Zoo City

that in Dark Matter, Black Judgement (2005), physicist Nareem Jazaar states: 'were intelligent life to be found elsewhere in the universe, it would be impossible to imagine that society without some form of the Undertow.'

This type of understanding of the 'Undertow', not as divine judgement but rather as a necessary part of the fabric of the physical universe, can only serve to relieve Aposymbiot individuals of the intense burden of guilt they often carry.

Van Meer amp; Reeves et al. (2002) in fact document robust differences in behavioural function between religious and secular Aposymbiot groups and their response to therapy. In the course of their two-year study, the religious group showed markedly increased levels of guilt, aggression and suicidal ideation when compared to the secular and control groups.

Such studies form the basis for a shift in the clinical and ethical framework with which therapists, and ultimately society as a whole, approach Aposymbiot interaction.

18.

Vuyo insists on meeting me at Kaldi's coffee shop in Newtown, the funkified art, theatre, design and fashion capital of the inner city. They burned this neighbourhood down in the early 1900s to prevent the spread of bubonic plague, and it occurs to me that they should consider doing it again, to purge the blight of well-meaning hipsters desperately trying to paint it rainbow. I should really try to be less cynical.

I squeeze between the tables packed with actors, dancers, trendy new media folk, BEE venture capitalists in suits with no ties, and capitalist wannabes (also in suits, but with ties) who have the ambition but not the office space, and come to use Kaldi's free Wi-Fi.

Vuyo is late. I check my emails on my phone and eavesdrop on the actorly bunch at the next table who are having a very heated and apparently hilarious debate about a proposed smackdown between David Mamet and Athol Fugard. Then again, they could be rehearsing lines from a play about the same.

There are another 312 responses to Eloria, including one from a French journalist who wants to do a story, is desperate to fly to DRC right away to meet. Vuyo would milk him for visa application fees, maybe even try to convince him to set up an emergency fund to help evacuate Eloria. I quietly delete it.

There is also another strangely anomalous message. Again, no return address. Maybe it is time to put up that firewall.

You said you would love me warts and all.

I forward the message to my personal address to add to the other one and nearly get bust by Vuyo, who has slipped into the chair opposite me. 'Anything interesting?' he asks. He does not apologise for being late.

'Admin,' I say.

He orders a black americano and waits for the waitress to leave before launching straight in.

'If someone has the item you're looking for, we don't know about it,' Vuyo says. 'But that item would be hard to miss. Hard to hide. You would have to be stupid.'

'Bad things can happen even to famous people.'

'Ah, but then someone would have to care. There is an insurance policy on that name, paid for by Moja Records. One point five.

'As in million?'

'And on the matching item. They come as a pair?'

'Twins tend to. Okay, what about the MXit account?'

'Sorry. Couldn't get in.'

'What kind of slacker hackers are you using?'

'Hackers are Eastern Bloc scammers. The Company relies on good old-fashioned African business as taught to us by our colonial masters.'

'Bribery and corruption?'

'So much more efficient.'

'And the phone?'

'Yes, my friend at Vodacom looked it up for me for a small fee. That phone number hasn't made or received a call since Sunday 20th 02h36.'

'Do you have a record of what number was dialled?'

'That will cost you extra. Luckily, I anticipated that you would want this.' He slides over a piece of paper folded in half. 'One more thing,' he says, before releasing the piece of paper. 'You should see a friend of mine. At Mai Mai. Dumisani Ndebele. A sangoma. He might be able to help you in other ways.'

'Am I paying extra for this as well?'

'Open the paper.'

I unfold the note. There is an eleven-digit sharecall number. Underneath it is a handwritten scrawl that takes me a moment to decipher. It reads: 'Hani Luxury Estates Format' and 'Play along'.

'What the-' I start to say, but Vuyo is already standing to greet the sweaty Japanese salaryman with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist who has been directed to our table by the waitress.

'Ah, Mr Tagawa,' Vuyo says, turning the charm all the way up to eleven, 'I hope you're not too jet-lagged. This is my investment partner, Lebo Hani, daughter of the great communist leader. But don't worry, she's hundred per cent capitalist. Don't mind the animal.'

'You really are something.' Gio's voice on the other end of the line is a combo of admiring and pissed off.

'Hello yourself.'

'So, I just had this call.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Dr Veronique Auerbach. About Mach's journalist? Confirming that she's lined up some interviews for you. If you're actually doing a story, that is. She seemed sceptical. Suspicious even.'

'Yeah, I'm in the middle of typing up my pitch. Sex, drugs, jet-set travel.'

'I wouldn't have minded. Much. I mean, why would I expect anything less of you?' Gio says. The malice in his voice is justified. After all, I am the girl who stole his ATM card and eight grand out of his bank account, and blamed it on the cleaner.

'Only she didn't speak to me, she spoke to Montle, my editor. And I had to do a shitload of explaining. So, congratulations.'

'I got the job?'

'Almost at the cost of mine. Helluva way to pitch an assignment, Zee. I need 1600 words in my inbox by April 23rd. Get some dirt, please. Something sexy.'

'I'm all about the sexy dirt.'

'And the reverse, if memory serves. So, what happens with the Sloth when you have sex?'

'You want a matching bite somewhere else?'

'Kinky,' he says, but I can tell he's still simmering. 'Maybe you can show me sometime. Laters, sweets. I gotta go.'

'Yeah, me too,' I say, turning the Capri in a lazy arc under the highway and into Anderson Street and the parking lot of Mai Mai.

The healer's market is less popular than Faraday, which is conveniently close to a major taxi rank. It looks like a cheap tourist attraction from the outside, with its mudcoloured walls and the spread of herbs drying in the sunshine on the pavement outside the main entrance. Under a thatched deck, a man crouches on his haunches in front of a little urn on top of an open fire, wafting pungent smoke across the parking lot. A German tourist emerges from the toilets, forgetting to zip up his fly, and stops to talk to the guy carving up pieces of old tyre to make sandals.

The sky has taken on that bright translucent quality that pre-empts a thunderstorm. The air pressure has changed. There are clouds rolling in on the horizon, cumulonimbuses that weigh down on the city. My mom used