Black Mamba

by Tierney James

  “We are here, Miss Keeya.” Joseph let the mokoro coast to a sandy beach hidden among the tall grasses. He jumped in the water and grabbed the bow of the boat to walk it in. Two men rose from the shelter of the grasses and waved at Keeya before helping her out onto the sand. “These are my friends, Miss Keeya. They are the ones who escaped with me so long ago.”

  “Where are we going?” It had been a long time since she trusted anyone and in less than a day, she found herself daring to believe in the kindness of strangers who could set her free. They motioned for her to follow. “Wait!” she begged.

  They halted.

  “I. I could be putting you in danger. Tell me where to go, and I will go. You need not trouble yourself with an old woman.”

  Joseph pulled the boat into some bushes and covered it with fallen palm leaves and brush. “No. You are our family left behind and taken from us. There are others who survived that day of murder. They are waiting for you, Miss Keeya. You are the mother of the Kifaru.”

  The men stared at her in anticipation, waiting for some word of encouragement to continue.

  Keeya longed to cry tears of joy but raised her chin in a show of stubborn resolve. “Let’s go home, my children. I want to see my people.”

  Joseph nodded to his friends. “So be it, then.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Baboloki stared out the tiny window of a room Dr. Girard used as an office. Besides a small rickety desk, painted red, and a rusty file cabinet, a cot rested against one wall, topped with a folded sheet and a small pillow. The information about the doctor said he slept in the clinic, refusing more comfortable accommodations in the bunkhouse used by doctors and other medical staff visiting from the West and Europe. The locals took good care of him. His needs were few. Only a hot plate, a tea kettle, and a coffee can filled with cutlery adorned a lopsided cart, indicating this must be his kitchen.

  “I found this, Mr. President.” Dage, his chief of security, handed him a picture. “The doctor has bandaged his own cuts, sir. Do you wish to speak to him?”

  Baboloki stared at the picture. “In a minute. I want to think.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president held the picture closer to the window where the light could brighten the fading snapshot. The picture revealed a younger Dr. Girard and a woman who held a small black child in her arms. Dr. Girard eyed the woman who was kissing the child of about two years of age. He slept against her shoulder, so most of his face remained hidden.

  A chaotic sense of panic jolted the president. He froze, not liking what this sense of limbo and inability to think straight meant. Was it possible the doctor indeed saved a child that day the village was attacked? Were the ridiculous stories the heir of the Kifaru diamond had survived true?

  His men never found a baby the day of the attack, although he was believed to have been hidden. With the scent of blood in the air, it didn’t take long for hyenas and lions to enjoy the flesh not burned in the fire. How could a baby have survived?

  The few who escaped were later rounded up and executed, their corpses thrown to the crocodiles. If there were others, they would have been gobbled up by the beasts who ruled the Okavango. No one would have dared shelter them, risking their own villages’ safety. Not even a weathered local could have lasted for long.

  Then there was the plane spotted flying away that day. Records showed the manifest listed only the pilot, no passengers. It had been the pilot who’d reported the fire and alerted the authorities something was wrong. Baboloki had returned later to be the savior and report the massacre. His was the face presented to the media, promising justice for the Okavango. His efforts had rounded up poachers and troublemakers then quickly extinguished the movement of outrage.

  Once more Baboloki examined the photograph. He turned and stormed out of the tiny office to find the doctor sitting on the edge of a cot with his head cradled between his hands. Taking a deep breath, Baboloki entered the room and dropped the picture on the cot.

  The doctor glanced down at the picture then picked it up and sighed. “Where did you find this?” His voice remained calm.

  “No matter. Who is the child?”

  Dr. Girard lifted his eyes, confusion stopped his attempt at denial. “The child?”

  Baboloki snatched the picture and pointed to the child the woman held. “Yes. Who is it?” He dropped it on the floor, and the doctor reached for it only to have the president ram his boot on top of his hand. The doctor cried out and pulled free. “Who. Is. It?”

  “I don’t remember.” The doctor shook his head, and tried to rescue the picture.

  Baboloki grabbed him by the throat and jerked him to stand on wobbly legs. “Then why did you save this picture for so long? Clearly it is old.”

  “My house burned after my wife died. That is one of the few pictures I have of her.”

  The president released him with a shove so he fell back onto the cot.

  “The child, Dr. Girard.” The slow burn inside him simmered in his tone.

  “I think it was a clinic in Birmingham, Alabama, where I volunteered. My wife lost our only child seven months into her pregnancy. Any child who needed comfort, a kiss or holding, my sweet wife took it upon herself to be the angel they may, otherwise, never have. She believed that was the reason God did not bless her with a child.” His voice broke. “All I needed was her and, in the end, I lost her, too.”

  “I do not believe a place like Alabama would approve of your concern for black children.”

  “We were Canadians. Americans were going through a change of attitude toward racial equality. Volunteers were welcomed. We took many of these trips in those days and in every clinic, we found a child who needed us, needed a home, a life. When my wife became ill, we were denied adoption time and time again. Finally, we gave up.”

