The Discovery
The Mooi River Murder in Potch. The morning mist clung to the Mooi River like a guilty secret, refusing to lift even as the October sun climbed above Potchefstroom. Detective Sergeant Thabo Mthembu pulled his jacket tighter as he approached the crime scene, his breath visible in the crisp North West Province air. The call had come in at 5:47 AM—a jogger had found something that shouldn’t be floating in the river near the old railway bridge.
“Sawubona, Thabo,” called out Constable Annelie van der Merwe, her Afrikaans accent thick with early morning fatigue. She’d been first on the scene, her patrol car’s blue lights still casting eerie shadows across the water. “Dis nie mooi nie—this is not pretty.”
Thabo nodded grimly as he surveyed the scene. A young woman’s body bobbed gently against the concrete pylons of the bridge, her long black hair spreading like dark seaweed around her pale face. She wore a traditional Sotho dress, the bright patterns now dulled by river water and death.
“Who found her?” Thabo asked, pulling out his notebook.
“Oom Piet Steenkamp,” Annelie replied, gesturing toward an elderly white man sitting on the riverbank, wrapped in a blanket and trembling—though whether from cold or shock, it was hard to tell. “He runs here every morning at dawn. Says he’s been doing the same route for fifteen years, never seen anything like this.”
Dr. Nomsa Radebe, the district pathologist, arrived in her white Toyota Corolla just as the forensics team was setting up their equipment. She was a small woman with keen eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, her medical bag slung over her shoulder like a soldier’s weapon.
“Morning, Thabo,” she said, already pulling on latex gloves. “What do we have?”
“Female appears to be in the early twenties, traditional dress. Been in the water for some time by the look of it.”
Nomsa waded into the shallow water with practised efficiency, her movements careful and deliberate. After several minutes of examination, she called back to shore. “Definite signs of trauma to the head. This wasn’t an accident or suicide. We’re looking at murder.”
As the body was carefully extracted from the river, Thabo studied the surrounding area. The old railway bridge connected the university side of town with the industrial area—a route many students used as a shortcut. The banks were muddy from recent rains, but he could make out several sets of footprints leading down to the water’s edge.
“Annelie, get the scene cordoned off wider. I want everything from the bridge approach to fifty meters downstream protected. And find out who this young woman is.”
The identification came sooner than expected. As the body was loaded into the morgue van, a shout came from the crowd of onlookers that had gathered despite the early hour.
“Palesa! No, that’s Palesa Mokwena!”
A middle-aged Sotho woman pushed through the police tape, tears streaming down her face. “That’s my daughter! That’s my baby!”
Thabo gently restrained the woman—later identified as Mrs Beauty Mokwena—while Annelie took her details. Palesa Mokwena, 22 years old, is a third-year education student at North-West University. She’d been missing for three days.
The Investigation Begins
The Potchefstroom Police Station buzzed with activity as news of the murder spread. Captain Johannes “Hannes” Kruger, the station commander, called Thabo into his office before the morning briefing.
“This one’s going to draw attention,” Kruger said, his weathered face serious. “University student, traditional dress, found in the river. The newspapers will be all over it, and the university will want answers fast.”
Thabo had worked under Kruger for five years and respected the older man’s experience. Kruger had been a detective during the transition years and understood both the complexities of modern South African policing and the delicate community relations that cases like this could strain.
“I want you leading this investigation,” Kruger continued. “Take van der Merwe with you—she’s got good instincts and knows the Afrikaans community well. And Thabo,” he paused, “be thorough but be sensitive. This girl’s family is going through hell.”
The first stop was the university campus, where Thabo and Annelie met with Professor Susan Matthews, the dean of the Faculty of Education. Her office overlooked the main quad, where students moved between classes in the autumn sunshine, oblivious to the tragedy that had befallen one of their own.
“Palesa was one of our brightest students,” Professor Matthews said, her English accent softened by twenty years in South Africa. “She was passionate about primary education, especially teaching in rural areas. She wanted to make a difference.”
“When did you last see her?” Thabo asked.
“Friday afternoon, leaving the education building. She seemed normal—happy, even. She’d just received excellent marks on her teaching practice evaluation.”
They spoke with Palesa’s friends, a diverse group that reflected the modern university’s demographics. Kagiso Molefe, her closest friend and roommate, was devastated.
