Ah, good. You caught Naruoma just as he caught the fly that’s irritated him for some hours. He has a lot to say, eh. I know you need to get home quick-quick, but we should listen to him.
You came to hear about the fire, right? I should warn you, the story is long. But if you don’t mind, it goes something like this:
Eventually, enough time passed for people to think of the fire as some profound mystery. This added to the legend of not only the fire itself, but everything else that happened that year.
I’d say the whole thing started with the deaths. That’s another story that would have us here the whole day, but to summarise things so you’re not confused, we had a few people dropping dead all of a sudden. Someone had the bright idea to whisper that they were serial murders; someone else had the idea to spread the whispers; and soon we had a full-on panic.
The reasoning went something like this: Crime was on the rise. The police were doing nothing about it. Oh, when would the police please do something about it? We had to catch whoever was responsible, make him pay and all that – that sort of thing.
Now, don’t let it be said I didn’t want to do my job. I wanted the deaths to end as much as anyone. But here’s the thing, these were simple deaths, not murders. We couldn’t go around arresting people for a crime that didn’t happen. That’s not how people saw it though.
The Councillor called Samson and I to his office. Samson was my junior, you see. The Councillor called us in after Old Man Amos was found dead in his bed. “We need to manage this,” he said, reclining impossibly far into his chair.
This is where Samson and I were supposed to dissect the “crime” into buzzwords like ‘typical trends of serial delinquency,’ ‘capture methods,’ – you know, things the Councillor could casually harp on when he ran for re-election. ‘99 and 2000 were shit years, I tell you. Buzzwords weren’t enough.
The Councillor continued, “Start by rounding up the usual suspects. Ask them where they were when the deaths happened. That should get us somewhere.”
Samson and I looked at each other for a while without saying anything. Personally, I thought the Councillor was playing a joke and he was waiting for us to get in on it. With every second that passed, I realised he was serious.
“What usual suspects?” I said.
“You know, the ones with all the crime. Surely one of them did it.” He shrugged his shoulders as if settling the matter.
“Sir,” I started, “we don’t have usual suspects. Besides, nothing about the deaths suggests a crime.”
This was followed by more silence, during which I slowly realised the Councillor was waiting for me to say a punchline to some joke. When I didn’t, he banged his hand on the table. “You know there’s been another death, right?” he said.
“Yes,” I nodded.
“And? Have you got any leads on that?”
“Well, the deceased in question was an old man who drank literally every day of his life, sir. I’d say he’s been dying for a while.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke, Naruoma?”
“No, sir. Just that his death wasn’t entirely unexpected.”
He started to open his mouth for a retort, but before he could say anything, Samson jumped in. “Sir,” he said, “from what we hear, things are more complicated than you’d think. Witchcraft might be involved. You know some people are even using animals to do their evil deeds. There was a goat in Makapela that has was going around stealing money; now they say the goat belongs to an old witch who sent it to do the stealing. Can you imagine it, a domestic animal getting up to evil?” Samson paused, as though to allow the gravity of his statement to settle in. I was caught off-guard, stunned into silence; just when I recovered and tried to stop Samson, he started again, this time speaking louder, with more confidence.
“There’s a ghost that’s been haunting the area around Cynthia’s tavern,” he continued. “That’s around where the old man lived. It’s also where all the deaths have been happening. We think something supernatural is involved,” he finished.
The Councillor folded his arms and shook his head at Samson. “Do you think I’m a joke? Heh? Do I look like a joke to you?”
I can’t say I’ve ever liked the Councillor; but in this, we were united.
Around ’94, maybe ’95, when Cynthia’s tavern was new, I spent a few nights there. Sometimes we had to break up some true nonsense. People liked to play dice just outside the tavern. More often than not, they ended up fighting over someone cheating. The alcohol didn’t help. Once people got drunk, they got generous with their accusations, and knives were never too far from these sorts of sagas. A few people lost their eyes. John lost three fingers.
Samson was like the knife in these scenarios. He glinted in the background, so you knew he was there, and it frightened you in a general sort of way. But you didn’t believe he would actually do the unthinkable and stab you, so when he did, it still shocked you.
“I asked you,” said the Councillor, “do I look like a joke to you?”
