For all those fans who simply cannot wait for the next book, Masimba Musodza has graciously allowed short stories, novellas and selected chapters to be made available on this page.
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Story Time, the avant-garde e-zine devoted to African writing features stories and excerpts from the Dread Eye Detective Agency series.
From the Case Files of the Dread Eye Detective Agency…
A Raised Toilet Seat
A short story by Masimba Musodza
For a fledgling detective agency such as theirs, it was a considerable help for Chenai “Ce-Ce” Chisango and her brother, Farai, to know a few people in the insurance business. Such as this stocky, bespectacled balding individual who now sat facing Ce-Ce in their modest two-desk office in the Makoni business district of Chitungwiza.
Mr Nigel van der Merwe had known the Chisangos from their teens. Their father, eminent Rastafarian academic Dr Abel Chisango had been a committee member of the Zimbabwe Vegan Society during his tenure as treasurer. Mr van der Merwe was Chief Operations Manager of the Haka Insurance Group.
“The Mathema case,” he was saying, his eyes on the bowl of vegan jelly-babies that was just out of his reach on Ce-Ce’s desk, “has been dug up again.”
A month prior, Mrs Adelaide Mathema, wife of the transport mogul, Alexander, had been found dead by her husband slumped over a toilet seat. A police investigation had found that Mrs Mathema had overdosed on sleeping tablets and drowned in the toilet seat. Even the broadsheets had been barely able to report the story fairly and neutrally. What kind of idiots would they be taking their readers for if they had expected them to believe that a woman could dip her head in a toilet-bowl and experience the personal service at Guantanamo Bay without any assistance?
But there was evidence there for anyone who liked a nice tidy case, especially when their organisation was strapped for resources to carry out a prolonged, fancy investigation. Mrs Mathema had just returned from a stint at mental hospital. She wasn’t any better from when she had been admitted; she had spent most of her last days in a narcotic stupor. Then, apparently, one day she was hunched over the toilet puking her guts out and fell in to a deep sleep and drowned in the small pool of water. Or she may have flushed herself by accident. At any rate, a measurement of the enamel bowl had led to the conclusion that it was possible for a woman her size and in her state to drown in it. And there were enough drugs in her body to do a Rip Van Winkle on an elephant. Furthermore, phone records showed that about the time she died, around 9p.m., a call was made from the Mathema residence to the Psychiatric ward at St Albans’ Hospital.
“Well, there was always something smelly about it,” said Farai as he set a cup of tea in front of Mr van der Merwe. “No pun intended, of course. Soya milk, Mr van der Merwe?”
“Yes, it was bound to get dug up again,” agreed Ce-Ce.
“It has,” Mr van der Merwe continued. “Mr Mathema successfully pushed for the docket to be re-opened. A new team of detectives has been assigned to the case, and they think it was murder. Trouble is, they think it was Mathema that did it.”
“Well, it was hinted in the papers,” said Ce-Ce. “And not very subtly too. But why do the police think so now?”
Mr van der Merwe sipped his tea, set the cup down. “This is where we come in. Mrs Mathema had a policy with us, life policy that is, worth quite a bit. Her beneficiary, her husband, was not entitled to it because she caused her own death. However, it has emerged that he has been taking us to court with the claim that as she was mentally incapacitated, Mrs Mathema could not be considered as having wilfully caused her own demise. The fact remains that she is in fact dead, which means that he may get that policy yet. The police are wondering however, why he is happy with a suicide verdict so long as it doesn’t interfere with his claim to a large sum of money and only starts talking of foul play when we are not keen on paying up.”
Ce-Ce leaned back in her chair. You could almost see the cogwheels in motion beneath that headscarf which wrapped her dreadlocks like baby swaddling. Farai had taken his seat at his desk.
“I was wondering if you could have a look at the case,” Mr van der Merwe said. He pushed a manila envelope across the desk to Ce-Ce. “That is all the paperwork on it, police report, press cuttings etc. To be honest, it makes me dizzy just flipping through, but I suppose the two of you will peruse it like the Dead Sea Scrolls!”
As he spoke, there was a gentle hum behind him. That was the printer, issuing the contract form for him to sign. Farai signed on behalf of Dread Eye Detective Agency and handed it to Mr van der Merwe. Ce-Ce was looking at the photographs of the crime scene.
“Look, I have a meeting scheduled back in Harare,” Mr van der Merwe said, rising. “You have my number if you need anything. The numbers of the original homicide detectives assigned to the case are also listed. Well, I hope you guys can solve this one for us.”