“She went to visit her boyfriend on Friday night,” Kagiso said through tears. “She never came back to the residence. I thought maybe she’d decided to spend the weekend with him, but when she didn’t show up for classes on Monday, I got worried.”
“Who’s the boyfriend?” Annelie asked gently.
“Jan-Hendrik van Wyk. He’s doing mechanical engineering. They’ve been together for about eight months.”
The name sent a small chill through the room. Interracial relationships, while common on the university campus, still raised eyebrows in some parts of the conservative town. Thabo made a note to speak with young van Wyk as soon as possible.
They found Jan-Hendrik in the engineering workshop, working on what appeared to be a diesel engine. He was a tall, lean young man with sandy hair and oil-stained hands. When they introduced themselves, his face went pale.
“Is this about Palesa? Is she…?” His voice trailed off when he saw their expressions.
“I’m sorry,” Thabo said gently. “Her body was found this morning in the Mooi River.”
Jan-Hendrik sank onto a workshop stool, his hands shaking. “I knew something was wrong. She was supposed to come to my flat on Friday night, but she never showed up. I tried calling, but her phone went straight to voicemail.”
“What time were you expecting her?” Annelie asked.
“Around eight o’clock. We were going to watch a movie and order pizza. When she didn’t come by nine, I started getting worried. I even walked to her residence, but the security guard said she’d left around seven-thirty.”
Thabo studied the young man’s face. Grief seemed genuine, but he’d learned not to trust first impressions. “Did you and Palesa have any problems? Arguments?”
Jan-Hendrik’s eyes flashed with something—anger, maybe defensiveness. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. White boy, black girl, must be trouble, right? But we loved each other. We were planning to move in together next year after graduation.”
“That’s not what I’m thinking,” Thabo said calmly. “I’m thinking someone killed a young woman, and I need to find out who.”
They took Jan-Hendrik’s statement and contact details, then returned to the station to begin the painstaking work of building a timeline. The last confirmed sighting of Palesa was at 7:35 PM on Friday, leaving her residence hall. Her phone records showed the last activity at 8:15 PM—a call that went unanswered from Jan-Hendrik.
Dark Undercurrents
The autopsy results arrived the next morning, delivered personally by Dr. Radebe. She sat across from Thabo’s desk, her expression grim.
“Cause of death was drowning, but she was unconscious when she went into the water. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head—a single blow from something heavy and smooth. Probably a rock or metal pipe.”
“Sexual assault?” Thabo asked though he dreaded the answer.
“No evidence of that. But there’s something else.” Nomsa pulled out a photograph. “She had defensive wounds on her hands and arms. She fought back. And Thabo, she was moved after death. The position we found her in, the lack of certain injuries you’d expect from going over the bridge—she was placed in the water somewhere else and drifted downstream.”
This changed everything. They weren’t looking at a crime of passion at the bridge—this was premeditated murder followed by an attempt to hide the body.
Annelie knocked on the office door. “Thabo, we’ve got something. The victim’s phone records show she received a call at 7:45 PM on Friday, just after leaving the residence. The call came from a payphone at the Shell garage on Potchefstroom Road.”
“Duration?”
“Three minutes, seventeen seconds. Long enough for someone to convince her to change her plans.”
They drove to the Shell garage, a busy truck stop that served traffic heading to Johannesburg. The manager, a burly man named Fanie Oosthuizen, was cooperative but not particularly helpful.
“Ja, there’s a payphone there,” he said, pointing to a battered device near the restroom entrance. “But Friday night? Man, we were packed. End of the month, lots of traffic. I wouldn’t have noticed who used it.”
“Security cameras?” Annelie asked hopefully.
Fanie shook his head. “The one pointing at the payphone broke two weeks ago. Been waiting for the repair company.”
As they left the garage, Thabo’s phone rang. It was Kagiso, Palesa’s roommate, and she sounded frightened.
“Detective Mthembu, I found something in Palesa’s things. I think you need to see it.”
They met Kagiso at the residence hall, a modern building that housed students from all backgrounds. She led them to the room she’d shared with Palesa, a neat space decorated with family photos and academic certificates.
“I was packing up her things for her mother,” Kagiso explained, “and I found this hidden in her textbook.”