Samson was surprised. “Sir, sir,” he stammered. He might have hoped someone would rescue him with an interruption, but that didn’t happen. The Councillor was too concerned with his own plight to give up, and I … well, call it childish if you want, but I was annoyed with Samson. He had made his bed. He had to lie in it. “Sir …” he continued, looking at me for help.
“Let me tell you something,” said the Councillor, gesticulating at Samson, “I just came from a workshop in Duiwelskloof, Duiwelskloof—” he had a habit of repeating words he thought were important. “—all the way in Duiwelskloof, I tell you. Do you know that everyone was laughing at us? Heh? No one was taking anything I said seriously. Now you come to me with witchcraft! Are you being serious right now?”
Samson must have thought this was another rhetorical dilemma, for he didn’t answer.
I realise now that I should have taken over. Maybe the whole business with the cow might have been avoided. But alas, I didn’t know how petty the Councillor could be. “It’s witchcraft you want?” he continued. “You can have it.”
I have to admit, at first I thought he wanted us to investigate whether witchcraft really was involved. So you can imagine my confusion when, instead, we entered the mess with the cow. It was very quick too; Samson and I got the delivery the next day.
Do you know that children’s show with four colourful… I suppose I should call them creatures? They had receiver aerials on their heads. One was green, one yellow, red—
Yes, yes, Teletubbies!
The next day Samson and I got a delivery of a costume that looked like a Teletubbie. The difference was that it was brown with patches of white, and it was obviously a cow. We didn’t have to wonder if it had some hidden symbolical meaning. It came with a note that said:
Here is something to help you with the investigation. Maybe you will start taking this seriously. Until that happens, you will do your jobs wearing this suit. Decide among yourselves who will have that honour. I want daily reports. If you do not wear it, I will know. Sincerely, your Ward Councillor.
“When did he get time to buy this thing?” said Samson.
“Where did he get the money?” I added.
I wasn’t saying taxpayers’ funds were used. You can’t quote me on that. But I’ll tell you this, he got that thing rather fast. And I know his wife, she’s not the kind of woman who would allow nonsense with their money. That’s all I’m willing to say on the matter.
But going back to who was going to wear the thing, the answer was obvious. Samson was responsible for the mess. If he kept his mouth shut about witch-whispers, we wouldn’t be in that position to begin with. Also, I was his senior; there was no way I was going to lug myself around in that thing.
Samson must have come to the same conclusion because he asked me, “If we don’t wear it, what can he do to us?”
I didn’t give an answer for two reasons. Firstly, I honestly didn’t know what the Councillor could do to us. Secondly, and more importantly, I intended for my silence to be ominous – to suggest a fate that was so terrible, we had no choice but to wear the suit. This way Samson could learn his lesson and keep his mouth shut sometimes.
I looked at him thoughtfully, shaking my head in a way that suggested defeat. He sighed deeply. “I supposed it won’t kill me, will it,” he said, hauling the suit off the table. He disappeared to the holding cell and a few minutes later, he came back in full costume.
He spun around so we could judge how it fit. It wasn’t perfect; the arms were too long, it was a bit tight around the crotch area, and overall, it made him look like an overgrown toddler. “Do you think we can get it adjusted?” said Samson.
“I think if we get to a point where we have to adjust it, we may as well quit our jobs.”
“Yes,” said Samson. “It’s way too hot. I wish it was winter.” There was no trace of irony whatsoever as he said this. Although, with the way the suit framed his face, I honestly couldn’t tell when he was being sincere, and when he was being facetious.
I swallowed the sarcasm I was about to spit and said, “I guess we better get going.”
We caught up with Davie on his way to Cynthia’s tavern. I leaned out of the car and called, “Davie! Davie, wait up!”
“Eh, boss—” started Davie. He was getting a law degree, and he had it in his mind that made us kin of sorts. “Eh, Boss …” he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, the better to see into the car. And then, as I had expected, he started laughing. He composed himself just long enough to say, “Boss, did you know there was a cow in your car?”
Samson sighed, and I, quite helpless, waited for Davie to finish laughing. But that wasn’t about to happen. Davie now had to clutch his chest and put one hand on the car to keep himself upright. His laughter came out in staccato coughs that indicated his chest was tired of the labour. I have to admit, I was getting irritated with him. I got out of the car and stood such that I was blocking his view.
