When Rain Clouds Gather

by Bessie Head

Further evidence was that about a week ago a strange young woman had turned up in the village of Bodibeng and made straight for the hut of Mma-Baloi, where she had died a sudden death. This had made Mma-Baloi run screaming from her hut, and it was only the intervention of the police that had saved Mma-Baloi from being torn to pieces by the villagers.

  Chief Sekoto was silent for some time. The insanity of mankind never ceased to amaze him. At last he turned to the accused and said gently, “Well, mother, what do you have to say in defence of yourself?”

  “Sir, I am no witch,” said the quavering old voice. “Even though I am called the mother of the witches, I am no witch. Long ago I was taught by the people who live in the bush how to cure ailments with herbs and that is my business.”

  She pointed a shaking finger at a bag placed near her.

  “I would like to see the contents of the bag,” Chief Sekoto said with a great show of interest. The bag was brought to him and its contents tipped out on the ground. They were a various assortment of dried leaves, roots, and berries. He examined them leisurely, picking up a few items for closer inspection. This very deliberate gesture was meant to puncture a hole in the confidence of the crowd, who annoyed him. While he fiddled about he was aware of how silent and intent they had become, following his every movement with their eyes. Thus holding the stage, he turned to the old woman and said:

  “Proceed with your defence, mother.”

  “About the deaths of the children of which I am accused, I know nothing, sir,” she said. “About the young woman who died in my home last Saturday, I am also innocent. This young woman came to me on recommendation, being grievously ill. We were discussing the ailment when she fell dead at my feet. Never has such a thing occurred before, and this caused me to lose my mind and run out of the house.”

  “This is quite understandable, mother,” Chief Sekoto said sympathetically. “Even I should have been grieved if some stranger was struck with death in my home.”

  He swept the crowd with a stern glance. “Who issues the certificates of death in Bodibeng?” he asked.

  There was a short, bewildered silence. Then a car and a messenger had to be found to fetch the doctor of the Bodibeng hospital. There was a delay of two hours as the doctor was engaged in an operation. Throughout this long wait the court remained in session. At one stage Chief Sekoto received an impatient note: “Dear Brother,” it said. “Please spare a few moments to discuss an urgent matter.”

  Chief Sekoto replied: “Is it life or death? I am at the moment faced with the life or death of an old woman. I cannot move.”

  There was no reply. Chief Sekoto watched his brother’s expression out of the corner of his eye. Foremost in the Chief’s mind was the necessity to plan an escape route from the glowering thunderstorm. He called the president of the court and whispered, “Ring up George Appleby-Smith and tell him I’m coming to lunch.”

  It was near noon when the doctor arrived. His evidence was brief and to the point. Yes, it was true, he said. There had been a surprising number of child deaths in the village of Bodibeng, and death in each case had been due to pneumonia; and yes, he said, he had performed a postmortem on the body of a young woman last Saturday afternoon. The young woman had died of a septic womb due to having procured an abortion with a hooked and unsterilized instrument. He would say that the septic condition of the womb had been of three months’ duration.

  All that was left now was for Chief Sekoto to pass judgment on the case. This he did sternly, drawing himself up to his full height.

  “People of Bodibeng,” he said. “It seems to me you are all suffering from derangement of the brain.”

  He paused long enough to allow the villagers to look at each other uneasily.

  “Your children die of pneumonia,” he thundered, “and to shield yourselves from blame you accuse a poor old woman of having bewitched them into death. Not only that. You falsely accuse her of a most serious crime which carries the death sentence. How long have you planned the death of a poor old woman, deranged people of Bodibeng? How long have you caused her to live in utter misery, suspicion, and fear? I say: Can dogs bark forever? Oh no, people of Bodibeng, today you will make payment for the legs of the old mother who has fled before your barking. I say: The fault is all with you, and because of this I fine each household of Bodibeng one beast. From the money that arises out of the sale of these beasts, each household is to purchase warm clothing for the children so that they may no longer die of pneumonia.”