She handed Thabo a folded piece of paper—a printout of an email. The sender’s address was anonymous, but the message was chilling:
“Stay away from what doesn’t concern you. Some stones are better left unturned. This is your only warning.”
The email was dated two weeks before Palesa’s murder.
“Did she mention this to you?” Thabo asked.
Kagiso shook her head. “Never. But now that I think about it, she had been acting strange the past few weeks. More careful about where she went, always looking over her shoulder. I asked her about it, but she said I was imagining things.”
“What was she working on? Any projects, research, anything that might have upset someone?”
“Just her teaching practice and her final year research project. She was doing it on education inequality in rural schools. Pretty standard stuff for education students.”
But as Thabo would soon discover, Palesa’s research had led her into dangerous territory.
Following the Trail
Back at the station, Annelie had been busy tracking down Palesa’s academic supervisor. Professor David Nkomo taught education policy and had overseen dozens of student research projects over the years.
“Palesa was exceptional,” he told them in his cluttered office at the university. “Her research was more thorough than most graduate students manage. She was investigating funding disparities between schools in different areas.”
“Anything controversial about that?” Thabo asked.
Professor Nkomo hesitated. “Not the topic itself, but her approach. Most students stick to official statistics and published reports. Palesa was visiting schools, interviewing teachers and principals, and digging into budget allocations. She was finding discrepancies.”
“What kind of discrepancies?”
“Schools that should have received certain funding but never saw the money. Equipment that was ordered but never delivered. Her preliminary findings suggested systematic corruption in the regional education department.”
This was a motive Thabo hadn’t considered. Corruption investigations could be deadly serious business in South Africa, especially when they threaten established networks of graft.
“Did she share her findings with anyone?”
“She was supposed to present her preliminary report to me next week. But she did mention that she’d been in contact with someone at the provincial education department. Someone who was helping her access budget documents.”
They left the university with a new lead and a growing sense that Palesa’s murder was connected to her research. The threatening email now made perfect sense—someone wanted her to stop digging.
The provincial education department occupied a sprawling government complex on the outskirts of town. After several hours of bureaucratic runaround, they were finally directed to Mrs. Gladys Mahlangu, a senior budget analyst who had been working with student researchers.
Mrs. Mahlangu was a woman in her fifties with careful eyes and the cautious manner of someone who’d survived decades in government service. When they mentioned Palesa’s name, her composure slipped for just a moment.
“Terrible business,” she said quietly. “Such a bright girl. She was asking very good questions about budget allocations.”
“What kind of questions?” Thabo pressed.
Mrs. Mahlangu glanced around her office and then closed the door. “She’d identified several schools that were supposed to receive infrastructure grants totalling nearly two million rand. But when she visited the schools, the improvements had never been made.”
“Where did the money go?”
“That’s what she was trying to find out. And that’s what made some people very nervous.”
“What people?”
Again, the careful glance around the room. “I can’t give you names. But certain contractors have been getting a lot of education department work lately. Always the lowest bidders, but somehow their projects never seem to get completed properly.”
She provided them with a list of recent contractors, and one name immediately stood out: Viljoen Construction, owned by Cornelius “Corrie” Viljoen, a local businessman with connections throughout the North West Province.
The Web Tightens
Corrie Viljoen’s office was in an upmarket business park on the edge of Potchefstroom, all glass and steel designed to project success and legitimacy. The man himself was in his early fifties, heavy-set with thinning hair and the kind of confident smile that came from years of winning government contracts.
“Terrible tragedy about that student,” he said when they explained their visit. “But I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“Your company has been awarded several education department contracts recently,” Thabo said, consulting his notes. “Some of them for schools that Miss Mokwena was researching.”
Viljoen’s smile faltered slightly. “We bid competitively for all our contracts. Everything above board.”
“Where were you on Friday night?” Annelie asked suddenly.
“At home with my wife. We had dinner and watched television. Why?”
But his eyes had shifted, and Thabo caught the tell-tale signs of deception. They took his contact details and left, but not before noting the expensive German sedan in the parking bay marked “C. Viljoen.”
“Run a background check on him,” Thabo told Annelie as they drove back to town. “Financial records, associates, anything we can find.”
