The silence between them extended until it became awkward. Zoe was about to restate her plea when Doris spoke, her tone low and even. “I will tell you what I know.”
Zoe let out the breath she was holding. “Good. How old is Kuyeya?”
Doris shrugged. “I think she is thirteen or fourteen. But I’m not sure.”
“When did you meet Bella?”
Doris looked at the ceiling. “It was winter, the year Chiluba was arrested.”
Zoe processed this. Frederick Chiluba, the first Zambian president in the multi-party era, had been charged with corruption by his successor, Levy Mwanawasa, and subjected to public prosecution—an event that had shaken Zambia’s patronage system to the core. She searched her memory for the year. “That was 2004?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you meet her?”
Doris placed her hands in her lap. “On Addis Ababa Drive, near the Pamodzi hotel.”
“You were streetwalking?”
Doris nodded. “She was new. The other girls were unkind because she was pretty and they didn’t want to lose business. I took pity on her. She reminded me of my sister.”
“Where was she staying at the time?”
“I don’t know. I think it was a flat in Northmead.”
Zoe took another sip of tea. “Did she move in with you?”
“Yes. Soon after we met. She helped with rent.”
“Was Bella her street name?”
Doris nodded again. “Her real name was Charity Mizinga.”
“She never mentioned anything about Kuyeya’s age?”
Doris thought about this. “I think she was born in January. I do not know what year.”
“Where was Bella from?”
“She came from Southern Province. Her mother was Tonga.”
Zoe felt a twinge of hope. “Are her parents still alive?”
Doris shook her head. “I think they are dead.”
“And her extended family?”
“I don’t know. She never talked about them.”
Zoe took the conversation in a different direction. “When Bella brought men here, what did she do with Kuyeya?”
Doris stood. “I will show you.”
Zoe followed her down the hallway to the door on the right. The room beyond was bare except for a mattress and a chest of drawers.
“This was her place,” Doris said. “Now I rent it to other girls. When Bella did business here, she put Kuyeya in the bathroom. When she went out, she left Kuyeya in this room.”
On the far wall, Zoe saw thin marks in pairs and triplets. She knelt down and examined them carefully. From their spacing, she guessed they had been made by fingernails. She pictured the girl scoring the wall, and remembered Joy Herald’s explanation of the stigma of disability. The indignation she felt was tempered by sorrow.
“Bella was popular with the men,” Doris said when they returned to the living room. “But she never had enough money. She was always giving it to ngangas for Kuyeya’s medicine.”
Zoe frowned. An nganga was a traditional healer. “Why didn’t she go to a clinic?”
“She trusted the ngangas. They helped us with STDs.”
“Did the men Bella brought here ever … touch Kuyeya?”
Doris looked horrified. “No. The child was not available.”
Zoe took a breath. “We think her rapist may have been a client of yours or Bella’s. Can you think of any man who showed an interest in her?”
Doris shook her head. “Kuyeya was like a shadow. A spirit. When Bella put her in the bathroom, she gave her medicine to sleep. The men left her alone.”
Zoe sat back against the couch. Doris’s lifestyle and Bella’s history were interesting but irrelevant without a connection to a suspect. Then an idea came to her. It was bizarre, really—on the far side of remote. But she had no other cards to play.
“Did you ever keep a record of your clients? Did Bella?”
Doris narrowed her eyes and vanished into the hallway, returning moments later with a spiral-bound notebook. “Bella liked to write,” she said, handing the book to Zoe. “I am not good at reading, but I kept it. Other than Kuyeya, it was her most precious possession.”
Zoe studied the notebook. Its cover was worn, its pages dog-eared. On the inside cover, Bella had written in English: “VOLUME 3: APRIL 2004—”
“When did Bella die?” she asked Doris quietly.
“The winter of 2009. July, I think.”
Zoe pointed at the inside cover. “This says ‘Volume 3.’ Are there other notebooks?”
“That’s the only one I have seen.”
“Zikomo,” Zoe said. “I’m sorry to ask such difficult questions.”
“Life is difficult,” Doris replied. “Is the child well?”
“She’s in good hands.”
Doris nodded gratefully. “I owe Bella a debt I can never repay.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ask her,” Doris said, gesturing at the book. “I think she will tell you.”