  He turned and looked at the old woman, changing his expression to one of kindness.

  “As for you, mother,” he said. “I cannot allow you to go and live once more among the people of Bodibeng. It is only hatred that the people of Bodibeng feel for you, and this has driven them out of their minds. As hatred never dies, who knows what evil they will not plot against you. I have a large house, and you are welcome to the protection it offers. Besides, I suffer from an ailment for which I am always given penicillin injections at the hospital. Now I am tired of the penicillin injections and perhaps your good herbs may serve to cure me of my troubles.”

  He stood up, signifying the end of the case. The people of Bodibeng fled in confusion from the courtyard, but the old woman sat for a long time on the ground, silent tears of gratitude dripping down into her lap.

  Chief Sekoto walked over briskly to his brother’s car, opened a door, and heaved himself inside.

  “We must make haste brother,” he said, “I have an important appointment to keep.”

  The first words his brother uttered really surprised Chief Sekoto.

  “I wish to be relieved of the administration of Golema Mmidi,” said Matenge.

  Chief Sekoto furrowed his brow. This was most unexpected. He dreaded what was coming next.

  “Have you had another clash with the young man, Gilbert?” he asked lightly.

  Matenge turned his deep doom-ridden eyes on his brother. “He is now harbouring refugees at the farm.”

  “Oh, is that all, brother?” Chief Sekoto asked, relieved. “I see no harm in that. The world is always full of refugees. How many has Gilbert taken in?”

  For answer, Matenge held out the paper with Makhaya’s picture on the front page. Chief Sekoto studied the face carefully and felt a sharp stab of jealousy. The man was too attractive, he could steal all the women in the country. Chief Sekoto did not enjoy the thought of a competitor so near his own hunting grounds.

  “You mean there is only one refugee, brother?” he asked, anxiously.

  Matenge nodded.

  “Well, what’s the trouble then? Why do you want to resign?”

  “I see,” Matenge said with heavy sarcasm. “You haven’t read the story.”

  “But I haven’t the time, brother. I’m already late for the important appointment.”

  Matenge swung around furiously on his brother. “Either I go or the refugee goes,” he said. “How can people feel safe with a criminal and murderer in their midst? That is what the story says; he is a criminal and murderer who walks around with bombs in his pocket. Why should Gilbert take in such a man unless it is his intention to murder me? There is no other reason why Gilbert should associate with a murderer. He is doing nothing at the farm.”

  Chief Sekoto edged towards the door. “Brother,” he said. “Such criminology is outside my jurisdiction. You must report this matter to the police. You must report this to George Appleby-Smith as he patrols your area. In the meantime, please avail yourself of my hospitality and have lunch at the house. Tell the wife I am called away by an important appointment.”

  Chief Sekoto swung his short dumpy legs out of the car, closed the door and, without looking back, waddled over briskly to a small white sports car. He was literally suffocating. Inside the fat, overstuffed body was a spirit that fiercely resented intense, demanding, vicious people. It was as though they had the power to trap him inside a dark airless tunnel when all he wanted was the casualness of the free air and the silly chatter of a pretty, pai
nted-up woman.

  The small white car roared into life. Chief Sekoto pressed the accelerator down to the floor and then, at a speed of over a hundred miles an hour, streaked out of the village like a continuous blur of white light. Within barely fifteen minutes he had covered twenty-eight miles and approached the railroad crossing where Makhaya had been dropped off by the truck driver on his first day in Botswana. The chief slowed down, drove past the railway station and into a yard which contained a small whitewashed house. It was the home of his friend, Inspector George Appleby-Smith, the green-eyed police officer who had interviewed Makhaya and granted him political asylum.