The background check revealed interesting information. Viljoen Construction had won contracts worth over five million rands in the past two years, all from the provincial education department. The company’s finances showed steady growth, but some unusual cash deposits didn’t correspond to contract payments.
More intriguingly, Viljoen had been investigated three years earlier for fraud but the charges had been dropped when key witnesses withdrew their statements. The investigating officer had been Detective Inspector Willem Basson, now retired.
They found Basson at his smallholding outside town, tending to a vegetable garden in the afternoon sun. He was a lean man in his sixties with the weathered hands of someone who’d spent his retirement working the soil.
“Corrie Viljoen,” he said when they mentioned the name, spitting into the dirt. “Slippery as an eel, that one. We had him dead to rights on that fraud case, but suddenly witnesses started changing their stories, evidence went missing, and the prosecutor decided there wasn’t enough to proceed.”
“What kind of fraud?” Thabo asked.
“School building contracts. The same pattern you’re probably seeing now. Win the tender, do shoddy work or no work at all, and pocket the difference. But he was smart about it—always had paperwork showing the work was done, signed off by education department officials.”
“Officials who were being paid off?”
Basson nodded grimly. “That was our theory. But proving it was another matter. Viljoen has connections and political friends. The kind of people who can make problems disappear.”
As they drove back to the station, Thabo’s phone rang. It was Dr. Radebe with an update from the forensics lab.
“We found something interesting in the victim’s clothing,” she said. “Paint flakes embedded in the fabric of her dress. Industrial paint, the kind used for construction vehicles.”
The connection to Viljoen Construction was becoming clearer, but they still needed more evidence. That evening, Thabo sat in his small flat reviewing the case files. His phone buzzed with a text message from an unknown number:
“Stop digging or you’ll end up like the girl.”
Someone was watching their investigation very closely.
Dangerous Territory
The threatening text message convinced Captain Kruger to assign additional resources to the case. Detective Warrant Officer Samuel Modise, an experienced investigator with a reputation for handling corruption cases, joined the team.
“This is bigger than a simple murder,” Kruger told them at the morning briefing. “If Palesa stumbled onto a major corruption network, her death could be just the beginning. We need to move fast but carefully.”
Modise brought a different perspective to the investigation. He’d worked cases involving government corruption before and understood the political sensitivities involved.
“The problem with these networks,” he explained, “is that they have protection at multiple levels. Local officials, provincial politicians, and sometimes even judges. We need to build an airtight case before we move.”
They decided to approach the investigation from multiple angles. While Thabo and Annelie continued following the direct evidence, Modise would work with his contacts in the financial crimes unit to trace the money trail.
Their first break came from an unexpected source. Jan-Hendrik van Wyk called the station, his voice shaking with nervousness.
“I remembered something,” he said. “Palesa mentioned that she’d been taking photos of school buildings for her research. She said some of the pictures showed things that didn’t match the official reports.”
“What kind of things?”
“Buildings that were supposed to be renovated but looked the same as they had years earlier. She was excited about it, and said it was proof of what she suspected.”
“Where are these photos?”
That’s the thing—they were on her phone, but she also backed them up to her cloud storage account. I have the password because we used to share photos.”
Within an hour, they had access to hundreds of photos that Palesa had taken during her research visits to rural schools. The images told a damning story: schools that had supposedly received major renovations looked exactly as they had in historical photos, classrooms that should have been upgraded were still falling apart, and playgrounds that had been “built” according to official records simply didn’t exist.
But one photo was particularly interesting. It showed a construction vehicle parked outside a school—a yellow truck with “Viljoen Construction” painted on the side. According to the metadata, the photo was taken just one week before Palesa’s murder.
“She was building a case,” Annelie observed. “And someone found out.”
They decided it was time to bring Viljoen in for formal questioning. But when they arrived at his office, they found it empty. According to the receptionist, he’d left that morning for an “extended business trip” and hadn’t said when he’d return.
“His house,” Thabo said. “Let’s check his house.”
The Viljoen residence was in an exclusive suburb, a sprawling single-story home behind high walls and an electric gate. There was no answer at the intercom, but they could see his Mercedes-Benz parked in the driveway.
“Something’s not right,” Modise said. “A man running scared doesn’t leave his expensive car behind.”
They called for backup and a search warrant, but it took three hours to get the paperwork approved. When they finally entered the property, they found Corrie Viljoen in his study, slumped over his desk with a bullet wound to the head and a pistol in his hand.
