Throughout this exchange, Dr. Mbao stood in the background. Now she stepped forward. “I’m Margie,” she said cheerfully, sitting on the bare earth beside Kuyeya. “I’m so happy to meet you.” She pointed at the toy monkey. “Does your friend have a name?”
“He’s Monkey,” the girl replied, holding him against her chest.
The psychiatrist looked at Sister Irina. “Zoe says you’ve been keeping a journal of her words. Have you detected any themes?”
“She talks a lot about noise,” the nun said. “When the children are playing, she sometimes says things like: ‘The children are loud. The children are not happy.’ Or: ‘The children should be quiet. I like quiet.’”
“Does she mention her mother at all?” the psychiatrist asked.
The nun nodded. “When I give her medicine, she says, ‘Medicine is good. Mommy gives me medicine.’ But when I ask her about her mother, she shuts down.”
“What about her pain? Does she talk about it?”
Sister Irina shook her head. “The other day she stumbled over a rock and started to cry. I could tell she was hurting by the way she pressed down on her inner thighs. But when I asked her about it, she didn’t talk. She made a sound—a bit like a groan—over and over again.”
“Mmm,” the doctor said. “I’d like to see your notebook. But before that, I need to spend some time alone with her.”
Sister Irina stood and walked with Zoe to the breezeway. “Sister Anica says you made an arrest,” she said. “What kind of man is he?”
“He’s from a very powerful family,” Zoe replied.
Sister Irina looked across the courtyard. “Is he sick?”
“He might be. We’re not sure.”
Tears came to the nun’s eyes. “I’m praying she will be well. When will the trial be held?”
Zoe grimaced. “Next December. The defense attorney succeeded in delaying things.”
“I think she will talk by then,” Sister Irina said. “I think she will tell her story.”
“According to Joy Herald, Dr. Mbao is the best. Perhaps you’re right.”
The morning of September 15, five days before the national election, Maurice drove Zoe, Sarge, and Niza back to the Subordinate Court. The streets of Lusaka were thronged with political demonstrators, waving banners and flags. Green-clad supporters of the Patriotic Front yelled angry slogans, denouncing President Banda, while blue-clad devotees of the incumbent MMD shouted, “Boma ni boma!”—“Government is government!”—and sang raucous songs.
Zoe searched the sea of green T-shirts for a sign of the young man in the bandana but didn’t see him. It had been three and a half weeks since the confrontation in Kanyama. Her shock after the incident had sublimated into a perpetual unease hovering at the periphery of her consciousness. Most of the time she thought nothing of it, but occasionally when she saw a PF cadre cruising the streets, she felt the fear again.
When they entered the courthouse lobby, Zoe saw Joseph talking with David Soso, the police prosecutor. She hadn’t seen Joseph in over a week. Mariam had told her he was tied up in meetings at police headquarters, but Zoe had texted him and received no reply.
“Hey, stranger,” she said, touching his arm. “What’ve you been up to?”
Joseph shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Sorry I didn’t make it to the braai on Saturday. I heard it was fun.”
“We missed you,” she replied giving him a curious look. “The impala was a hit.”
They walked down the arcade to Courtroom 9. As before, Benson Luchembe and his retinue stood in a huddle outside the entrance, but this time Frederick Nyambo was absent. Luchembe frowned at Joseph when he and Zoe passed by.
“What was that about?” Zoe asked after they entered the courtroom.
“Darious isn’t the first of his clients I’ve put in jail,” he replied.
They sat together in the gallery and watched Sarge and Niza unpack their briefcases at counsel table. The CILA attorneys were as serious as Zoe had ever seen them. The hearing was critical, and even the unflappable Sarge looked tense.
Magistrate Kaunda appeared a few minutes after ten o’clock. He made himself comfortable on the bench and gave the lawyers a thoughtful look. Zoe glanced around and realized that the Nyambos were not in the courtroom.
“I’ve read your application,” the magistrate said to Sarge. “And your submission in opposition,” he said, turning to Luchembe. “And I’m prepared to hear argument. I plan to take the matter under advisement and issue a written decision. I will hear from the applicant first.”