“We’ll do our best,” Farai assured him, seeing him to the door. When Mr van der Merwe had gone, he went over to sit on his sister’s desk. “Right, sis, there is that look on your face that tells me that you have already got a thread.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “According to this, the only people at the house the night Mrs Mathema died were her husband, their children and the maid. There doesn’t appear to be have been anyone else.”
“And yet there had to have been, unless it was one of them that did it,” said Farai, still unsure where Ce-Ce was going with this. “Assuming it was indeed a murder. She did have mental health problems.”
“She did,” agreed Ce-Ce. “But no history of suicidal inclinations. This is why Mr Mathema did not believe that she killed herself. Unfortunately for him, not only have the authorities come round to seeing things his way, but they think he was so adamant all this time because he was the one who did it. If there could be a motive, I would put my money on sheer care fatigue.”
Farai twirled one of his shoulder-length dreadlocks thoughtfully. “But did she need constant care?”
“Doesn’t actually say,” Ce-Ce replied, flipping the pages. “She was stoned most of the time. I guess we are going to have to leave the office and get some answers. Before we step out, little bro, I wanted you to have a look at this picture.”
She passed him a picture of a room; a lodger’s room perhaps for it had all the furniture for sleeping, sitting and entertainment. A door was slightly ajar, opening in to the bathroom “That is the maid’s room. Notice anything?”
Farai stared at the picture for about two seconds. Then it hit him. “The toilet seat’s raised!” he cried. “Unless they have a drag-queen for a maid or she has some unusual bathroom etiquette, there was someone else on the property that night.”
“Yes, there was,” Ce-Ce said, rising. “Come on, let’s go out and do some sleuthing.
She adjusted her netela around her shoulders, and pushed the papers and photos in to the khaki envelope. Farai put on his suit jacket. As they stepped out, they looked like an Ethiopian princess and her longhaired aide.
“You know, he could have been her boyfriend,” said Farai, when they were on their way to Harare in Ce-Ce’s Audi.
“Who?” asked Ce-Ce.
“The guy who left the toilet seat up,” Farai explained. “The maid brings home a fella for the night, and doesn’t want anyone to know. Happens all the time, you know.”
“I know,” said Ce-Ce. “But fact remains, this is one clue that was not investigated. We must investigate.”
Farai said, “Maybe the cops didn’t see how a maid’s boyfriend could have been involved. What motive could there possibly be?”
“That is the question!” cried Ce-Ce, lifting a finger. She had already decided that the boyfriend existed, and that he had killed Mrs Mathema. She had also already decided that while the murder may not have been pre-meditated, it was certainly executed by someone much more intelligent than the stereotypical boyfriend of a Harare domestic worker.
All that from a raised toilet seat!
But it was the small clues that led to the bigger ones. You just had to train your mind to be observant, to take time to read every scrap of information the five senses despatched. It was this special skill that, about three months prior, had guided Ce-Ce to the incredible conclusion that another Harare businessman had ordered a murder in order to fake his own death for a life insurance policy abroad. The chance clue had been the mysterious disappearance of photographs showing that same businessman in someone else’s office.
Mr Mathema was pleased to see them. He ushered them to the privacy of the spacious veranda overlooking a rectangular fishpond, and bade them seated at the wooden table.
“I am so glad you are here to help me,” he began.
“Well, if by help you mean find out what really happened then we will do our best, sir,” said Ce-Ce.
Mr Mathema looked anxiously from one sibling to the next. “You don’t think I did it as well, do you?”
“Mr Mathema,” Farai answered, “what my sister means to say is that at this point in time we are keeping all channels open. The police have their conclusions, but we think that they overlooked a small detail. From the pictures they took of the whole house, it seems there may have been a male guest in your maid’s quarters.”
Mr Mathema looked at the table and shook his head. “Well, you know what they can be like. Lizzie’s a single mum, no longer a girl. Even if she was, this job doesn’t give her a social life. We-my Nanette and I-turned a blind eye so long as she is discreet about it. Obviously, we don’t approve of that sort of thing, but neither do we approve of allowing our prejudice to treat Lizzie as if she doesn’t have such a human need as a warm body beside her once in a while.”
When he spoke of his wife as though she were still alive like this, the pain of coming round to the fact that she wasn’t was etched on his narrow face.
“So, you never saw this boyfriend,” said Ce-Ce.
He shook his head. “Suppose there was one, why would he murder my wife? It can’t have been robbery.”
“No, it can’t have been robbery,” agreed Farai. “The report makes it clear that there is no appearance of an attempted robbery. At any rate, the murder happened in the en suite, there are many rooms where a burglar would have helped himself without anyone seeing him. There is no evidence that she surprised him in the act.”
