Muti Nation Read Online Free PDF Page A

death in rural areas, especially amongst children.
    Real , certified sangomas aren’t usually a problem.
    You get the odd one dabbling with dark forces, but generally the Traditional Healers Organization for Africa (THO) regulates and minimises malpractice in the traditional healing community.
    The problem occurs when charlatans don’t adhere to ethics and laws, and then screw around with forces they can’t control.
    “Those bastards controlled this attack just fine,” I mumble.
    “Did you say something?” Howlen calls from the kitchen where he’s making us fresh mugs of coffee.
    “Nope,” I pop the P and lower my head into my open palms.
    We spent the remainder of the night clearing away glass, cleaning up destroyed objects, and throwing away any evidence of our time together. Then we sat in silence drinking coffee. Now dawn is on the horizon and I feel my weariness return with a vengeance.
    SABC1 is broadcasting a rerun of some educational kids show in Xhosa. I think, I don’t know the language that well. SABC 2 is running the same infomercial fillers as always. SABC 3 is at the end of its AM Shopping programming. This leaves E-TV as my only option, but Medical Detectives isn’t exactly the type of show to unwind with after seeing a mutilated corpse less than twelve hours earlier. I use it as background noise for my thoughts, nothing more.
    It’s been three hours since the attack and my nerves are shot. I’m on edge. I’m systematically raking through memories of old cases to find a link to the attacker or a reason for the attack. I’m coming up blank on both.
    We’re usually so careful when we’re investigating ritualistic crimes. Careful in the sense that we give the police credit for bringing in the culprits, whoever he or she or they may be. We try not to bring attention to the agency.
    We don’t slip up.
    Slipping up could lead to more danger, more deaths, more shit in general. Still it’s possible someone fucked up somewhere along the way. We’re human, and humans are flawed after all.
    “May,” Howlen says. His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
    I look up to where he holds my cell phone towards me.
    It didn’t ring, I’m positive.
    “It’s Mosepi,” he states.
    Whatever small amount of energy I had left diminishes at the mention of Detective Mosepi’s name. It’s never a social call when the police are involved, no matter how long you’ve personally known some of them.
    “I’ll deal with it,” he says.
    “No,” I say before temptation can take root. Something weird happened, what’s new? If I had to take a day off every time my reality bordered on becoming crazy-town, I wouldn’t get any work done.
    I take the phone from Howlen and read the vague text message: 227 MALHERBE STR, CAPITAL PARK—MOSEPI. The text sends new chills down my spine as I realise the importance of the address.
    I stand, setting loose a string of under-breath curses, the sort of language sailors would blush over. I reread the street address to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks.
    When I regain my composure, I look at Howlen, who waits for an explanation.
    “Get dressed, we’ve got problems,” I say.
    “What’s the significance of 227 Malherbe Street?” Howlen asks as I make my way to the bedroom.
    I’m already wondering if I should dress in the black dress or black power suit. There will, without a doubt, be reporters. Many news vans, dozens of journalists, photographers for blogs and newspapers and God knows what else will flood the area. There’s no way around the media for this one.
    “Do you know the story of Gert van Rooyen?” I ask in response, opening my closet door as Howlen enters the bedroom.
    He shakes his head.
    “You’re a criminologist living in South Africa. How do you not know about Gert van Rooyen and his mistress, Joey Haarhoff?”
    “Okay, let’s skip the lecture and get to the point.” He picks up his shirt from the armchair in the corner of the room.
    “Allegedly,