When Zoe emerged from the apartment, the sun hung low and molten above the horizon, and traffic on Chilimbulu Road was at a near standstill. She glanced at her watch and searched the crowded roadway for Joseph. It was almost 5:30 p.m. He was nowhere to be seen.
She leaned against the fender of his truck, waiting. She saw a group of boys knocking a soccer ball around. One of them gave the ball a swift kick—too swift for the intended recipient—and the ball rolled in Zoe’s direction. She scooped it up and walked toward them, intending to ask about Joseph, when she saw him striding toward her, holding a stuffed doll and a pair of wire-framed eyeglasses.
“Where did you find those?” she asked, tossing the ball back to the boys.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, eyeing the notebook in her hands.
“I asked first.”
He grinned. “I’ll show you.”
She followed him down the road. When traffic began to move again, she caught sight of a pickup truck carrying a group of young Zambians in green T-shirts. She grabbed Joseph’s arm, looking for the bandana-clad gang leader. It took her a second to realize that everything about the vehicle was different—the paint color, the model, the driver, the boys in the flatbed. Her dread quickly turned into irritation. Get a grip! They’re harmless.
“Are you all right?” Joseph gave her a concerned look.
She nodded, starting to walk again. “I’ll be glad when the election is over.”
Joseph led her to the entrance of a walled alley separating two apartment blocks. The alley was rutted with tire tracks and littered with piles of trash and dog scat. “I found the doll here,” he said, showing her a knee-high pile of cinderblocks. “The glasses were beside it.”
“They could be anyone’s,” Zoe objected.
“It’s possible. But I found a girl named Given who saw a silver SUV on Saturday at nineteen hundred. She said it was parked right here. I asked the neighbors to make sure, and no one claimed them. Where they were sitting, they could have gone days without being noticed.”
Zoe gave him an intense look. “Did Given see the driver?”
“Only his back. She confirmed he was tall. I showed her the symbol that Dominic drew in the dirt. She recognized it, but she didn’t know what it was.”
“Did she see Kuyeya?”
“No. The man was climbing into the vehicle. The girl must have been inside already.”
Zoe sighed. Another witness who can be neutralized.
They walked back to Joseph’s truck, and he handed her the doll and glasses. “I hope you’re not in a hurry to get home,” he said, gesturing at the traffic crawling by.
She shook her head. “Nothing waiting for me but a swim and this notebook.”
His eyes moved to the bound volume in her hands.
She smiled. “I’ll tell you on the drive.”
Forty-five minutes later, Zoe sat on a chair beside the pool, her skin tingling from an exhilarating cold-water swim. The sun was gone, leaving the garden in shadow, but the tall sky held the afterglow like the embers of a dying fire. She took long breaths, allowing the scented air to reach deep into her lungs. Overhead, in the jacaranda that shaded the pool, a Heuglin’s Robin sang.
Zoe opened Bella’s notebook and read the first page. It was a letter written in English.
Dear Jan,
Yesterday I argued with the girls again. They tell me I should pay more rent. They do not listen when I tell them I have no money. Kuyeya had a fever and the nganga charged one hundred pin for medicine. I paid him two hundred pin last week. The blisters were bad again, and I couldn’t work. The girls stole my notebook and threw it in the toilet. It is ruined now. This is the second notebook I have lost. I should probably stop writing. But it is all I have, along with Kuyeya.
I need more money. The bars are too crowded. The men pay less than they used to. Girls make more on Addis Ababa. But some die, too. A girl told me about Johannesburg. She made videos and earned two million kwacha. But I am not as pretty as before. I am older and sick. Sometimes I dream that I am going to die. But if I die, what will happen to Kuyeya? I need to find another place to stay.
Zoe turned the page and found another letter:
Dear Jan,
Last night I went to Addis Ababa. Men stopped and talked to me. One was white. He sounded British. We did business in the car. He was rough, but he paid me a hundred pin. Later a colored man asked if I would come with him to the Intercontinental. He gave the guard money and took me in the back. There was another colored man in his room. They hurt me and only one of them paid.