Seeing as we didn’t have the whole day to idle about, I started with my questions anyway. “We heard you might know something about Old Man Adam’s death,” I said. “He had something to tell us, before he died? Do you know what that might be?”
Davie craned his neck past me. He pointed at Samson as he said, “He never said,” then he straight up collapsed to his knees, and his laughter now came out in wheezes. “Just … just give me a moment.”
So I just stood there as Davie tried to learn how to breathe normally again, all while Samson sighed and shook his head and sighed and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”
After what felt like an eternity, Davie finally stood up. He wiped tears from his eyes. “Man,” he said, “if that wasn’t the best laugh of my life, I may as well drop dead now.”
Samson took that as an invitation to dive back into the questions. “Did Old Man Adam talk to anyone else?” he screamed from the car. This sent Davie into a fresh wave of hysterics. The break had done his lungs a lot of good. He was so loud this time around, that Reuben came out of the tavern to see what was happening. Davie immediately called him over. “Eh!” he screamed. “Eh! Reuben! Come and see! There’s now a cow working for the police!”
Imagine this: Reuben ran to the car, burst into laughter too, and he and Davie started asking us questions. Was this the new uniform? Was this because of affirmative action, you know, since we still didn’t have women at our station? Was it a new millennium initiative? Were goats next on the hiring list? What about chickens, sheep? – etcetera.
The questions weren’t even the worst thing about the ordeal. Since Samson was in the car, I was the cow spokesperson. So undignified was this role, I quickly directed the questions back their way. “Did Old Man Adam say anything else before he died?”
Here, Davie and Reuben sobered. They shook their heads, and Davie said, “The only person who could have known is Old Man Amos. They were inseparable. Amos might even be the last person to see Adam alive. But he died too, you know. So there’s that.”
“You think the two deaths are connected?”
“I think whatever killed them is the same thing. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense, does it? We would have to assume this area is haunted, which …” Davie didn’t finish his words. He looked around and let the silence do the job.
Baby Samantha’s house was across the road from Old Man Adam’s, which was next door to Cynthia’s tavern, and behind it was Old Man Adam’s house. This meant that by everyone’s count, three out of the four deceased lived a stone’s throw away from each other. An argument could be made that the fourth, Rough Spanner, lived around there as well, seeing as he spent more time at Cynthia’s tavern than his own house.
There was a morula tree only a few paces from where we stood; presently, its leaves swayed in a way that suggested some supernatural intervention to our conversation. It was eerie. It was effective.
“With Old Man Amos, that makes it four dead people now,” said Reuben.
“Three,” I corrected.
“Four if you count Baby Samantha,” he corrected back. For some stupid reason,everyone wanted to count Baby Samantha even though she died as soon as she was born.
For the sake of cooperation, I conceded. “Four.”
This wasn’t enough for Reuben. “Four people dead like it’s nothing,” he emphasised.
That was the sentiment with everyone we talked to. Old Man Amos was eighty-three, you know. Eighty-three, and he never slept a day without drinking. But you wouldn’t know it from how people received his death. Everyone was sure something was done to him.
At his funeral, Davie of all people, stood up to say, “As the young people of this community, we are tired of digging graves. Our people are falling like flies. Must we now don overalls permanently and become undertakers? Is this the fate of our people?”
I saw the Councillor thoughtfully shake his head at the words, and I knew my life would never be the same again. It didn’t help that the next day Cynthia was found dead in her yard.
You know, that’s the day I realised my Ancestors had forsaken me.
The Councillor came to my house to personally deliver a new cow suit. He said, “Maybe now you’ll take this seriously. Go to the school ground, everyone is there, ask them questions.”
Mind you, it was my day off, and I told him as much.
He didn’t like that at all. He unleashed a fresh bout of bullshit. “Do you know that taxpayers, taxpayers eh, they are paying for you to catch criminals?” he said. “Taxpayers are feeding you, meanwhile you are here sitting and watching TV while people are out there dying. Dying, Naruoma! Dying! Do you even care?”
I honestly can’t remember what I said. Profanities might have left my mouth. My job was threatened, and more profanities left my mouth. At that point I didn’t care.
