A police officer finds an abandoned infant alive in the veldt just outside of Soweto, South Africa. He takes the child to an orphanage where the nun discovers the infant is a white boy, indicating he may have been abandoned as part of a muti killing ritual. Muti killings involve harvesting body parts from white children for witchdoctor potions. The officer and nun are relieved the boy was found alive and hope to locate his parents to return the child safely.

1. -Preface-
People who saw it thought it was a shooting star. It
streaked across the dark night sky in a brilliant white arc
and disappeared from view beyond the horizon. It slowed
down over the dark outskirts of the brightly lit city and
emitted a blinding flash before shooting off into the
distance. The few who noticed were either too drunk to
care, or too far away to matter.
One man was neither…
He stopped his yellow van in the veldt near a kopje
bordering on the township of Soweto. An acronym for
South Western Townships, Soweto is the largest black
township in the country, and crime and domestic violence
here typically reaches its peak over the festive season.
He wore the blue safari suit of the South African Police
Services, and patrolled the no-mans-land that bordered the
infamous township, keeping his eyes peeled for any signs
of wrongdoing, mischief, or vandalism. There was also a
darker reason why the Police kept up a regular presence in
this area: dead bodies.
It was common to find the victim of a late night
mugging, or a drunken brawl, sprawled lifeless in the long,
brown grass; and although he had seen his fair share, still
he had hoped that tonight of all nights it would be
different.
He stepped out of the van and looked around. Certain
that this was the area he had seen the strange light, he took
out his flash-light and played the beam over the veldt. Not

2. certain what he was looking for, he cast about aimlessly for
a few moments before a flash of colour caught his eye, and
he aimed the beam in its direction. There was a bundle
hidden in the grass, and he recognized it for what it was
immediately; an abandoned baby.
This kind of thing was on the rise as more and more
young mothers made the callous decision to abandon their
new-born child in the wild when they had too many
mouths to feed, or had a husband working on the mines
who would ask awkward questions about the childs
paternity.
Forgetting what had first brought him here, he stepped
up for a closer look. The infants’ wrappings puzzled him.
Most young mothers could not spare an extra blanket for a
baby they meant to abandon, and anyways, the whole point
of leaving a child in the veldt was that it would die of
exposure, and were usually naked and lifeless when they
were found. He squatted in the grass and shone his torch
at the pathetic heap, and then felt his chest tighten as he
saw a small movement.
This one’s alive! he thought. Putting his torch back in
his pocket, he picked up the tiny bundle and carried it to
the van. He couldn’t see its face as it was entirely covered
by the swaddling, but he knew what was in there, and he
knew it still breathed. Soft whimpers emanated from
within, and he placed it gently on the passenger seat beside
him.
‘Tango three-five-seven – reporting,’ he spoke quickly
into his radio.
‘Go ahead Tango three-five-seven,’ a voice distorted by
static interference replied.
‘I have an abandoned infant in sector three. It’s still
alive – over.’

3. ‘Okay Tango three-five-seven, standby – over.’ He
waited expectantly for a few moments before the radio
crackled back to life.
‘Tango three-five-seven – over.’
‘Standing by,’ he replied.
‘Take the infant to St Marys on Bezuidenhout. Do you
copy? – over.’
‘Loud and clear – Tango three-five-seven over.’
He started the engine, then slowly bumped and rattled
over the uneven ground before finally emerging on the
public road. It wasn’t far to St Marys and within fifteen
minutes he had parked the van and made his way up the
stairs to the door, the infant cradled in his arms.
St Marys was the orphanage the police and social
services made use of whenever they had a runaway to deal
with, or a child left orphaned by the senseless violence so
prevalent in the townships. He knocked on the door and
waited. A kindly looking nun opened up, and gave him a
polite smile.
‘May I help?’ she asked.
‘I’m so sorry to intrude, sister, but I have a little bundle
of joy for you,’ he smiled. A look of gentle concern
crossed her face as she reached out for the child.
‘I trust you have all the relevant documentation
available, sister?’ he asked as she took the child from his
arms. The orphanage would take full responsibility for the
child until they could track down the parents, or make
other adoptive arrangements. It was all standard
procedure, and they handled it in an efficient, casual kind
of way.
‘Of course, Corporal. I will have it all filled out in the
morning. You can come by and pick it up then,’ she
replied, turning away from him and placing the bundle on