On the desk was a handwritten note: “I’m sorry for what I did. The guilt has been eating me alive. Palesa Mokwena didn’t deserve to die.”
Too Convenient
The apparent suicide should have closed the case, but something bothered Thabo. The note was too convenient, too neat. In his experience, real suicides rarely provided such clear confessions.
Dr Radebe’s preliminary examination of the scene raised similar concerns. “The angle of the wound is consistent with suicide, but there are no powder burns on his hands. If he fired the gun, there should be residue.”
“How long has he been dead?” Modise asked.
“Based on body temperature and rigor mortis, I’d estimate twelve to eighteen hours. He died sometime last night.”
But Viljoen’s phone records showed he’d made several calls that morning, including one to his office. Either the time of death was wrong, or someone else had been using his phone.
They interviewed Mrs. Viljoen, a well-dressed woman in her forties who seemed more annoyed than grief-stricken by her husband’s death.
“Corrie had been under a lot of stress lately,” she said, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. “Business problems, some investigation by the education department. He’d been drinking more, sleeping badly.”
“Did he ever mention Palesa Mokwena?” Thabo asked.
She paused, the cigarette halfway to her lips. “That student who was murdered? Why would he know her?”
“We think she may have been investigating his business practices.”
Mrs Viljoen’s composure cracked slightly. “Look, I don’t know anything about Corrie’s business. We lived separate lives. He gave me money for the house and shopping, and I didn’t ask questions.”
“Where were you last night?”
“Book club. We meet every Tuesday evening at Marlene du Toit’s house. Ask anyone who was there.”
The alibi checked out, but Thabo still felt they were missing something crucial. The investigation into Viljoen’s finances revealed a complex web of transactions involving multiple bank accounts and shell companies. Money had been flowing in from education department contracts and flowing out to various individuals and businesses.
One name kept appearing in the financial records: Advocate Pieter Steyn, a prominent local lawyer who had been representing Viljoen in various legal matters. Steyn’s law firm had received over half a million rand in “legal fees” from Viljoen Construction in the past year alone.
“That’s a lot of money for legal work,” Annelie observed. “What kind of services was he providing?”
They arranged to meet with Steyn at his law offices in the town centre, an old building that reeked of history and money. The advocate was a distinguished man in his sixties with silver hair and the kind of commanding presence that impressed juries.
“Terrible business about Corrie,” he said, settling behind his mahogany desk. “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised, though. He’d been under enormous pressure lately.”
“What kind of pressure?” Thabo asked.
“Financial, legal, personal. His business model was… shall we say, ethically flexible. It was only a matter of time before it caught up with him.”
“Did he ever mention Palesa Mokwena to you?”
Steyn’s eyes sharpened slightly. “The murdered girl? Not directly, but he was concerned about some student who was asking questions about his contracts. He wanted to know what legal options he had to stop her research.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That harassment or intimidation would only make things worse. I advised him to cooperate with any legitimate investigation and make sure his paperwork was in order.”
“But he didn’t take your advice?”
“Corrie was not a man who listened to advice, even when he was paying for it.”
After they left the law office, Modise shared his concerns. “Steyn knows more than he’s saying. Those payments from Viljoen were too large and too regular to be just legal fees.”
“You think he was part of the corruption network?”
“I think he was the brains behind it. Viljoen was just the front man, the one who took the risks while Steyn provided the legal cover and political connections.”
That evening, as Thabo was reviewing the financial records again, he noticed something odd. The last payment from Viljoen Construction to Steyn’s law firm had been made three days after Palesa’s murder—a payment of 200,000 rand with the notation “final settlement.”
It looked very much like a payment for services rendered.
The Puppet Master
The breakthrough came from an unexpected source. Mrs. Gladys Mahlangu from the provincial education department called Thabo early.
“Detective, I need to see you urgently. But not at my office—they’re watching me there.”
They met at a small café on the outskirts of town, a place that served strong coffee and minded its own business. Mrs Mahlangu looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she hadn’t slept.
“I’ve been thinking about that girl’s death,” she said, stirring sugar into her coffee with nervous movements. “And I remembered something that might be important.”