I sat on the veranda for a good five minutes trying to figure out if he had the costumes in his house just waiting to be unleashed on anyone he was displeased with. And you know what, he sat there with me. For five minutes no one said anything. Then, unceremoniously, he gave a fake cough and said, “Come on now, we need to go.”
Samson was already in the car, all dressed up, his heading peeping out to watch the stalemate. And so, sulking, defeated, I got in my suit and wobbled my way into the backseat of a 1984 Citi Golf, where Samson and I were squashed against each other.
All the way to the school, people craned their necks to get a better look at us. Too bad it was so windy, there was so much dust in the air, I don’t imagine they saw us clearly. In fact, everyone would later agree that the wind was the reason Reuben’s house lost its roof and all the mangoes in the village fell from their trees that day.
Presently, I asked Samson, “Anyone know yet how Gloria died?”
“Looks like she collapsed,” he said.
The Councillor apparently didn’t approve of this line of theorising. He discouraged us by nudging certain misfortunes to collide. Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On crooned from the speakers on repeat, so he increased the volume to the point of splitting our eardrums. As the song approached its crescendo, which was apparently his favourite part, he banged his hands on the steering wheel and cleared his throat in preparation of a sing-along. We braced ourselves, and just as we were about to plunge into a new level of hell, we reached the school. So maybe not all my Ancestors had abandoned me.
Samson and I wobbled out of the car to be greeted by cheers and applause. A few people mooed, a few whistled, someone screamed, “Long live the cow detectives of the new millennium!” and laughter rippled through the crowd.
At least the Councillor had the grace to quiet them down. “Now, now,” he said, “this is a serious matter, eh, a very serious matter. We’ll just be asking a few questions and you can get on with the game soon.” Then, he walked to where Maserumo stood.
Along with Rough Spanner, Maserumo was what we called ‘the village newspaper.’ That is, if a thief stole a goat in pitch-black night and left no clues at all to his identity, before he even reached his gate, Maserumo would know not only who the thief was, but which direction he preferred to face when sleeping. The difference between her and Rough Spanner was that Maserumo knew when to keep quiet.
Presently, she had her hands on her hips, and her eyes roved over our costumes once, twice, then a quizzical look got fixed on her face.
The Councillor asked her, “Did Cynthia maybe tell you something before she died? Anything that could help us know how she died?” He snapped his fingers at me. “You’ll want to take notes, Naruoma.”
I looked at my hands, or rather, my hooves. I couldn’t take notes while wearing the costume, neither could Samson. In fact, we’d left our booklets in the car. Realising this, the Councillor gave a huff and shook his head. He went back to Maserumo. “It seems we can’t take notes just now, Maserumo,” he said. “But we’ll still need to know what you know.”
Maserumo was confused. “How would I know anything about Cynthia dying?” she said.
Also confused, the Councillor looked from Maserumo to me to Samson to the rest of the crowd and back to Maserumo. The quizzical look on her face morphed into worry. She said, “Why? Has someone said that I know something?”
The rest of the crowd took Maserumo’s question as an opportunity to throw details into the confusion. “The problem started with the baby dying,” said Molope.
“If you solve what happened to the baby, these deaths will stop, I tell you.” Ezekiel added, “I’d say, that whole area is cursed, actually.”
“Tsk, tsk,” said Reuben, shaking his head – his house hadn’t gone roofless yet, so Cynthia’s tragedy touched him more profoundly than it would in a few hours.
A voice that was missing in all this hoopla was Davie’s. I enquired and found out that he was away for the day. He was in Duiwelskloof for an exam or appointment or something.
So, “Tsk, tsk,” said Samson, “It won’t surprise me if we find out a restless spirit has taken over that place, eh.” By ‘that place,’ he meant the houses around Cynthia’s tavern.
“You know,” said Sara, “some things are so terrible that we can’t imagine people doing them, but it was people all along, and that’s something we have to consider.”
The crowd went silent as everyone pondered this suggestion. The Councillor in particular, seemed more thoughtful than everyone else. Molope, who it could be said was more invested in the supernatural argument, since she had originated it, revived it. “Ah, but that makes no sense, Sara. Just think about it, why would anyone be killing all these people?”
“Why would a spirit do it?” retorted Sara.
