Muti Nation Read Online Free Page B

modesty’s sake. “I suck at maths.”
    “I know.” Howlen lies back on the bed and folds his arms behind his head, appreciating the view from afar. “Where are you off to?”
    “A glass of water,” I say. “Can I get you something from the kitchen while I’m there?”
    Howlen sits upright again, checks the alarm clock and stands. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
    I flip on the hallway’s light switch and pass the oblong table where framed photographs are positioned around a large crystal vase. A mirror hangs against the wall, an intrinsic part of the décor.
    My hand automatically reaches out to switch on the kitchen light but a gut instinct tells me to stop. The whole house feels alive and wrong.
    The toilet flushes in my bathroom.
    “Howl?” I call. My voice involuntarily shakes on his name.
    “Yes?” he answers.
    I’m being an idiot, jumping at shadows, worried about what can’t hurt me. Since when am I afraid of the dark? I don’t answer him. Instead, I ignore the spinal shiver erecting every hair on my body to attention, and switch on the kitchen light.
    Bad idea.
    Every item in my utility closet—several brooms and mops, a bucket, the long-handled feather duster, and the vacuum cleaner—are assembled in the centre of my kitchen. The inanimate objects stand upright with no human assistance, and the bucket is levitating a few feet high. The first thing that pops into my head isn’t “Run!” but rather The Sorcerer’s Apprentice , a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
    “Howl?!” I call again, my voice edging on hysteria this time.
    I keep my eyes on the assembly of cleaning products. I hear his footsteps in the hallway, bare feet slapping against the light grey tiles with each footstep.
    “Jesus,” he hisses when he’s by my side. “What the fuck, May?”
    The spell breaks.
    Brooms, mops, and the long-handled feather duster clatter to the floor at once. Loudly. The bucket drops making a hollow plastic sound as it spins to a stop on the tiles.
    And then, when I think it can’t get worse, it does.
    The kitchens light bulb shines brighter and brighter then explodes with a deafening pop .
    A crash in the hallway makes me spin away from the kitchen. I see a photo frame shattered and broken on the opposite side of the narrow passage. Another one flies from the table and crashes against the wall before it drops dead beside its mate. Then another. One by one the frames are thrown aside by something unseen.
    Howlen grabs me around the waist. He spins us so his naked back faces the table and I am protected between him and the wall. Bursts of glass. Shards rain down in a tinkling melody.
    Pop .
    The hallway darkens.
    I’m trembling worse than when I’d been face-to-face with the shadow, not five minutes ago. The house feels like its breathing. In, out, in, out. Acrid air fills the spaces between here and everywhere. Kitchen cupboards, drawers and doors violently slam open and shut for thirty seconds, before the house descends into utter silence.
    “What did you get yourself into?” Howlen asks, bundling my trembling body up against him.
    I don’t know what he means. Case #137-ES is unspectacular in a throng of unsolved muti-murder cases, however macabre it seems.
    I’ve seen worse. Howlen’s seen worse. If anything, it’s an old case coming back to haunt me.
    The question is which case?

Chapter 5
    Sangomas are legally recognised in South Africa as “traditional health practitioners” under the Traditional Health Practitioners Act of 2007 (Act. 22 of 2007). They are diviners, healers, traditional midwives and surgeons who openly practice their beliefs in accordance to the constitutions and laws of the country.
    According to several reports, formal health sectors have shown an interest in the role of sangomas as well as the effectiveness of their herbal remedies. Public health specialists even enlist sangomas in the fight against HIV/AIDS, diarrhoea and pneumonia—some of the major causes of