4. a nearby table. She started making soft, motherly, cooing
sounds as she unwrapped the blankets that swaddled the
infant.
‘Okay, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. Merry
Christmas, sister,’ he said, feeling a bit awkward. He turned
to go. A soft gasp arrested him, and he turned back to the
nun who had her back to him, intent on the small shape in
front of her. She was no longer cooing.
‘Is everything alright?’ he asked.
‘Why don’t you come see for yourself, Corporal,’ she
replied quietly. He walked up beside her and looked down.
‘Oh… this is bad,’ he whispered.
A beautiful little boy with bright blue eyes and wisps of
white-blonde hair looked up at them.
‘Where did you say you found this child?’ she asked,
real concern in her voice.
‘Soweto. In the veldt just outside Soweto,’ he replied
tightly, his heart in his throat. They looked at each as
realization dawned.
‘Muti,’ they said in unison.
His heart hammering in his chest, he remembered the
last victim of a muti killing he had seen. Limbs severed,
heart and kidneys removed. The abductors had harvested
almost every part of the young body; it was one of the
grisliest things he had ever seen.
The witchdoctors of Southern Africa were, and are to
this day, seen as men and women of vast power by the
majority of black South Africans, and it wasn’t unusual for
an employer to receive a sick note issued by a
Sangoma excusing a worker from duty due to worms in the
feet, or other such nonsense.
One of the darker sides of this tradition was the
unfortunate belief held by a small minority that the body

5. parts of young, white children had healing powers, and the
trafficking of human remains was a reality that the police
and social workers fought on a daily basis.
‘Oh my word, oh my word - thank the Lord,’ she said
in a whisper, ‘it looks like you found this one just in time,
Corporal… and what a beautiful little boy!’
He shuddered to think what would have happened to
the child had he not come along.
‘I must have scared them away, sister,’ he said. ‘Damn
it, this makes me sick!’ He was trembling, and he took a
deep breath to calm himself. He didn’t normally become
this rattled.
‘Well, at least he’s in one piece,’ he said. ‘I suppose the
usual adoption procedures won’t apply here. I’m sure
there’s a mother in Sandton somewhere that’s frantic to
find her little boy. I reckon it won’t be more than a day or
two before we find the child’s parents and take him off
your hands, sister.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she replied. ‘I’ll keep him
warm and safe until you do, Corporal.’ She smiled down at
the little form that had screwed up its face and was waving
its arms around madly as if in a titanic struggle with some
invisible foe.
‘Thank you so much for saving this one,’ she finished,
and he could see the moisture in her eyes as she looked up
at him. He smiled back at her, feeling that, despite the
many hardships his job entailed, it was moments like this
that made it all worthwhile.
‘Thank you for caring, sister,’ he replied with feeling.
The nun picked the baby up and held it to her breast,
rocking back and forth, making hushing sounds, so he let
himself out quietly.

6. Back outside, he climbed into his van and sat quietly
for a moment. They would find the child’s parents and it
would become just another case in the thousands that they
dealt with, but for tonight, just for tonight, it would be the
young police officer’s proudest moment, and he smiled to
himself as he drove away into the night, the light in the sky
completely forgotten.

7. Chapter 1
-The Runaway-
Johnny slumped down next to the river and threw his bag
to the ground. Bone-tired and weary, he closed his eyes
and put his hands to his face, his blonde hair falling over
his fingers. He sat like that for a few moments before his
shoulders started to shake - slowly, imperceptively, like the
trickle that signals the first cracks before a dam bursts; and
soon gut-wrenching sobs wracked his young frame.
He fought the tears like a wild animal ripping at the bars
to its cage, clenching his teeth in shame and frustration.
But still they came, and in the end, he surrendered to the
pain, and let the tears stream down his face.
He could imagine his father’s voice in his head as he
wept, ‘Stop crying you damn baby! I swear, I’ve had
enough of you and your bloody crap! I’m counting to
three! One … two … three!’
Still the tears came.
Over the years, Johnny had taught himself to control the
pain and rage that stormed within when his father hit him,
or shouted and swore at him, and called him names. He
thought himself inured to the abuse, but where there
should have been the warmth of love and security, Johnny
just had a big, dark hole.
He raised his head, wiped his nose on his sleeve and
dried his eyes with the back of his hands. The sun would
be down soon, and at this time of the year it would be cold