  George Appleby-Smith was twenty years younger than Chief Sekoto, and yet a strong bond of friendship existed between the two men. They had known each other for five years and often went hunting for game in the bush together. Game-hunting was George’s chief passion, but he was abnormally afraid of snakes, so Chief Sekoto’s gun was always reserved for shooting at snakes. Jokes were a favourite topic of conversation on these excursions.

  For example, George would inquire, “Tell me, Chief, what’s the difference between a barber and a sculptor?”

  A long interval of silence would ensue during which Chief Sekoto furrowed his brows vigorously. At last he’d say, “I must say I don’t really know, George.”

  “Well, it’s like this, Chief. The sculptor makes faces and busts and the barber curls up and dyes.”

  The collection of these droll jokes was George’s leisure-time hobby. He had a way of holding all the laughter of the world in his eyes, yet he rarely smiled and rarely twitched a muscle on his face. He liked his work and was very dedicated. Yet he summed up law and order and all pompous phrases in one expressive word: Bullshit. What he liked in all the bullshit was people. They were like a complicated crossword puzzle to him. They exercised his agile, inventive mind which had a peculiar ability to streamline the complex into a single and clear detail. Nothing alarmed a prisoner more than to be told by George that he was not speaking the truth, and it was the blunt and authoritative manner in which he said this that always unnerved them.

  Chief Sekoto never summed up for himself why it was George’s company so delighted him, but both were casual, freedom-loving men, and they only parted company on their ideas on women and food. George, being a bachelor, ate terrible food. It was always soup with a little bit of cheese on the plate, while Chief Sekoto usually ate roast leg of mutton for dinner. But somehow George managed to serve roast leg of mutton when Chief Sekoto came to dine.

  George was already seated at table when Chief Sekoto walked into the dining-room and said:

  “I’m a little upset today, George. Have you got any beer to calm my nerves?”

  George stood up, went to the kitchen and returned with a glass and a small bottle of beer. Chief Sekoto looked anxiously at his friend. When George was silent and kept his face expressionless, it was a sure sign that he had something on his mind.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve run away from troubles, only to find you have troubles too, George,” he said in despair.

  George looked down at his plate to hide the laughter in his eyes. “I saw your brother heading past this way, Chief,” he said, quietly. “Did he by any chance visit you?”

  Chief Sekoto was silent for some time, “I don’t really understand my brother,” he said, glumly. “I gave him a position that was meant to protect him from the wrath of his enemies. At the time he was plotting my death many people said: ‘You should have this brother of yours killed.’ I said: ‘No, leave the man to his Maker.’ And what payment have I received from this generosity? Nothing but trouble. Golema Mmidi is now famous for trouble, and if that is not enough, my brother comes to me today and tells me that Gilbert is plotting his death and has especially employed a dangerous refugee to help him.”

  George stared reflectively at the wall, and after some time said softly, “Chief, would you mind if I put your brother in jail?”

  Chief Sekoto leaned forward, interested. “For how long?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” George replied, “it’s just a feeling. Some people are on tenterhooks about his association with Joas Tsepe. Tsepe is under the illusion that he will be able to establish a secret military camp in the bush. He has no idea that his every movement is known. The day he smuggles those guns over the border, he’s in for the high jump. If you like, we can delay matters until he brings your brother into the deal and we rope him in as well.”

  Chief Sekoto nodded his head vigorously. “I’ve no objection to my brother going to jail, George,” he said. “Only it must be for a long time. But what about the refugee? My brother wants him removed.”

  “It’s not what he wants,” George said, calmly. “But what I want. What I want is for Gilbert to carry on with his work because everyone else is bullshitting around.”

  Chief Sekoto laughed heartily, “I made a promise to Gilbert that I would come and work on his farm if it succeeds,” he said. “Now I see that with your help, my friend, I shall be spending my old age in hard labour. But you must promise me something. You must spy on the refugee and tell me if he is eating up all the women.”

