Free The Witch Doctor's Wife by Tamar Myers

gem quality, and some would be of exceptionally high quality.
    The OP had been twice to visit the site, located at the bottom of a box canyon from which flowed a powerful spring that soon became a fast-moving stream. The canyon floor was forested, but ridges and spirals of resistant rock rose above the trees like turrets of a castle. The keepers of the fortress were a pack of baboons that vocalized loudly whenever humans invaded their domain. On his second visit a pair of vivid blue crested plantain birds soared overhead. It was a magical place, and had it not been for its mineral potential, would have made an excellent spot to picnic.
    In order to properly mine the gem-bearing gravel, a road had to be built, as well as a fence that virtually blocked off the open end of the canyon, thereby denying access to poachers. The road and the fence required months to build, and had diverted a largenumber of his African workers and a substantial portion of his operating budget. Not to mention that he’d secretly bought two dilapidated pickup trucks from some missionaries, on account of the fact that all the diamond-bearing dirt from the canyon had to be brought into the processing plant in Belle Vue. To build a new plant out there would have been impractical and way beyond even his ability to maintain by finagling resources.
    But if the rains came on time this year—not early like last year—the mine could be in production as early as the end of August. Who knew, but by Christmas the mine might have produced the Star of Congo, which was the name he planned to bestow on the first flawless stone over ten carats, and which he personally planned to present to Their Majesties King Baudouin I and Queen Fabiola of Belgium. Now, just when things seemed to be coming together, there was this stupid ultimatum from the Directors.
    What did they think he was doing? Picking his nose? Someday, when his gamble had paid off, more than a few of those men were going to be sorry for their no-confidence vote. As for the CEO, the man had a spine made of noodle dough. True, he was just doing his job, but…
    The OP sent his fist crashing down on his mahogany desk. “Flanders,” he bellowed.
    “Sir?”
    His secretary was a Belgian lad in his early twenties, a newcomer to Africa. He was the son of a friend of the CEO, and the OP was still not convinced that boy hadn’t been sent to spy on him. He certainly looked the part. Claiming allergies, Secretary was never to be seen without a white handkerchief over his mouth and nose to keep out the ubiquitous dry-season dust. The Africans found this amusing, and on several occasions the OP had caught some of the office boys mimicking the new arrival by tying scraps of cloth over their faces. Frankly, it was funny, so the OP didn’t have the heart to chide them.
    “Flanders,” the OP said, “make yourself useful and run down to the store and get some milk for my coffee.”
    “What if the store doesn’t have any, sir?”
    “Then find a cow and milk it.”
    “But sir, there aren’t any cows around here.”
    “Then find a goat. Whatever you do, don’t come back without milk. And I mean fresh milk, none of the powdered stuff.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    With the anteroom clear of spying eyes, the OP set about preparing his answer for the directors. They weren’t going to like it.
     
    Loving eyes watched Husband head in the direction of the thatch-walled privy. He disappeared for a reasonable amount of time, and upon emerging glanced in all directions before striding over to the clump of banana trees growing on the forest’s edge. To loving eyes it appeared as if Husband had begun to search for something, poking around in the detritus and pulling at the loose sheaths of banana leaves. Weaving in and out of the clump of fat stalks, he spent almost as much time there as he had relieving himself. Then abruptly Husband began to walk at a fast clip, not back to the village, but in the direction of town.

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