“Which is why we must know more about Mrs Mathema,” Ce-Ce took over quickly, anxious to get information out of this man before grief broke him down again. “For instance, she spent a few months at St Alban’s Psychiatric Ward.”
“She did,” Mr Mathema confirmed. “Depression. There have been a few deaths in the family, her side. That is why I first thought that she had committed suicide.”
“Well, wasn’t she treated?” asked Ce-Ce.
Mr Mathema forced a laugh. “If you want to call it that! She lost all feeling, except that which came from a dozen tablets! They stopped her strange behaviour, but I never got my wife back. I got her in person, surely, but as just as surely, I never got her personality.”
He shuffled uncomfortably, then seemed to steel himself for what he was about to say. “There is something that I did not tell anyone, something she told me. I didn’t say anything to the police because I was afraid no one would believe me. I feared they would all think that I was trying too hard to make a case for depression leading to suicide.”
He shook his head, and sighed. “But, as it turns out, I turned out to be the chief suspect anyway.”
He paused, staring ahead, steeling himself. Then, he said, “Nanette told me that she was raped repeatedly at that hospital.”
Ce-Ce’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at her brother, saw the look of outrage on his face. “The staff?”
Mr Mathema shook his head absently. “She told me that it happened when she was under medication, so she even told herself that she had imagined it all. But one day, she was fully conscious when this man came in to her room and tried to have sex with her. She had never seen him before, but she was sure that he was not a member of staff.”
“Maybe he colluded with staff members,” said Farai. When the others looked at him, he explained. “Remember the movie Kill Bill Vol I? There was a nurse who let men come in to the hospital and have sex with the patients.”
Mathema could no longer control himself. He buried his face in his hands and wept. “My wife, how could they let that happen to her?” he sobbed. “What kind of ….vile monsters do they have working there? Oh, God!”
Ce-Ce looked at her brother and wondered if he too was trying very hard to take this display of grief on face value. A wife battling with mental health problems finds that she cannot cope with an attempted rape and the fear that she may have been sexually abused during her time at the hospital finally takes her life. A prima facie case if there ever was. Motive, method, opportunity.
“Mr Mathema, what you have just told us could be clear grounds for suicide,” Ce-Ce said. “So, why do you think otherwise?”
“Because I know my wife!” Mr Mathema exploded, looking up. His lower lip trembled as he looked at the Nefertiti-like Rastafarian detective, daring her to refute his statement. “Nanette may have been depressed, but she wasn’t a quitter. That is why she went nuts in the first place, she was bred to take whatever life threw at her; bereavement, violence, poverty, you name it. She was coming round to the idea that the sex attacks were her imagination, and the one attempt that happened when she was awake was precisely that.”
There was a moment’s silence, punctuated by the businessman’s intermittent sniffing. Then, “Maybe it is just that, maybe it is suicide and I just don’t want to face the fact that I did not really help her deal with the alleged rape. Typical man, I didn’t want her to face it because I didn’t want to face it!”
The detectives were not quite sure if this was typical of men, but they understood.
“Can we interview the maid now, Mr Mathema?” Ce-Ce requested.
Mr Mathema looked up as if noticing their presence for the first time. “She will be in her quarters now, taking a break.”
However, they found her at the gate, exchanging gossip with her counterpart from next door. A curvaceous but rather naïve-looking twenty-something year-old who rejoiced in the name Lizzie, short for Elizabeth.
“It was terrible what happened to Amai[1],” she began. “Whether she did it herself or some evil monster, fact remains that she did not deserve to die. But then, who are we to say this? He who gave us her has taken her away from us according to his will.” She began to waddle towards the main house.
“Lizzie, do you think we could talk about what happened that night?” enquired Farai.
It was their routine to have Farai break the ice, while Ce-Ce, who was more of an expert on these things, studied the interviewee’s body language.
“Well, I told the police everything, which wasn’t much. I was asleep in my room. I had planned to watch a movie in the lounge with her; they have the satellite channels while I have to make do with Zimbabwe Boring-to-death Corporation. But I was suddenly overcome with the need to sleep, and so went to bed around 8p.m.”
All this was in the report, of course. And she was reciting it like it was the truth. Ce-Ce decided it was time to mention what the report did not.
“You had a man in your room didn’t you?” she accused. “That is why you decided to skip the movie. You had alternative arrangements for your entertainment.”
She started, then quickly tried to regain her composure. “Me, a man?” She tried to laugh, but what came out was a life-less twitter.