She pulled out a manila folder. “Three weeks ago, Palesa came to see me with some very specific questions about budget allocations. But she wasn’t just asking generally—she had detailed information about contracts, payment schedules, things that aren’t public knowledge.”
“Where did she get this information?”
“That’s what worried me. She mentioned that someone had given her access to internal documents, someone who wanted the corruption exposed but was too scared to come forward themselves.”
“Did she say who?”
Mrs. Mahlangu shook her head. “No, but she did say it was someone with high-level access to the education department’s financial systems. Someone who had been watching the corruption for years but felt powerless to stop it.”
This suggested that Palesa had an inside source, someone within the government system who was feeding her information. If that person had been discovered, they might have killed Palesa to protect themselves—or been forced to give her up to save their own life.
“There’s something else,” Mrs. Mahlangu continued. “Yesterday, I was asked to compile a report on all recent inquiries about education contracts. They wanted to know everyone who had been asking questions about budget allocations in the past six months.”
“Who asked for this report?”
“It came from the provincial education minister’s office. But the request was processed through Advocate Steyn’s law firm.”
The connection to Steyn was becoming impossible to ignore. He wasn’t just Viljoen’s lawyer—he was actively involved in covering up the corruption network.
Back at the station, they found Captain Kruger waiting with a worried expression. “We have a problem,” he said, closing his office door behind them. “I just got a call from the provincial commissioner. There’s pressure to close the Mokwena case quickly and quietly.”
“What kind of pressure?” Thabo asked.
“The kind that comes from people with more rank and influence than me. The official line is that Viljoen’s suicide confession closes the matter. Case solved, everyone can move on.”
Modise leaned forward. “And if we don’t agree?”
“Then this investigation gets transferred to another unit, and you three get reassigned to traffic duty in some remote town.”
It was a familiar threat in South African policing—challenging powerful interests could be career suicide. But Thabo had seen too much injustice go unpunished to back down now.
“Give us forty-eight hours,” he said. “If we can’t build a solid case by then, we’ll follow orders.”
Kruger studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. “Forty-eight hours. But be careful—you’re playing with fire.”
Racing Against Time
With less than two days to build their case, the team worked around the clock. Annelie focused on tracking down Palesa’s mysterious inside source, while Modise continued following the money trail. Thabo coordinated the investigation and tried to find the missing link that would tie everything together.
The first lead came from Palesa’s phone records. Hidden among dozens of calls were several to the same cellphone number—a number that wasn’t in her contact list. When they traced it, they found it belonged to Mr. Sipho Mabena, a senior accountant in the provincial education department.
They found Mabena at his home, a modest house in Ikageng township. He was a thin man in his forties with the nervous manner of someone carrying a heavy burden. When they showed their badges, his shoulders sagged in resignation.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said quietly. “Ever since I heard about Palesa’s death.”
“You were her source,” Thabo said. It wasn’t a question.
Mabena nodded, tears forming in his eyes. “She was such a bright girl, so passionate about education. When she started asking questions about the missing funds, I couldn’t stay silent anymore.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Everything. How the system worked, who was involved, and how much money had been stolen. I gave her copies of budget documents, payment authorizations, and correspondence between officials and contractors.”
“That was dangerous.”
“I know. But I have children, Detective. I see them struggling in overcrowded classrooms with broken desks and leaking roofs, while millions of rand meant for education disappear into private bank accounts. Someone had to speak up.”
“Who else knew about your cooperation with Palesa?”
Mabena’s face went pale. “That’s the problem. Last week, I was called into a meeting with senior officials. They knew. They knew everything—about my conversations with Palesa, about the documents I’d provided, even about specific questions she’d been asking.”
“Who was at this meeting?”
“The deputy director of education, two other senior officials, and…” he paused, swallowing hard, “Advocate Steyn.”
“What did they say?”
“They said my cooperation with the investigation had been noted, and that I should be more careful about sharing confidential information. It was a warning, but also a threat.”
“Did you tell Palesa about this meeting?”
“Yes, I called her immediately. I told her to be careful, that they were onto us. That was the last time we spoke.”
This conversation had taken place on Thursday evening—less than twenty-four hours before Palesa’s murder.
While Thabo was interviewing Mabena, Annelie made a crucial discovery. Going through Steyn’s public records, she found that he served on the board of several companies that had received education department contracts. It was a clear conflict of interest—he was simultaneously representing contractors and advising the government officials who awarded the contracts.
