Free Muti Nation by Monique Snyman Page B

go find a room. I’m hardly in the mood for this stuffy atmosphere,” she says.
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    We circulate the mansion filled with businessmen, diplomats and billionaire foreigners with their husbands or wives on arm. Some of these people I’ve seen around every gathering, others are newcomers, possibly seeing this as an experiment and nothing more. They talk about investment ventures, global warming, ISIS, and current affairs. Some even talk about their children’s recent prestigious achievements at whatever hoity-toity private school they attend.
    It’s all very civil—as always.
    A first couple makes their adventurous escape outdoors. Another couple whisk themselves away to a suite upstairs, giggling like teenagers. Leila and I are the next to disappear into the furthest room downstairs.
    As soon as the door slams shut we’re laughing. Not because we’re getting naked but because we survived the ordeal of faking it in front of an audience for the umpteenth time.
    “What an insufferable bunch of hypocrites,” Leila says. She searches for audio/visual equipment someone may have hidden in the room while I lock the door and move a heavy chaise in front of it as an extra prevention measure. “Half of them advocated for the dismissal of the proposed DSTV porn channel. Did you know that?” She closes the curtains in one fluid movement, kicks off her shoes and falls onto the king-size bed.
    “I did not,” I answer, falling next to her.
    Leila twists to pick up the box I’d brought along, opens the lid and squeals in delight. She dumps the contents onto the bed, scattering candies and chocolates across the embroidered duvet, alongside miniature bottles of booze. It almost feels like old times. I pick up a packet of sour worms and she chooses a roll of fireballs before we both lie down again.
    “I heard about those cases you’re working on.” She licks on a red fireball and looks at me through half-lidded sapphire eyes. “From what I’ve gathered, it sounds like a dangerous killer is on the loose.”
    “You don’t know the half of it.” I bite into a sour worm and pull the candy taut until it breaks in half.
    “Anything I can help with?” she asks. “The media’s all over this, I could try and throw my weight around to give you some time?”
    “It’s okay for now, Lei, but thank you.”
    She turns onto her stomach, props herself onto her elbows and regards me from afar. “Want to talk about it?”
    “No,” I say sharply.
    “Want to talk about the sexy Brit you’ve been seeing on and off?” Leila wiggles her eyebrows, licks the fireball and sticks out her red tongue. No good can come from the naughty glimmer in her eyes. “Does he butter your scone like a real English gent?”
    My face grows hot and she laughs in response.
    “Can I make you a cuppa tea, then?” she teases, faking a cringe-worthy British accent.
    From a tittering giggle, I fall into fits of laughter.
    She’s relentless. “’Ave yer seen wha’ those bluddy Tory arseholes are up to now?”
    “He doesn’t sound like an extra in a football hooligan flick!” I howl.
    “Ah, yes. Of course,” Leila says, wiping her expression clear of emotion. “Let me just channel my inner Downton Abbey—”
    “Please, don’t.”
    She grins, licks her fireball again, and jerks her hand away from her mouth. “I almost forgot.” She pushes her free hand into her cleavage and pulls out a silver USB flash drive. “Don’t lose it. Don’t tell anyone you have it. Destroy it if you can’t find a use for the information on it.” Leila hands over the warm flash drive.
    “Duly noted. Thank you.” I hide the drive between my own breasts until it is out of sight and safe. “What’s on it?”
    Leila beams. “Blackmail on the judges who are pro-muti, if you get what I mean?”
    “I have no idea what you mean.” I sit upright.
    “Oh, you know,” she says, “just a few documents proving how certain judges faked their