“Perhaps you would like to go over that one with the police?” suggested Ce-Ce.
Mention of the police had the desired effect. Lizzie shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, you know how it is. Sure, I don’t have a husband but I am not made of wood, you know! And, anyway, why would he kill her? He did not even know she was in the house.”
“All the same, I think it is best that we check him out and clear his name before the police start taking an interest in him as well,” said Farai. “You could start by telling us his name. We would also like to have a look at your room, please.”
As they diverted towards the servant’s cottage, a small building apart from the main house, Lizzie told them that her boyfriend was called Benson Makombe and that he worked as a conductor on a long-distance bus. The relationship had run for a whole year now, but she was starting to suspect that it wasn’t going to graduate in to marriage in the foreseeable future. She was sure now that he already had a wife, and she was only a side order on the menu. She shrugged her shoulders resignedly; a barely literate single mother with a dead-end-job ought not expect better. As she said this, Ce-Ce became more empathic towards her. Ce-Ce was a single mother herself, albeit much more educated and confident. Still, like Lizzie, she had come to accept that when men saw her, all they saw was a cheap thrill. Cheap thrill as in they did not have to put anything in to the relationship other than their little stiff ones, yet they expected you to be so grateful for the privilege of being their doormat. Unlike Lizzie, Ce-Ce had resolved to save herself for the one in a million that wouldn’t.
Lizzie’s room seemed to offer no clues. It was so clean, so neat. It was easy to see how a man, despaired of his slovenly, nagging wife, could find solace here. That he could not find the guts to leave the wife he was always complaining about and take this domestic goddess instead was entirely a fault with his own wiring.
Ce-Ce did however notice the packet of tablets in the toilet, the same one whose lifted seat had started this line of enquiry. “Raranol,” she observed, holding it up. “Rather strong, and rather expensive for a maid.”
“Oh, those!” cried Lizzie. “I sometimes have problems sleeping. Benson gets them from his cousin who works in a hospital. I know they are prescription, but they are the only ones that work.”
Farai was startled to see that look on his sister’s face. The look that said “I think I know who killed Mrs Mathema but I need a bit more proof.” He tried to work out what he had missed.
Instead, Ce-Ce said, “Lizzie, you have been a great help. I think it is clear that you did not have anything to do with the murder. Thank you very much for your time.”
With that she walked out. Farai spread his hands helplessly at Lizzie, and followed his sister out. She was walking towards her car, talking on her mobile. She finished the conversation just as he reached her. “What’s up, Sis?” he asked.
She looked at him. “You still haven’t figured it out?”
Oh, how he hated it when she did this! But then, she was always the detective. And he was just the baby brother trailing along. Well, at moments like these, that is precisely how he saw their relationship defined.
“I’ve just had a chat with one Miss Mambo at St Alban’s reception,” said Ce-Ce. She will be getting back to me in a sec, I asked her to check something for me.”
As if on cue, her phone shrilled in to life. She flipped open the handset. “Hello? Oh, he did?”
Farai did not hear the rest, as it dawned on him that he too knew who had murdered the Mrs Mathema and why. It made such perfect sense!
“Benson, Lizzie’s boyfriend did it!” Farai said, when his sister had finished her call.
She arched one eyebrow, a faint smile on her lips. “Anyone could have come to that conclusion, Fa,” she said, wearily. “But they would have to prove motive.”
“He has someone at St Albans who lets him in to have sex with the patients at night, like that Buck from Kill Bill Vol I. He tries it with Mrs Mathema, but she is wide-awake and she sees him. She can identify him, but what are the chances of them running in to each other again. He is not a member of staff, so no one else can place him at St Albans at the time of the rape. He thinks the matter will never come to light, until he discovers that, by a cruel twist of fate, she is his girlfriend’s employer! So, he calls his mate at St Albans, and he comes over and they drug Mrs Mathema. An easy enough task as she is always out of it, anyway.”
He looked hopefully at Ce-Ce. She stared back for a moment, then clapped her hands and whispered, “My boy has become a man!”
A warm glow suffused Farai, he grinned broadly.
“The receptionist has just confirmed to me that a Benson Makombe was listed in the visitors’ log, dating from months before Ms Mathema was admitted as a patient,” said Ce-Ce. “He has an cousin, Langton, who works as an orderly. He was on duty on the night of the murder, and he did clock out for an hour to attend to a personal emergency at home after the call from this residence was made.”
The siblings looked at the house for a moment. Then, Ce-Ce called the police.
[1] “Mother”, title of respect for an older woman.
