As soon as she said his name—his full name—he took his hand off the deadbolt and let her go. She turned the door handle quickly and slipped out of his flat into a drizzle of night rain. Running down the steps, she fled into the dark streets, thinking only of Kuyeya.
The ghosts of the past had come for her, but she had survived.
chapter 16
Lusaka, Zambia
October, 2011
September turned into October, and the warmth of the late dry season became the blistering heat that always presaged the arrival of the rains. Zoe checked her iPhone regularly, but neither the Nyambos’ housekeeper nor Cynthia attempted to contact her. The transition of governments from MMD to PF took place with few partisan skirmishes, and people began to talk as if Zambia had blazed a new trail for sub-Saharan Africa. The mood in Zoe’s circle was less sanguine—everyone expressed relief at the absence of violence but felt that Sata had much to prove.
On the fifth of October, Zoe was sitting at her desk in the legal department when the receptionist handed a stack of letters to Sarge. She glanced up from her laptop as he flipped through them and then looked back at the screen. Her concentration lasted only a few seconds. Suddenly, Sarge leapt to his feet, his face shining beneath a sheen of sweat.
“He did it!” he exulted, waving a document around. “Kaunda transferred Kuyeya’s case!”
Zoe rushed to his side, barely beating Niza, who knocked a stack of files off her desk.
“Go ahead,” Zoe said.
“You first,” Niza replied with a smile.
Zoe read the order in wonderment. It was a technical document, devoid of detail, but it accomplished something almost miraculous—the reallocation of judicial power in a pending criminal prosecution. Using vague statutory language, Magistrate Kaunda recused himself for administrative reasons and submitted the case to the Principal Resident Magistrate for reassignment. In addition, he scheduled a status hearing for the following Monday.
Zoe handed the order to Niza and laughed like a giddy child. “This changes everything. We should ask the new magistrate to reconsider the DNA issue.”
Sarge nodded. “It’s worth a try. We might get lucky.”
She gave him a hopeful look. “Do you mind if I draft the memo?”
He smiled. “You’re welcome to it.”
It took Zoe two days to produce an application that satisfied everyone. Persuasive writing was one of her passions, and she had honed her craft for more than a decade, writing columns for the Stanford Daily, notes for the Yale Law Journal, and briefs and opinions for Judge van der Merwe. She had even published an article in Harpers magazine on human rights in post-apartheid South Africa. She wrote like she swam, with single-minded intensity, tuning out all distraction until the last word was on the page.
She approached the memorandum like an appellate brief, highlighting the legal aspects of the DNA question and mentioning its social significance only in passing. She wanted the new judge to understand that using DNA in a rape case was not only de rigueur in courts around the world, but that Zambia was ready for it, that the law permitted it, and that justice demanded it.
Sarge filed the application on Friday, and Zoe spent the weekend in a state of agitation. Joseph, who joined her for a swim on Saturday, took delight in ribbing her.
“You’re like a tiger in a cage,” he said. “Pacing doesn’t change the fence.”
“It helps me forget about it, though,” she replied.
That evening, Zoe hosted a braai, and Joseph took charge of the grill, churning out buffalo burgers and chicken breasts for a dozen guests—CILA staff, neighbors, and expat friends. When conversation began to ebb, Zoe suggested dancing at Hot Tropic. Sarge groaned and complained about the heat, but Niza batted her eyes and elbowed him into submission.
They drove to Kalingalinga in three vehicles and piled into the club, which was already packed with young Zambians, drinking, chatting, and moving to the beat. After a few beers and a bit of prodding, Zoe convinced Joseph to dance with her. They carved out a space between tables and picked up the rhythm of a disco track. The combination of alcohol, sweat, and bass-heavy music drove Zoe into Joseph’s arms. She looked into his eyes and felt the stirring of desire.
“Let’s go back to my place,” she said.
“The time isn’t right,” he whispered into her ear.
“When then?” she demanded, feeling tipsy.
“Patience,” he said, leading her back to the table and the stability of her chair.
But patience was the furthest thing from Zoe’s mind. You’re clearly attracted to me. What’s holding you back?
At last, Monday arrived and with it the hearing at the magistrate’s court. Maurice chauffeured the legal team to the courthouse where they met David Soso, the police prosecutor.
“I can’t understand it,” David said, looking at Sarge with wide eyes. “Do you know why Magistrate Kaunda transferred the case?”
Sarge shrugged nonchalantly. “Any news of a replacement?”
David shook his head. “The docket entry is blank.”