8. at night. He worried about wild animals too. The old
hunters had driven elephant, lion, rhino and leopard out of
South Africa over a hundred or more years ago, but the
forest can be a big, lonely place for a thirteen-year-old boy
on his own at night.
His thoughts wandered to earlier that morning. He had
been so excited he had hardly slept that night. They were
going fishing again!
Every year, Johnny and his father would go away on a
two-week fishing trip to the Eastern Transvaal, known
officially as Mpumalanga, or ‘the place of the rising sun’,
home to some of the best trout fishing in the world. Some
still called it the Eastern Transvaal though, usually those
who had a hard time accepting the radical changes in the
country, and his father, Hendrik “Robbie” Roberts, was
definitely the latter.
Early that morning they had packed all their gear into his
father’s old Ford bakkie and hooked up the equally squalid
little Jurgens caravan his parents had spent their
honeymoon in twenty years ago. Caravanning was highly
popular amongst South Africans during the apartheid
years, and although in severe decline these days, one could
still find the odd caravan park hidden away, sometimes in
the most charming little places.
Robbie had looked Johnny in the eye and said, ‘Ja, my
boy, so it’s off on another adventure, just you and me.
Maybe this year you’ll finally catch the big one, hey?’
Robbie Roberts loved Johnny in his own peculiar way,
and there were the odd moments when Johnny felt a
sudden stab of feeling towards his father, but it never
lasted long. The moment he started drinking, he turned
nasty – real nasty – and then all the frustrations of a failed

9. career and the loss of his wife would find focus in Johnny,
and Robbie Roberts drank every evening without fail.
Johnny’s only defence was to make himself scarce at
night, something he had been doing for as long as he could
remember. He wandered the streets at night until long
after other kids his age were in bed, often falling asleep
behind the train shed, or inside the old flour mill, before
finally creeping back into the house and making himself a
cold sandwich and crawling into bed.
The drive had been pleasant enough, and Johnny looked
forward to two weeks of beautiful, sunlit days, spent
fishing and swimming. He stared happily out of the
window as they drove north, watching with delight as the
grey cityscape dropped out of sight behind them, and the
land opened up on both sides, the greens and browns of
Africa that Johnny loved so well.
‘So, your teacher tells me you bliksemed the Viljoen kid
last week?’ Caught unawares, Johnny had had to think
quickly.
‘He said we were trailer trash, and he called you a bad
name, Dad.’
‘Really? What did he call me?’
‘He said you were a poephol!’
His father found this highly amusing, and he chuckled to
himself behind the steering wheel for a moment before
looking at Johnny again.
‘So you beat him up?’ he asked. ‘How old is he?’
‘He’s seventeen, Dad, but he fights like a girl.’
‘No my boy, it’s you who fights like a man! I’m proud of
you,’ he said and put an arm around Johnny’s shoulder.

10. Johnny sat with his back against the tree and remembered
the conflicting emotions that gesture had caused in him.
Love and pain; bittersweet.
They had arrived at the campsite at about midday and
quickly gotten everything set up. Once the caravan was
unhitched it was a simple matter of erecting the canvas
tent that adjoined it and created a living room of sorts, and
unpacking the accessories. The small orange portable
television with its bunny-ear aerial, the folding camp chairs
and table, and Johnny’s camping cot. He would sleep in
the tented living area, while his father slept in the caravan.
It suited them both.
Once done, Johnny had run to the edge of the lake in
pleasure and taken a deep breath of the beautifully clean air
of the countryside, so different to the stale air one usually
breathed back in Jo’Burg. He spent half an hour splashing
happily on the water’s edge, startling the trout beneath the
surface, before returning to the campsite.
His pleasure had turned to dismay when he got back to
the caravan and saw the bottle of brandy on the table
outside. Robbie sat on a folding canvas camping chair with
a glass in his hand, looking pleased and content.
‘Hey my boy, there you are! This is the life, hey!’ His
father always became overbearingly jovial after his first
drink, and Johnny knew from experience that by the
second drink, the jovial spirit would be replaced by a sullen
intensity that could avalanche into rage and violence at any
moment. He secretly hoped that perhaps their
surroundings would douse his father’s aggression,
particularly as they were away from the grey world they
normally inhabited. Perhaps the cycle would be broken.