More damning was the discovery that Steyn owned a property development company that had purchased several plots of land using money that could be traced back to education department contracts. He wasn’t just facilitating corruption—he was one of its primary beneficiaries.
But they still needed evidence linking him directly to Palesa’s murder. That evidence came from an unexpected source: the Shell garage where the crucial phone call had been made.
Fanie Oosthuizen, the garage manager, called Thabo with new information. “You know how I said our security camera was broken? Well, it turns out it wasn’t completely dead. My nephew is good with computers, and he managed to recover some footage from the hard drive.”
The footage was grainy and partial, but it showed a figure using the payphone at a crucial time. More importantly, it showed a distinctive silver BMW parked nearby—a car that matched the one registered to Advocate Steyn.
The Trap
With thirty-six hours left on their deadline, the team decided to set a trap. They would feed information to Steyn through controlled channels and see how he reacted.
Using Mabena as an intermediary, they let it be known that Palesa had hidden additional evidence before her death—documents that would expose the full extent of the corruption network. The bait was that this evidence would be handed over to the media within twenty-four hours unless the investigation was called off.
The response was swift. That evening, Thabo received a phone call from an unknown number.
“Detective Mthembu? This is Advocate Steyn. I believe we need to talk.”
They arranged to meet at Steyn’s law office after hours. The building was dark except for the light in Steyn’s office on the third floor. As Thabo and his team approached, they saw Steyn’s BMW parked in the attorney’s reserved space.
But something felt wrong. The building was too quiet, too empty.
“This could be a trap,” Modise whispered as they climbed the stairs.
“Could be,” Thabo agreed. “But it’s also our chance to end this.”
Steyn was waiting in his office, but he wasn’t alone. Two large men in expensive suits flanked his desk—private security, by the look of them.
“Detective,” Steyn said, his usual composure replaced by barely controlled anxiety. “I understand you’ve been asking questions about me.”
“Just following the evidence,” Thabo replied, noting that both security men had their hands near concealed weapons.
“Evidence can be misleading. Innocent transactions can look suspicious to the untrained eye. I’m prepared to make a substantial donation to the police benevolent fund in exchange for a more… nuanced interpretation of the facts.”
It was a bribery attempt, and Thabo had to admire the man’s audacity. “I’m not interested in donations, Advocate. I’m interested in justice for Palesa Mokwena.”
Steyn’s mask finally slipped, revealing the cold calculation beneath. “That girl was a problem that needed to be solved. She was naive enough to think she could expose a system that provides livelihoods for dozens of people.”
“So you had her killed.”
“I had a problem solved,” Steyn said coldly. “Viljoen was supposed to handle it quietly—a car accident, maybe a robbery gone wrong. But he panicked and made it messy. Then he got guilt-ridden and became another problem that needed solving.”
The confession was exactly what they needed, but Thabo realized they were in danger. The security men had moved closer, and he could see the outline of weapons under their jackets.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said calmly. “My colleagues know where I am. If something happens to me—”
“Your colleagues will find three tragic victims of a robbery gone wrong,” Steyn interrupted. “Crime is such a problem in South Africa these days.”
But Steyn had underestimated the preparation behind the trap. Hidden microphones had recorded every word of his confession, and backup units were already surrounding the building. As if on cue, powerful lights flooded the office windows, and amplified voices demanded surrender.
“It’s over, Advocate,” Thabo said. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Palesa Mokwena and Cornelius Viljoen.”
Justice Served
The trial of Pieter Steyn became one of the most closely watched legal proceedings in North West Province history. The evidence against him was overwhelming: financial records showing his central role in the corruption network, forensic evidence linking him to both murder scenes, and most damning of all, his recorded confession.
The prosecution, led by Senior State Advocate Nomfundo Zwane, methodically dismantled Steyn’s defence. Sipho Mabena testified about the systematic theft of education funds, while Jan-Hendrik van Wyk spoke movingly about Palesa’s dedication to improving rural education.
“She believed that every child deserved a proper classroom, qualified teachers, and hope for the future,” he told the packed courtroom. “She died because powerful men saw her compassion as a threat to their greed.”
