Chapter 11 - THE VOICE OF A DEAD MAN INSIDE THE PUMP HOUSEHLENGIWE
By Sunday morning, I had stopped asking whether I was afraid.
I was terrified.
Matla had been released from police custody late Saturday after Naledi presented evidence challenging the accusations. The investigation remained open, and the family trust's disputed transactions were still under scrutiny.
But at least he was home.
When he returned, he held me for so long that I eventually had to remind him I needed air.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Stop apologizing for things you didn't do."
"I should have been here."
"You were dealing with false criminal allegations."
He rested his forehead against mine.
"You're getting very good at arguing with me."
I smiled.
"One of us has to."
We didn't have much time for tenderness.
Motsumi was still missing.
Radebe now had the brass key.
And somebody intended to destroy whatever remained inside the old pump house.
At eight that morning, Matla, Abby, Naledi, my mother, and I gathered near the neglected stone building.
It stood beside a narrow stream, surrounded by tall trees and wild grass.
The roof sagged.
The windows were boarded.
A rusted sign warned visitors against entering.
Matla examined the broken outer gate.
"Someone has been here."
I pointed toward the fresh tire marks.
"Recently."
He nodded.
"Stay close."
We approached the door.
The original lock was gone.
Someone had removed it during the night.
Inside, the building smelled of damp concrete and old machinery.
Dust covered the floor.
A rusted pumping mechanism stood against one wall.
There were signs of a search.
Broken shelves.
Scattered papers.
A damaged cabinet.
Whoever had entered hadn't found what they wanted.
Abby switched on her flashlight.
"Your husband's parents had excellent taste in hiding places."
I almost laughed.
Matla moved toward the machinery.
"My father used to bring me here."
I looked at him.
"Really?"
He nodded.
"When I was little, he'd explain how the water system worked. He said every river carried a responsibility."
His expression softened.
"I thought he was just talking about farming."
I touched his arm.
"Maybe he was teaching you something bigger."
He looked at me.
"Maybe."
We searched for almost an hour.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the pendant.
I removed it from beneath my shirt.
The two crescent moons surrounded a tiny engraved tree.
I turned it over.
Three symbols marked the back.
A river.
A mountain.
And a circle.
I looked around the room.
On the far wall, partly hidden behind a rusted pipe, was an old stone plaque.
It displayed the same symbols.
"Matla."
He approached.
"What?"
I showed him the pendant.
Then the plaque.
His eyes widened.
"That's our family crest."
I brushed dirt away from the stone.
Beneath the symbols was a small indentation.
Exactly the shape of the pendant.
"There's no way," Abby whispered.
I pressed the pendant into the indentation.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a faint clicking sound came from behind the wall.
Matla stepped closer.
The stone shifted.
A narrow compartment opened beside the pipe.
Inside was a waterproof metal box.
I stared.
"Oh, my God."
Matla carefully lifted it out.
There was a smaller lock attached to the lid.
The brass key would have opened it.
But Radebe had taken the key.
Abby sighed.
"Of course."
Naledi examined the box.
"We can have the lock opened without damaging its contents. We'll document the process."
Matla looked at me.
"Princess, you found it."
I shook my head.
"Your parents wanted us to find it together."
We moved the box to a clean work surface.
Naledi filmed its condition, then arranged for a qualified locksmith to open the lock while the rest of us waited.
Inside were several sealed packages.
A handwritten deed.
Property records.
A small digital storage device.
And an old voice recorder sealed in plastic.
My heart began racing.
Matla lifted the recorder.
His hands trembled.
"I recognize this."
He turned it over.
"My father used to carry it everywhere."
I stood beside him.
"Do you want to listen?"
He nodded.
The batteries had long since failed, but Abby found the compatible power connection through the old equipment stored nearby.
A crackling sound filled the room.
Then a man's voice emerged.
"If anyone is hearing this, I hope Lilian and I were wrong."
Matla went completely still.
His father's voice.
Alive again for a few precious seconds.
Khotso continued.
"We have discovered evidence that Mandla Radebe has been using false companies to acquire land surrounding the Makhetha property."
A pause.
"The financial records suggest he intends to redirect the natural watercourse and force the community to accept a mining development."
Matla gripped the edge of the table.
"We have informed an independent surveyor, Simon Molapo, and prepared documents that will preserve community access rights."
The recording crackled.
Then Khotso's voice softened.
"If our children hear this, I want them to understand something."
Matla's eyes filled.
"Strength is not the ability to frighten others. Strength is the willingness to protect what cannot protect itself."
I felt tears running down my cheeks.
"Matla, you were never responsible for saving us. You were a child. Your job was to grow up, laugh, make mistakes, and become your own person."
Matla covered his mouth.
His entire body shook.
I wrapped my arms around him.
The recording continued.
"And if you find someone who loves you enough to tell you when you're wrong, listen to that person. A family cannot survive on fear."
Matla bent his head against my shoulder.
For a moment, he wasn't the formidable leader everyone feared.
He was simply a son listening to the father he had lost.
Then the recording changed.
Khotso's voice became tense.
"There is one more thing."
A rustling sound.
A door opening.
Then Lilian's voice.
"Khotso, we need to hurry."
"I know."
He inhaled sharply.
"Mandla could never have reached our financial records without assistance. Someone with access to our home has been providing him information."
Matla slowly lifted his head.
"What?"
Khotso continued.
"We have reason to believe the betrayal began inside our own household."
The recording cut off.
Before anyone could speak, Matla's phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
He answered.
A man's frightened voice said, "Mr. Makhetha, my name is Sello. I worked for your father."
Matla straightened.
"Where are you?"
"At the old quarry."
"Do you know where my brother is?"
"Yes. He's alive."
I grabbed Matla's arm.
Sello continued.
"But you need to listen carefully. They're preparing to open the main water-control gates."
"What?"
"If they activate the equipment, the lower villages could flood."
Matla turned toward us.
"When?"
May you like
Sello's answer came through a burst of static.
"They're starting the machinery now."
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