If you are interested in my offer, let Monica know. She will explain it in more detail. Suffice it to say that you will be endowed with all the powers and privileges that I have, and you will ride on my reputation as you build your own. In the midst of politicians and bureaucrats and institutional players, you will be that rare person with allegiance to none but the truth and vast resources at your disposal. Truth and resources alone cannot change the world. But the world cannot change without them. If I have trained you well, you will know exactly what to do with them, and change you shall see.
The thought of you reading this breaks my heart. But if I am gone, know that I am never far away. Go to Cape Point and watch the breakers of the circumpolar current, stand in the rainforest at Victoria Falls, and I will whisper to you. The spirit of love that binds us in life is indestructible in death. Give yourself as a gift to others, and you will know a joy that never fails.
Never doubt that I love you.
Below Catherine’s signature was a date: July 20, 1996. She had written the letter less than two weeks before she died. Zoe carefully folded the pages and placed them back in the envelope. Her face was a mess; it seemed she had an endless reservoir of tears. She saw Joseph walking toward her across the grass, clad in a long-sleeve shirt and jeans.
“Hey,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I was wondering when you were going to get up.”
“I’m on vacation,” he replied with a lilt that died quickly. “What’s the matter?”
She hesitated and then handed him her mother’s letter. She watched as he read it, worrying that he would judge her for considering Catherine’s offer.
When he reached the end, he regarded her reflectively. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. What should I be thinking?”
He gave her a serious look. “That you’d be a fool not to say yes.”
Her eyes went wide. “What about us? I love you. I don’t want to let this go.”
“Then don’t,” he said softly.
She was incredulous. “You’d come with me to the United States?”
He shook his head. “I can’t be Inspector General in America.”
“What are you saying?”
A smile rose upon his lips. “How often did your mother visit Africa?”
That night, Zoe asked Joseph if he wanted to go for a swim. He declined with a laugh, saying it was too cold. So she went alone. She threw on pants and a shirt over her one-piece suit, slid her iPhone into her pocket, and strolled barefoot across the grass to the pool. The hotel was lit warmly by lamplight, but the grounds around the pool lay in shadow.
No one was about when she dived into the frigid water. She stroked to the far side and back again, doing ten laps. Afterward, she climbed out of the pool and wrapped her shivering body in a towel. In time, she found her iPhone in her pants. She typed two emails beneath the canopy of stars. The first she sent to Monica Kingsley:
I read my mother’s letter. I’ve decided to accept her offer. Let me know what needs to happen next.
The second she sent to her father:
Dad, I’ve been thinking about what you said. If you’re really serious about using the presidency as Mom imagined, then I will support you as your daughter, politics aside. Send a plane, and I’ll join you on the stage at the convention. As for forgiveness, it is a journey. But I promise to try.
She dressed again and followed the short path that led to the river. The sand was cold on her bare feet, and the boat launch was deserted. She knelt down at the water’s edge and placed her fingers in the gentle current of the Zambezi. Words came to her then, and she spoke them to the night and the river and the land beneath her.
“I’m going home for a while. But I’ll be back.”
Acknowledgements
I could not have written The Garden of Burning Sand without the help of many people around the world. My wife deserves the greatest credit—both for infusing the concept with her own sense of inspiration and for enduring (once again) the seemingly endless litany of days when I was absent either in body or in spirit during the research, writing, and editing of the book. With small children in the home, this was no easy task. Marcy, without your love, encouragement and faith, many of the best things in my life—including this novel—would not exist.
Just as most of the narrative is located in southern Africa, so are the majority of people to whom I owe gratitude. In Zambia, I wish to thank the amazing team of lawyers and social workers at the International Justice Mission (www.ijm.org) for giving me a tutorial of the law of child sexual assault and for your gracious hospitality during my time in the office. I continue to be inspired by your devotion to the work of justice and your commitment to care for the needs of the poorest victims of violence, young and old.