A debate ensued, and with that, any pretence of formal questioning disappeared. I could tell that the Councillor was no longer interested in what anyone had to say. He seemed deep in thought, and the general hubbub didn’t disturb him at all. He nodded along when someone threw a theory at him, but it was obvious his attention was elsewhere.
Someone, I can’t quite recall who, but in the midst of all this, someone asked the question, “What’s going to happen to Cynthia’s tavern now?”
This proved to be another salient point. Truth be told, the reason we were able to catch everyone at a children’s football match was because Cynthia died and the tavern had to be closed, out of respect you know. That meant people suddenly didn’t know where to go for the afternoon, and it so happened that the primary school was hosting a team from the next village.
Next week there wouldn’t be another game, nor the week after that, and so forth. If Cynthia’s tavern was closed indefinitely, this crisis would persist. There would be nothing to distract us from our lives. So I can’t say that people were being callous when the subject got changed so quickly, and so drastically.
Something else I’d like to point out is that for this reason alone, it didn’t make sense for anyone to have killed Cynthia. That’s why I still maintain that we weren’t dealing with murders. Even if some unfathomable crime wave had infected the village, Cynthia should have been the safest person, safer even than the baby.
“Ah, I see,” the Councillor said all of a sudden. “I have to rush away now, eh. I have to rush away.” He took quick strides to his car and sped off the ground with a loud rev. The dust he left in his wake was enough to leave a few people coughing.
“So,” said Reuben, as the dust settled, “How has it felt to be a cow detective?”
Funny enough, that’s not how I got the name. Most people think it was Reuben who came up with it, but not’s true at all. The fire is how I got the name.
After the game was done people went home to discover that Reuben’s roof was blown away by the wind and all the mangoes in the village had fallen from their trees. I’m not being hyperbolic about that either, literally every mango in the village was squashed to the ground that day. Most importantly, of course, the fire.
Since Samson and I didn’t have a ride, we wobbled along with the crowd. Just when we reached Sara’s tuck shop we saw the smoke. A few people were already running that way. I stopped a boy on his way there. “What’s happening?” I asked him.
“Cynthia’s tavern is on fire,” said the boy.
“Cynthia’s tavern?” I repeated.
“Yes,” said the boy, slipping away.
Samson and I did our best to run, but how the fuck could we get anywhere in those costumes! Eventually, we were left behind with the elders. Old Man Motheo limped his way to my side. “You think whoever killed Cynthia came back for the tavern?” he said.
“Cynthia wasn’t killed by anyone,” I answered.
“Well, boss,” said Samson, huffing beside me, “you can’t deny that this is suspicious.”
This emboldened Old Man Motheo to add, “Buildings don’t just catch fire, you know.”
“No,” I said. “They don’t.”
Samson and Old Man Motheo missed the sarcasm in my voice, which was unfortunate, since they took my statement as an invitation to expand their conspiracies. “We can only hope whoever did it doesn’t burn the house of every person that died,” said Old Man Motheo.
“Why would they do that?” said Samson.
“If the whole thing is connected to witch rituals, anything is possible.”
This seemed to unsettle Samson, for he retreated into a conspicuous silence. I found myself wishing they would go back to the theories because at least then, the eeriness of the evening was not so vivid.
Cynthia’s tavern was to the west of the village, and given that we were at the most ceremonious moments of sunset, it meant the western sky was an ominous bright red hue that, if you sat too long to think about it, would start to seem prophetic. On any other day, it would have been ordinary, but on that day, I swear if you saw it you would have said the fire of Cynthia’s tavern burnt itself right into the sky.
Also remember that it was windy that day. So the theory is still that the fire spread like … well, like wildfire. By the time Samson and I got to the scene it had spread to Baby’s Samantha’s house, Old Man Adam’s house, and Old Man Amos’s house.
Someone had connected a hosepipe to a tap at the corner of the street so Old Man Amos’s house could be salvaged. There was no hope for the tavern and the other two houses. Although, a few people were throwing buckets of sand to starve the fire of oxygen.
I’d say the whole village was there, everyone finding something to do, even if it was to spread gossip. For me and Samson, the priority had to be finding the culprit. This is where the gossipers would be most useful.
I would have preferred if someone like Maserumo gave the details, but there was no time to be choosy. Reuben was in the process of loudly asking Mary Motsibi if she was sure about something. Mary said, “I’m telling you, it was a cow, Reuben. Why would I joke about something so serious?”