  “When was the first time you were here, Dr. Girard?”

  The doctor rubbed his smashed hand and touched his head. “Decades ago.”

  The president smacked him upside the head with the palm of his hand. “How many years? Ten? Twenty?”

  “Closer to forty, I think.” His voice trembled. “Before the troubles with rebels and poachers. It was a peaceful place.”

  “So, you weren’t in the Okavango when villages burned and the tourists were killed?”

  “I came several years earlier with Doctors Without Borders. My wife and I planned to come before we started our family, but then she miscarried our child. We decided to try another time. But it never happened.”

  Baboloki listened without showing emotion. There were no records on who came to the Okavango from forty years ago. Passports could be altered and replaced. The only reason he knew the identities of the others who’d stayed in the camp that day was because family members had inquired. No one asked about a doctor. None of the people he’d captured knew of any doctor, but then again, none of them worked at the camp.

  The doctor took a deep breath before confronting the president. “What is this all about? I have given my savings to open this clinic. I work hard for these people. I have done nothing wrong.”

  “I am looking for the Kifaru diamond. Have you heard of it?” The president wanted to pounce if the answer were a lie.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “These people speak of it in their stories, how it has the power to lead a nation. But they are told to the children as myths, legends, nothing more. No one believes in this nonsense, not even these simple people. Before I left my clinic in the US, I heard stories of this diamond. I think it all came up because some British prince gave his fiancée a ring with a Botswana diamond. People like to glamourize such things in America. I expect they’ve already made a television movie about it.” The doctor frowned. “That is all I know, Mr. President.”

  “Do they say there is someone who will come with the diamond and take my place?”

  The doctor chuckled and tried to look amused, but touched his head and cringed instead. “That is ridiculous. The diamond, if
there ever was one, is gone or broken up into many pieces. As to a new leader, why would that happen? Elections decide the leaders, not a lump of pressed carbon.”

  Baboloki tapped his mouth with his index finger and walked around the examining room as a guard stood rigid near the door. “Have you seen anyone new in the village, say between the age of thirty-five and forty?”

  “There are always new people who come to the clinic once and never return. They come from many island communities in the Okavango. No one new in the village nearby that I’ve noticed, though. Most either work for me, the camp, or contract out for hunts with a British company. I would have met them by now in any of those cases.”

  “Why is that, Dr. Girard?”

  “They are required to get a physical, immunizations, and first aid training from me before being allowed to work with tourists. It protects both them and the guests. When new people arrive from across our borders, they must run their cars through solutions to protect our cattle from disease and wipe our shoes in the same solution. I would have been told if there was someone sneaking in illegally and threatening the livelihood of the people.”

  “Yes. I implemented that practice after cattle traffickers slipped across the border.” He smirked. “They will not be returning—or leaving, for that matter. But I’m not looking for a thief. I’m looking for someone who has an ax to grind. Someone who can blend in.”

  “No one comes to mind. I have watched many of these people grow up. I come every year, but I suppose someone could have come many years ago or when I was absent.”

  Baboloki experienced a moment of acceptance then the relief evaporated. He motioned for the guard. “Take the doctor to the airstrip about forty-five kilometers south from here.”

  The guard nodded as he waved to some more men in the hall to join him. “I know it, sir. There is a small transport station there for tourists to wait.”

  “Yes. Make sure the good doctor is comfortable but out of sight. This time of day, I doubt there will be much activity.”

  “No. I’ve done nothing wrong, and these people need me,” the doctor insisted as he struggled to stand.

  “It is for your own protection. I wouldn’t want you to further injure yourself. I’ll make sure you get to a doctor in Maun. If they decide you require more medical attention, then I’ll have you flown to Gaborone.” Baboloki forced himself to be civil even though rage brewed inside him. “Besides, my men are much better at deciding if you have told me the truth. I tend to be a little easy on people I think are lying to me.” He shrugged. “I have too much faith in mankind, I guess.” He turned to the guard. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

  The soldier pulled back his shoulders. “Yes, sir!”

  “This place looks like an accident waiting to happen,” he mused. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Please, Mr. President. These people need this clinic. I have told you the truth.”

  The president walked to his side and gently patted the doctor’s cheek. “And I appreciate that.” He pivoted and growled to the lieutenant, “Get him out of here.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Easy,” Chase whispered when the leopard turned to stare down at Tessa. Handsome pressed his arm against her upper chest to keep her from moving. A list of possible solutions to this new problem infiltrated his brain like wet cement. He was too frightened, watching the large animal move a step closer to the windshield, to come up with any reasonable idea of what to do.

  Tessa gasped for breath. Even sitting at an angle, he could see beads of sweat forming on her brow. Handsome warned again not to stare at the leopard. She squeezed her eyes shut to comply, but opened them enough to form a squint.

  Handsome made sloth-like micro moves when he took hold of the steering wheel. Was he going to lay on the horn? Maybe the loud noise would frighten the beast enough to run away.

