Free Deadly Harvest by Michael Stanley

of your missing daughter.”
    Witness waved him to a chair and sat down opposite.
    â€œRra,” the constable began, “please start at the beginning.”
    For the next twenty minutes, the constable asked questions and made notes.
    â€œThank you, rra. We’ll send your daughter’s photo to all police stations and ask them to keep a lookout for her. And on Monday morning, we’ll send some men to search the area around the school.”
    â€œWe’ve already searched there!” Witness snapped. “We found nothing. You’re too late. You should have been here this morning.”
    â€œThe station commander had no one available this morning. And may not have anyone tomorrow, either. That’s why we may have to wait until Monday.”
    â€œThe police are useless,” Witness growled as he showed the policeman to the door. “I’ll phone the station tomorrow to see what you’ve done. And it better be something.”
    T HAT EVENIN G, AFTER WAITING well past suppertime in some vague hope that Tombi would return, Witness walked to the BIG MAMA KNOWS ALL shebeen , a favorite of his friends. This local bar was named after its proprietor, accurately reflecting her size, her knowledge of local gossip, and her willingness to dispense advice. It was in a small house in the middle of a residential area of sandy streets and few trees. The front rooms had been converted into a single large one, with a few cheap tables and a counter that groaned every time someone leaned on it. On the wall was a pinup, undressed to within a hair of Botswana’s laws, and a few faded posters featuring St. Louis beer. The fluorescent lights weren’t designed for romance.
    None of the neighbors had ever complained about the shebeen —­there were rumors that Big Mama was a witch doctor. In fact, she was a traditional healer, whose potions were sought after from near and far.
    As he walked through the door, Witness was grabbed by Big Mama and lost his breath to a huge hug. “Have courage, my friend,” she whispered in his ear. Then, almost deafening him, she yelled out, “Get Witness a beer! Right away! On the house!”
    As the evening passed, Witness’s friends plied him with several more cartons of Chibuku Shake Shake beer, the cheap local favorite, to cheer him up. But it only made him maudlin.
    â€œWhat will I do if Tombi doesn’t come back? I’ll be all alone. There won’t be anything to live for.”
    His friends slapped him on the back and told him to be optimistic—­that the police were probably right, and she’d be back on Sunday evening, embarrassed because she’d fallen in love or some such thing and had forgotten to let him know.
    â€œWhat have I done to anger the spirits?” he wailed. “First my wife, and now my daughter.”
    â€œHave another beer,” they said. And he did.
    Witness had been drinking for several hours when a group of young men and women marched through the door chanting “Vote for Jacob Pitso. Vote for freedom!” They spread out and put pamphlets on every table. Witness grabbed one, angry at the smiles and happiness. He didn’t recognize the one face, but where had he seen the other? He’d seen it recently. He grimaced, trying to squeeze the memory into the open. Who was it? Who was it? Then the fog of alcohol lifted for a moment. It was the man outside the school with the girl who had pretended to be Tombi! This was that man, the smiling man. Witness stood up, a little precariously, and pointed to the photo.
    â€œHe’s evil!” he shouted. “I saw him with a girl this afternoon. He was in her arms. She was just a baby. Like my Tombi!”
    One of the young men walked over. “Oh, shut up. You’re drunk. Rra Marumo was in Lobatse today, and he’ll only be back tomorrow.”
    â€œNo, he wasn’t! I saw him at the school this afternoon. With a girl. He