In the early hours of the morning, the kidnappers give Mr Seema a threatening call.

“We are going to deliver something to you that will remind you that you have a daughter who is held captive by people who can do what they want with her life,” John says.

The moment Mr Seema hears those cruel words he forgets that he is a whole man. He weeps. He begs the kidnappers to just give him the next day to get all the money requested.

“I have tried and I have so far raised R270 000 in cash,” he says. “Please, is that enough?”

“No! We need all of it,” John shouts out. “You must deliver two million to us this afternoon. At Tshikwarani bridge, right?”

“Yes. But–”

“No ‘buts’!”

“I am listening to you. I swear.”

“We will meet under the bridge. Two o’clock sharp!”

Mr Seema hesitates, and then answers: “Yes.”

“Failure to do as we agreed, and your daughter will suffer more.”

When he puts the phone down Mr Seema starts to sob. His wife puts her arms around him. “What did they say?” But he can’t tell her their threats. He can’t even think about it himself.

“They want the money by 2 p.m.” That’s all he tells her.

“But the police say they are closing in on them. Remember what Sergeant Maluleke told us last night. The kidnappers’ identikits will also be published this morning. They have got nowhere to go. We have to wait for the police. They said not to do anything without them.”

But Lebo’s father thinks it might be too late. “We need to save our daughter’s life,” he tells his wife.

“We must make a plan to raise the money.” Lebo’s mother’s eyes are bloodshot from days and nights of crying.

“It’s hard, Nancy,” says Mr Seema. “What kind of plan will we make?”

There is silence. “I am not sure,” she says. “Even if we can approach the mashonisa (loan sharks), they cannot give us such a huge amount of money. And even if they did, how are we going to repay it? And the police say they are close to locating Lebo…”

“They have been saying that for two nights and a day and still they haven’t found her. What if they don’t find her in time?”

“They are doing their best. Let’s take them at their word.”

“Are they?” Mr Seema feels helpless. He would be out there tracking the kidnappers himself if he could. But the police have warned him not to try to take justice into his own hands and rather to rely on them.

“It’s true we are hurting and frustrated,” his wife says, taking his hand. “But let’s not put blame on anybody but those who abducted our child. They are the kind of people who do not fear God. Why did Lebo take that lift? Didn’t we teach her not to take rides from strangers? Why?”

“Why, why, why, is not going to bring her back, Nancy.”

“She just got into the strangers’ car! Duvha la khombo ndi la khombo (You’ll never know when an accident is going to happen),” she reasons. “All I can do is pray we finally get our daughter back and alive. Oh God, help us please!”

“When I see those kidnappers,” says Mr Seema, slamming his fist into his palm, “I will squash their faces with my two fists. Do they not have children? Do they know the pain of a parent whose only child has been abducted?”

And then the phone rings in the sitting room. Nancy rushes over to take it. When she comes back she has good news.

“That was Sergeant Maluleke. He says they got fingerprints off a bed in a room where they held Lebo. They match some on their database. They have three suspects now. Now the suspects’ photographs will be released tomorrow instead of identikits. There will be posters … yes, everywhere. It will be on the news. People will see their faces.”

“But tomorrow might be too late.”

Mr Seema can still hear the man’s voice clearly in his head: “We are going to deliver something to you that will remind you that you have a daughter…”

What can he do? The kidnappers said to meet them without the police; if the police are there they will kill his daughter. But if he tells the police they will insist on being there. He has become a man in limbo – helpless to do anything.

“Tshilidzi and Lufuno have identified the driver and Pinky from the identikits at the police station,” Mrs Seema continues.

Lufuno had pointed at the identikit of the woman. “Yes, that was the woman with the ice cold Sprite and that was the driver who drove off with our friend.”

“You didn’t see how Lufuno and Tshilidzi looked when they came here on the day Lebo was taken,” says Mr Seema shaking his head. His wife had still been at work then. “The expression on their faces still haunts me to this day. They love their friend – our own daughter. Do you know what Tshilidzi said? She said, ‘A loss of a child is a tragedy for a whole community’.”

“Why don’t you go to work,” Mrs Seema asks her husband. “What can you do here but drive yourself crazy with worry? The police have our cellphone numbers. They said they would call as soon as–”

“I can’t go. What if…”

Mrs and Mr Seema have not been back to work since their daughter’s kidnapping. They have sat on the couch waiting for the phone call that doesn’t come – the one to say that Lebo is safe. They spend the hours sitting at home, speaking over the phone with investigating officers from the local Family Violence, Child Protection and Sexual Offences Unit. Relatives and friends pay them frequent visits to bring food or bring words of comfort.

At 8.32 a.m. the phone rings – but it is only a concerned neighbour who wishes to know if the police have provided any update on the case.

An hour passes and then there is a knock at the door. Mr Seema jumps up. When he opens the door there is a small parcel on the doorstep. He rushes onto the street to try and see the person who might have brought it. There is neither a car nor a human in view.

He walks away from the house with the parcel. He wants to spare his wife this.

He opens the box and sees the blood-streaked hair.

“Oh my child! What did they do to you, my child?” he whispers.

***

Tell us what you think: Should Lebo’s dad should go to the police with the new information?