  His thumb went to the center of the wheel, producing a sound more like a child’s toy car than a badass Land Rover. Handsome removed his arm from Tessa’s chest, pulled a pistol from between the seats, and raised it in the air. Before he could pull the trigger, the leopard swiveled his head toward a giant anthill some eight feet away then jumped down.

  Gulping air, Tessa faced Chase who touched her shoulder then lifted a finger to his lips. The leopard glanced back at the vehicle and focused on Tessa, who sat the nearest to ground level and to him.

  With a sudden burst of speed, a warthog bolted from a hole at the base of the anthill. The leopard leaped after him and paused when a second warthog shot out of the same hole. In seconds, all three animals were far enough from them to allow them to take a deep breath.

  “Holy cow,” Tessa moaned, laying her head back against the seat. “I could have been on his lunch menu.”

  Handsome grabbed the binoculars and stared into the tall grasses. “We’d better find a place to park out of the sun. Our buddy will want his tree back after not catching his pork sandwich for lunch. We might smell like bacon by then.” He put the vehicle in drive and chuckled, looking over at Tessa. “And I thought you couldn’t get any whiter.”

  Everyone laughed when Tessa slammed her fist into his massive arm. “You looked a little pale yourself and not nearly so handsome.”

  This amused him as he slowly pulled forward into the grasses where the impalas ran for their lives.

  The morning continued without serious incident, except for when a herd of elephants crossed in front of them, forcing them to back up. The matriarch charged then halted, stirring up a cloud of dust. Handsome stopped and waited for them to move on. The click of cameras didn’t seem to bother the giants. Several kudus, a herd of zebras sharing a watering hole with some marabou, storks, and four giraffes found themselves in the crosshairs of Enigma cameras.

  After a time, Handsome found a shady area and let everyone out for a short rest and some refreshments.

  “Damn, this place is amazing.” Carter removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  Sam glanced up toward the branches of the trees and accepted a cola from Handsome. “At least it isn’t so hot today. Good decision to come in winter. I imagine Sacramento is roasting.”

  “You all right, Tess?” Chase handed her an orange soda. “I hadn’t counted on an up-close- and-personal visit with a hungry leopard.” He took a swig of his own drink.

  She removed her pith helmet with her free hand and fanned it out toward the savanna. “I was terrified. I never imagined we’d be able to interact so closely with these animals.”

  “Tessa, look there,” Handsome called. “Watch how the giraffe is getting a drink. This is their most vulnerable time. See how they spread their legs and bend down?”

  “Good time for a lion to find his next meal.” She lifted the binoculars to her eyes.

  “Exactly.”

  “Their tongues are blue!” She laughed and handed the glasses to Chase.

  “How did you get us today, Handsome?” Carter asked, lifting his own binoculars. “You draw the short straw?”

  “This is a good time to talk without being interrupted. I volunteered. Several of the people from my village came to help out today. The president invited some of his protection detail for dinner.”

  Sam leaned against the car. “Looked a lot like military to me.”

  Chase slipped the binoculars around his neck and let them rest on his chest. “Me, too. I don’t like it.”

  Handsome took a deep breath. “He calls them his ‘chosen ones.’ In truth, they are a collection of ex-special forces, rebels, thugs, and criminals. You can put a monkey in a suit but it’s still a monkey.”

  “He doesn’t like me very much.” Chase took a long drink of his soda then crushed the can in his fist.

  “Neither do I,” Handsome smirked. “Who knew Baboloki and I would have something in common? He puts them in his military guard to make sure they keep an eye on his officers. In the past, the officers had complained about some of their duties, and the president took offense to that.
”

  “What kind of duties? A soldier obeys his commander-in-chief.” Chase didn’t always agree with his orders, but he did his best to follow them.

  “Rounding up student protestors, ranchers who complained about having to put their cattle down when there was no hoof-and-mouth disease in their quadrant.”

  “Why would he do that? Economically, the ranchers could have established a sense of calm when other quadrants suffered. I remember how Europe boycotted all meat coming from Botswana.” Sam’s PhD in world economics once again brought new insight to the situation.

  Handsome passed around a trash bag for their empty cans. “Another way to show that Westerners, Europeans, and others couldn’t be counted on. “Even though putting all the herds down did, in fact, eliminate the disease, ranchers had to start over and found themselves borrowing money from the government to do so. Even though loans were at a reasonable rate, they ballooned five years in. Hard to get your herds profitable in that length of time, at least for the small ranches. No doubt some of that interest went into Baboloki’s pocket.”

  “What about the people of the Kalahari and Okavango who aren’t ranchers. Did they suffer from Baboloki’s suspicion?” Tessa leaned on the vehicle next to Sam.

  “More like emotional blackmail. The threat of allowing a dam to be built could most certainly affect their way of life. Some of the younger ones embraced the idea, but their families refused to accept it. During the times when big-game hunts were stopped, the people went hungry. They poached for food and for a livelihood. Keep in mind, the horn of a rhinoceros can support a family for a year here.”