11. ‘Hey Dad, let’s try catch some fish!’ said Johnny eagerly,
hoping to curb his father’s early drinking.
‘Nah my boy. Tonight we’ll light a fire and braai us some
meat. There’ll be plenty of time for fishing tomorrow,’ he
replied. ‘I’m bloody tired after that long drive, but the
doctor is in the house, and he’s already prescribed me my
medicine!’ Robbie laughed and drained his glass. Reaching
for the bottle, he poured himself another liberal dose, and
after topping it up with cola and ice, he sat back with a
satisfied sigh and looked around.
‘Ja, Johnny, this is the life. This is what I work so flipping
hard all year for, so we can come here and be happy for
two weeks,’ he said.
‘You see, my boy,’ he continued with a slightly martyred
air, ‘when you have to look after your own kids one day,
when you have to work your fingers to the bone for a
minimum wage for some damned darkie in a flashy car,
then you’ll see just how important these few days away
really are.’
Johnny let out a silent sigh. Everything was going right
on schedule… soon his father’s self-pity would turn to
self-loathing, and then the cycle would begin again.
‘So while you play with your friends, I’m working myself
to a standstill,’ his father continued, ‘and to think I do it all
for you.’
Robbie became pensive, pondering, as he drained his
glass – again. When he peered up at Johnny, he could see
his father’s eyes were already becoming bloodshot. He
seemed upset about something… he’s probably thinking
about Ma, he thought.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Robbie, half-jokingly,
half irritably. ‘Here – pour me another drink,’ he said,
handing Johnny his glass. ‘And start the fire while you’re at

12. it. It’s about time you did something productive around
here. You’ve spent enough time splashing around in the
water, now it’s time to earn your keep.’
Johnny refilled his father’s glass as quickly as he could,
and then started getting the fire started. Robbie wasn’t
angry – not yet any-ways; he was still in high spirits as the
brandy warmed his blood as he sat in the sun, but he was
already becoming belligerent, and Johnny recognized the
warning signs.
‘Phaark! What’s this?’ Robbie spat. ‘I didn’t ask for a cup
of bloody tea! If you’re going to pour me a drink make
sure it bloody well tastes like one!’ Robbie leaned forward
and added another two fingers of brandy to his glass,
sloshing a fair amount onto his lap.
‘Aah crap it and all! Now look what you’ve made me do!’
he shouted standing up. Now he was angry.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean it, really.’ Johnny was wary
now, and he dodged backwards nimbly as his father aimed
a lazy open-handed swing at his head. Robbie hadn’t put
much heart into it, but he was already unsteady on his feet
and now he overbalanced as he missed, and crashed into
the table, sending the glass and the bottle crashing to the
ground.
‘You little twerp!’ he shouted, still sprawled on the table.
‘Get back here you bliksem!’ but Johnny was already
running away towards the lake as fast as his legs could
carry him.
Johnny looked around him and knew he should start
moving again soon. He didn’t think his father would be
capable of following him, not tonight, not in the state he
was in… but having made the decision to leave, he had no
intention of being caught and going back. He stood up,

13. brushed the leaves off his pants, picked up his bag and
started walking.
Earlier, Johnny had decided to sneak back to the caravan
after a few hours, as he hoped his father would have been
asleep by then – although it was still only mid-afternoon.
Johnny wasn’t sure what to expect, as his father didn’t
usually drink so early in the day. Typically, his dad would
only start drinking after he got home from work, and
would have passed out in the lounge by ten o’clock or so,
or occasionally staggered off to bed after about six or eight
brandies. This time it was different; he didn’t have to get
up for work in the morning, and the sun was still high in
the sky.
‘So … you’re back?’
Johnny jumped with fright. His father was still in the
chair where he had left him earlier, and still drinking.
‘The fire … went … it went out. Hell, I don’t know …’
Robbie slurred and looked down at the half empty glass
clasped in his hand. Johnny had never seen his father this
drunk before, and it frightened him.
Robbie looked up suddenly and stared at Johnny with
clear, white eyes. They weren’t bloodshot anymore, and
Johnny saw madness in them. That frightened him even
more.
‘You know Johnny, it makes no difference if you leave
and don’t come back. Blood is thicker than water, and all
that crap.’ Johnny didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘I told Magda that adopting you was a mistake,’ he went
on. ‘I told her, but she wouldn’t listen … such a good
woman.’ Johnny listened in silence, not sure what his
father was saying.