The defence tried to argue that Steyn had been coerced into his confession, but the evidence was too strong. The jury deliberated for less than four hours before returning guilty verdicts on all charges.
Judge Mandla Sithole, presiding over his final case before retirement, did not mince words in his sentencing.
“The accused has shown callous disregard for human life and the public trust,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of decades on the bench. “He perverted the justice system he was sworn to uphold and stole money meant to educate our children. His actions represent the worst kind of corruption—one that kills hope along with its victims.”
Steyn was sentenced to life imprisonment for murder, with an additional fifteen years for corruption and fraud. Several of his co-conspirators, including senior education officials, received substantial prison sentences in related trials.
Aftermath and Reflection
Six months after the trial, Thabo stood once again by the Mooi River, but this time he wasn’t alone. A small crowd had gathered for the dedication of a memorial garden in Palesa’s honour. Her mother, Beauty Mokwena, had worked tirelessly to create a scholarship fund that would help other students pursue education careers.
“She would have liked this,” Jan-Hendrik said, standing beside a plaque that bore Palesa’s photograph and the inscription: “In memory of Palesa Mokwena – A light that shone too briefly but illuminated the darkness.”
The corruption network that had claimed Palesa’s life was thoroughly dismantled. Millions of rand were recovered and redirected to actual school improvements. Rural schools that had been neglected for years finally received the resources they’d been promised.
Dr Radebe approached Thabo as the ceremony concluded. “Any regrets about how it all played out?”
“Only that we couldn’t save her,” Thabo replied. “But maybe her death wasn’t entirely in vain if it prevents others from suffering the same fate.”
Captain Kruger, who had defended the investigation against political pressure, was promoted to regional commander. Annelie van der Merwe passed her detective exams with distinction and was assigned to the serious crimes unit. Samuel Modise continued his work fighting corruption, armed with new resources and political support.
As for Thabo, he remained in Potchefstroom, continuing to investigate crimes and seek justice in a complex society still grappling with inequality and corruption. The Mooi River continued to flow past the town, carrying its secrets toward distant oceans, but one terrible secret had finally been exposed to the light.
New Beginnings
Two years later, the first graduates of the Palesa Mokwena Education Scholarship program began their teaching careers in rural schools across North West Province. They carried with them not just academic qualifications, but also a commitment to the transparency and integrity that Palesa had died defending.
At the North-West University, Professor Nkomo established a new course on ethics in education research, using Palesa’s work as a case study. Students learned not just about research methods, but about the responsibility that came with uncovering uncomfortable truths.
Sipho Mabena, granted immunity in exchange for his testimony, became a whistleblower advocate, helping other government employees safely report corruption. His children attended a renovated school built with recovered funds—a daily reminder of what their father’s courage had achieved.
In Ikageng township, where Palesa had grown up, children played in a new park built on land reclaimed from corrupt developers. A small library bore her name, its shelves filled with books about education, justice, and the power of ordinary people to change the world.
The Mooi River still flowed through Potchefstroom, past the university where young minds continued to question and explore, past the townships where children dared to dream of better futures, and past the police station where dedicated officers worked to hold the powerful accountable.
And sometimes, when the morning mist rose from the water like ghosts of the past, Thabo would remember a young woman who had believed that education could change the world—and who had died proving that the truth, however dangerous, was worth pursuing.
Her story became part of the river’s eternal song, a reminder that justice, like water, will always find a way to flow forward, carrying hope toward distant shores where tomorrow’s generations wait to inherit the world that brave souls like Palesa Mokwena died trying to improve.
In death, she had become more powerful than her killers had ever been in life—a symbol of integrity that would inspire others long after her murderers were forgotten in their prison cells. The corruption network was broken, the stolen money recovered, and the schools rebuilt.
But perhaps most importantly, a new generation of teachers entered classrooms across the province carrying her memory and her mission: to ensure that every child, regardless of background or circumstance, would have the chance to learn, grow, and build a better South Africa than the one they had inherited.
The Mooi River kept flowing, as rivers do, carrying the past toward the future, where Palesa’s dream of educational justice lived on in the hearts and minds of those she had inspired. And in Potchefstroom, where university students still crossed the old railway bridge on their way to classes, her story served as both warning and promise—a reminder that the price of justice is eternal vigilance, but that the cost of silence is far, far higher.