“Charity Mizinga,” Zoe answered.
Dr. Mumbi thought out loud. “Charity Mizinga in 1996. That was the year we were wrapping up the pediatric AIDS study. Yes, now that I think about it, I remember her. She was a gifted student, but she left the school without graduating. A shame.”
“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Zoe asked. “It’s very important.”
Dr. Mumbi checked his watch. “I need to get back to the wards, but I can spare a minute or two.” He gestured toward the door. “Come. We’ll find a more comfortable place.”
He led them through a maze of hallways and up two flights of stairs to a tiny conference room furnished with a table and chairs. Though drab in every respect, the room was blessed with a window that admitted the late afternoon sunlight.
Dr. Mumbi took a seat and pointed at the book in Joseph’s hands. “That is the student registry. May I see it?” When Joseph handed it over, he scanned the pages. “I don’t know why, but I remember Charity quite well. She was one of those students you love to teach: intelligent, motivated, she seemed to absorb everything.”
“Do you know why she dropped out?” Zoe asked.
Dr. Mumbi stared at the ceiling. “I recall only that it was abrupt. I don’t think she ever gave me an explanation.”
“Do you know where she lived when she was in school?”
He nodded. “She stayed with an uncle in Dambwa North. I think his name was Field.”
“Where in Dambwa North?” Joseph asked.
Dr. Mumbi closed his eyes. “I don’t remember the street, but I have a vague recollection that there was a large tree in the yard—a mopane, perhaps. I gave her a ride home a few times.”
Zoe traded a glance with Joseph. “Let’s go talk to Field.”
They found Charity’s uncle with minimal effort. Every person in Dambwa North seemed to know about the house with the giant candelabra-shaped tree in the front yard. A man was sitting outside the door, eyes closed and arms hanging limply at his sides. Zoe saw half a dozen packets of tu jilijili—the cheapest alcohol in Zambia—crumpled up beneath his chair.
“They should ban that stuff,” she said, walking toward him. “It’s worse than moonshine.”
“If Prohibition didn’t work in America,” Joseph replied, “here it would be a joke.”
He shook the man’s shoulder. “Field,” he said. The man stirred and drool escaped from the corner of his lips. Joseph shook him harder. The man finally opened his bloodshot eyes. He scrunched his face and mumbled something, then closed his eyes again. Joseph shook his head and knocked on the door. After a moment, a woman peered out. She and Joseph exchanged words in Tonga, and she opened the door wider, glancing at Field.
“Ugh,” she said, switching to halting English. “Tu jilijili very bad.”
She ushered them into a sparsely furnished sitting room. A Zambian news program was on the television, but the sound was muffled. Zoe and Joseph took seats on a couch while the woman fetched a bowl of tubers from the kitchen.
“Chinaka,” she said, gesturing at the bowl. “Tea?”
Joseph took a tuber and politely declined the beverage. When Zoe followed suit, the woman sat down on a sagging chair beside the television and fidgeted nervously with her hands.
“Are you Field’s wife?” Joseph asked in English.
She nodded. “He from my village. Not so drunk then.”
“Perhaps it would be easier if we spoke Tonga,” he said.
While Joseph questioned the woman, Zoe studied her body language. Neither pretty nor plain, she had the open manner of a village girl, yet her face was lined and timeworn. As soon as Joseph mentioned Charity, the woman tensed. She stared at her hands and twisted her wedding ring. Her pain appeared in the cadence of her words.
“What is she saying?” Zoe whispered.
“Be patient,” Joseph replied.
The exchange continued until the sky outside lost the last of its light. Zoe chewed the chinaka and listened to the muted voices of the television newscasters discussing the presidential campaign. President Banda had accused the Patriotic Front of inciting violence in the rural areas. Michael Sata had lashed back, accusing Banda of ineptitude and corruption. Politics is the same everywhere, she thought. It’s just that the West is more practiced at hiding the ugliness.
After a while, Joseph stood and said, “Let’s talk outside.”
Zoe followed him to the truck. Looking up, she saw the constellation of Scorpio stretched out across the night sky and Sagittarius, the archer, locked in pursuit. She had never been superstitious, but the celestial clash felt like a portent of things to come.
“Field is Charity’s uncle,” Joseph said when she slid into the passenger seat. “Apart from two cousins, everyone in her family is dead—parents, aunts, siblings. Her grandmother was the last in line. She died about five years ago.”