“What was a cow?” I asked, walking to where they stood.
Reuben shook his head thoughtfully. He said, “Mary says a cow did it?”
“A cow?”
“Yes. A cow.”
“You mean a cow-cow?” said Samson.
“A cow, yes,” said Mary, and this tautology went on longer than necessary, at which point I asked her, “A cow did what exactly?”
“A cow set the fires.”
“Fires?”
“Yes, fires.”
“What do you mean fires?”
“I mean there are three fires here.”
“Not one fire that started at the tavern and spread to the houses?”
“No. There are three fires.”
This required some thought. I folded my arms and looked at Samson. We knew we couldn’t say everything we thought until we confirmed it. But we needed that brief conference in which I nodded at him ever so slightly, and he nodded back, and I went back to Mary.
“What exactly happened here?”
Mary was now impatient. It seemed that she was missing out on a new detail currently being conveyed by Sara to a separate group of spectators/rescuers. She told the story quickly, which suited me just fine since, if she was right, we needed to get moving as soon as possible.
“The first smoke came out of the tavern. We thought maybe someone was burning rubbish. But the smoke got worse. We started running this way, but oh, Old Man Adam’s house started smoking too, then Baby Samantha’s house. Matome sounded the call for help. But now the smoke has turned into fire and we’re running around looking for buckets and hose pipes and you know what we see? You won’t believe me, but a cow was escaping from Amos’s house into the bushes. A cow like you and Samson here, but real, you know. A cow, Naruoma. That’s what I’ve been saying, isn’t it?”
“A real cow?”
“A real cow.”
“What do you mean a real cow?”
“I mean a real cow, don’t I? A cow you can slaughter and eat. As I have been saying, a cow.” She looked at Matome and Samson now, “Or am I swallowing my words? Why do I have to keep repeating myself for such a simple detail?”
“You’re saying a cow went around starting fires?”
“Naruoma, if you want to waste my time, just say so and stop pretending to be asking important questions.”
“But do you realise what you’re saying?”
“Why would I talk about things I don’t understand?” she tsked.
“Okay, thank you, Mary,” I said, signalling for Samson to follow me. We needed to get to the station as soon as possible; we had to do this properly.
When we were far away from everyone, Samson turned to me and said, “Do you really think he did it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. But he wants to turn this into something.”
Neither of us said whom we were talking about, but I’m sure, given the politics of the thing, you understand who it was. By any means necessary, he, the one whose name I can’t say to you like it’s nothing, by any means necessary, he would force us to close the case.
Regardless of all of that, we had bigger problems. Samson, it turned out, had been right about the saga all along. It gave me no pleasure at all to admit it, even to myself, but no matter how logical you are as a person, when some things stare you in the face, you have no choice but to abandon reason.
He gave a deep sigh, Samson, and said, “You know, I was really hoping it wasn’t witchcraft. Witchcraft is messy. How are we still dealing with something so stupid at the dawn of a new millennium?”
I didn’t say anything to that, not because I didn’t want to be caught saying something untoward or damaging or whatever, but simply because there were no words for the overall bullshit that was the year 1999. When the world ends, nothing makes sense. Of course in a few minutes it would turn out that none of it mattered anyway.
Just as we were about to cross the road, an alcohol cargo truck collided with a minibus taxi, head-on. Samson and I were among the first responders. Only one passenger from the taxi died – Davie. He was the only passenger from our village.
So, when the story got told, everyone would remember that one year, several deaths followed each other in way that was unnatural. And, oh, wasn’t it just tragic that we lost such a promising young man as Davie? He was going to be a lawyer, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that just the most harrowing thing?
Maybe because everything was so absurd, when we sat down and thought about it, we started to push the idea of a cow, such a docile domestic animal, going around committing evil on the behest of a witchy person, to the back of our minds. That is how time is, isn’t it? – enough of it passes that one day you start thinking to yourself, “Did that really happen?”
Logic, too – you can use it to defy reality itself. I mean, all these years later, and we’re still wondering what actually happened even though some of us were there and saw it with our own eyes.
I’m sure you understand why I can’t say any of this, explicitly, on the record. But it will still help you, right? You understand what happened, don’t you?
