of people who are in the middle of what seems to be an intense debate. Their body odour invades my olfactory senses as I walk past, the smell pushing me almost to the point of nausea. Various degrees of ripeness cling to their clothes and skin, ranging from a sweet-smelling musk to an oppressive mouldy stench. Their faces glisten with perspiration, their clothes damp with moisture. This heatwave is a nuisance to everyone today.
    Dark faces turn darker as the UV rays wreak havoc. Fair faces, such as my own, turn several shades of red regardless of whatever SPF factor one wears. Blood boil and the merest irritation can turn to full-blown violence, all thanks to the weather. This persistent heat turns humans into animalistic versions of themselves.
    It’s not a day for outdoor undertakings.
    I make it to the main road before my cell phone begins to buzz in my purse. “Esmé speaking,” I answer the call without looking at the caller ID.
    “Where are you?” Howlen’s voice has an edge of urgency to it, giving me pause.
    “Marabastad. What’s wrong?”
    “Could you describe the state in which you found Valentine Sikelo on Friday?”
    “I think everything you need is in my report,” I huff. The traffic light blinks red for pedestrians. My car sits across the street, parked parallel against the curb.
    “I meant the state of the area, not the body itself,” Howlen corrects himself. “Describe it.”
    “The grass was yellowish-green and overgrown. There were a lot of bugs. A cluster of rocks was situated close to the body, and the two teenage lovebirds were sitting on a nearby log.”
    “Okay, well, you need to come down here and explain something to me.”
    “Explain what?” I check for traffic with a glance to the left and a look to the right before I jaywalk. “It’s a veld, Howlen. It looks like every other veld in Pretoria.”
    “I’ll wait for you at the Sasol garage.” He ends the call without further explanation.
    “Do you know how busy I am?” I ask the dead phone, my voice pitches higher than usual. I sigh, drop my cell phone into my purse and find my keys as soon as I’m safely across the street.
    Fifteen minutes later, my car is parked beside Howlen’s at the Sasol garage. Around us taxis flock to fill up their tanks and pedestrians wait for their lifts, chatting and shouting. The unabated cacophony shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.
    Do any of these people even realise what happened not five-hundred metres away? Do they care?
    I spritz more sunscreen onto my face while looking in the rear-view mirror.
    Howlen’s already waiting, more dishevelled than ever with his rolled-up shirt sleeves, loose tie, and uncombed hair. I can’t figure out if his unkempt look is due to frustration or because of the temperature.
    I find a baseball cap in my glove compartment and fit it onto my head. I evacuate the car again, missing the AC.
    “Your report made no mention of ecological anomalies in the area,” Howlen accuses before I’m even properly out of the car. In his hands is Valentine Sikelo’s case file, her name in thick letters against the brown cardboard sleeve. He opens the file to my typed report, pushes his index finger against a paragraph describing the scene I had witnessed first-hand, not three days ago, and glares daggers at me. “Explain.”
    “Ex—” I cut myself off as soon as I hear my own indignation. I take a deep breath and try once more in a more civilised manner, “Howlen, there were no ecological anomalies in the surrounding area. If there were I would have made a note of it.”
    “Come with me.” He closes the file and heads downhill, into the veld.
    I follow without argument though I’m burning for a fight.
    Beads of sweat roll