14. ‘And those damned nuns, all holier than thou, telling us
what a clever little boy you were. I knew we should never
have done it.’
‘What are you talking about Dad?’ Johnny asked, his
heart in his throat.
‘Don’t call me that! I am not your father! I don’t know who
your father is, but it isn’t me!’ he shouted.
Johnny took an involuntary step backwards, his hand to
his mouth. Never in all the years of beatings and abuse had
his father hurt him so severely. He felt a wrenching pain in
his gut that felt like a knife had been stuck into him. All his
life had been spent trying to impress his father, trying to
find some way of earning his love and respect.
‘But …, but … I’m your son, Dad. Aren’t I? Please say
that I am.’
He could feel the tears burning the back of his eyes and
he tried desperately to force them down because he knew
how much his father hated it when he cried, and he wanted
his father to be proud of him. He wanted his father to love
him. He wanted his father to - to … he just wanted his
father.
‘Dad …?’
‘I AM NOT YOUR FATHER!’ Robbie roared. ‘You are
a bastard! You hear me? A stinking little bastard! Perhaps the
devil spawned you, but you are no son of mine! Hell, you
don’t even look like me!’
That caught Johnny completely off guard. He knew he
didn’t look anything like his father, who was dark-haired,
dark-eyed, short and stocky; whereas he was blonde, blue-
eyed, tall and athletic for his age. In fact, even at thirteen,
he was already half a head taller than his father was.
The photographs of his mother in the lounge at home
showed a merry little woman with clear, blue eyes and a

15. shock of red hair. But… Johnny knew many people who
didn’t look like their parents, didn’t he?
‘Finally figured it out have you? Took you long enough,
you stupid little turd!’ Robbie sneered, reading Johnny like
a book.
‘I’ve decided the orphanage can have you back. I’m
finished with you. When we get back home, I’m sending
you back! I’m sure I’ve still got the receipt somewhere.’
Robbie started chuckling so hard that he nearly spilled his
drink for the second time that day.
Time seemed to slow down. Finally convinced of the
truth, Johnny felt a blinding rage surge within him. The
pain and desolation he had endured for so many years
became anger and hatred as a lifetime of abuse and
degradation overwhelmed him. He took three steps
forward until he was standing directly over his father.
‘So I’m not your son?’ he hissed through clenched teeth,
his face inches from his fathers. ‘You’re sending me back
where you found me?
‘Okay Robbie, but first we have a few accounts to settle.
Only a father has the right to hit his kid. If I am not your
son, as you claim, then I’m calling you out. Stand up!’
For the first time in his life, Robbie Roberts was
completely at a loss for words. Johnny had never stood up
to him before. It occurred to him that perhaps it wasn’t
cowardice or fear, but rather respect, that had held him
back.
‘Stand up!’ Johnny shouted.
‘Now you listen here, boy, if I stand up there’s going to
be hell to pay ...’
Johnny grabbed his father by the front of his shirt and
pulled him upright out of his chair. Placing his right foot
behind Robbie’s, he pushed, sending his father sprawling

16. to the ground in a tangle. With a shout of rage, Robbie
jumped to his feet and lunged at Johnny, and met a solid
wall of fists. Stars exploded inside his head and the last
thought he had before losing consciousness was how
much it hurt.
Johnny peered down at his father’s unconscious body
that lay slumped on the ground. In the distance, from one
of the nearby campsites, he heard faint shouts of concern;
they must have noticed the commotion. He knew it would
only be a matter of minutes before they came along to
investigate. The cold reality of what he had just done
finally penetrated, and he panicked. Without thinking,
Johnny ran into his tent, grabbed his rucksack from his
bunk, and fled. It was done – there was no going back
now.
As Jonny now wandered through the darkening woods, he
replayed the scene repeatedly in his mind. Consumed with
guilt, and another emotion that he couldn’t quite fathom,
he realized that he had reacted very violently to his so-
called father, when in truth, Robbie hadn’t even laid a hand
on him – for once. Robbie had hit Johnny countless times
in his violent outbursts, and on a few occasions, had even
beaten Johnny senseless; but never before had Johnny
contemplated retaliating so violently. Instead, he was more
concerned about impressing his father, finding ways in
which he could gain his respect. This time it was different;
their roles reversed; he had beaten Robbie senseless and to
his surprise, it had felt good. It felt really good. It dawned
upon him then that this emotion so foreign to him was
pride. He was proud of himself.
He continued walking, deeper and deeper into the
forest… away from the only life he had ever known.