  George looked affectionately at the old man, marvelling at his ability to take everything in life so lightly. Some other man might be ranting and raving by now, after all that had happened. The chief’s eldest son, with whom he had quarrelled, had brought the anti-chief policy into government. It wasn’t a ruthless policy. In fact, there was an over-all recognition of the hold custom and tradition had on the lives of the people, and in deference to this, all chiefs’ salaries had been increased. A chief was still a father figure but somehow thrust to one side, the accent being on nation rather than tribe. Nonentities had been raised up from the dust by the people’s vote, and it was they who now reigned supreme on the local government councils. If George Appleby-Smith felt a pang of regret at the death of the old order, it was because life had been simpler with the decisions and power in the hands of one man. If it was complex now it was because chiefs had had a long reign and deeply resented relegation to the status of rubber stamp. Whereas in former times a chief was the upholder of law and order, in these days he consorted with strange fellows who were hell-bent on blowing everything up, and who glibly promised to restore to him his lost political influence. Few chiefs appreciated the salary increase. Many voiced complaints about the younger generation, who no longer bowed the knee but merely politely raised their hats. The chiefs were unable to see that people could not go on being children forever and their humble servants. True enough, the change itself was not dramatic. Even Chief Sekoto still kept his unpaid slaves. But George, with one foot in the past and his youthfulness in the present, was very emotionally involved in upholding the aims of the new, conservative government which wanted everything to happen bit by bit. He was prepared to deal deathblows to any forces that planned its premature overthrow.

  “I can promise you I’ll spy on the refugee, Chief,” he asid, with mock grimness. “Even though it will delay my own promotion by five years. ‘So George has now gone soft on refugees?’ they’ll say. ‘We knew we couldn’t trust the bugger.’”

  He looked at his watch and regretfully parted company with his amiable friend. The lunch-hour break for him was over. Chief Sekoto remained, eating and drinking at a leisurely pace. The cunning old man was waiting for his brother to pass and return to his own village, and only then would he get into his car and streak back home.

  A short while later he heard the approach of a car. He stood up and peered out of a window and saw his brother draw up outside the police station, get out of the car and walk to the office of George Appleby-Smith. After five minutes, his brother emerged and without looking around walked straight to his car, climbed in, and drove in the direction of Golema Mmidi. Not believing his good luck, Chief Sekoto waited until the cream Chevrolet had disappeared in the dust, and breathing a sigh of relief, he walked out to his own car. But just then he saw George Appleby-Smith walk out of
his office towards a grey police Land-Rover. The chief watched George drive off after his brother in the direction of Golema Mmidi. Chief Sekoto closed his eyes. What would happen now? Since he could not bear to think about it, he heaved himself into the car and drove back home at an ungodly speed.

  George too was a fast driver. He soon passed Matenge and within twenty minutes arrived in Golema Mmidi and drove up to the farm gates. No one was in sight. Out on the farm fields, the five specially hired and government-trained tractor drivers were doing the winter ploughing. He parked the Land-Rover outside the farm gate, lifted the wire latch, and walked in the direction of a small brick building which was the farm office. There he found Gilbert and Makhaya, standing at a table, absorbed in the study of a map. The map was a plan of the farm’s fields, and Gilbert was filling in the crops he intended planting during the coming season.

  The two men looked up at his entry. George Appleby-Smith was apologetic. He profoundly respected Gilbert.

  “I won’t take up much time,” he said. “Please fill in this form, Mr Maseko. It’s an application for residence. I have to take it back with me.”

  Makhaya took the form but he was a little surprised. It had not occurred to him to apply for residence in Botswana. George walked up to the table and studied the map. To one plot Gilbert had allocated Turkish tobacco.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to grow tobacco in this desert,” he said, amazed.

  “Why not?” Gilbert said. “Golema Mmidi has the exact amount of rainfall of a certain area in southern Africa where Turkish tobacco is grown very successfully. It’s a very good cash crop too, and if everyone in Golema Mmidi grows a bit and we market it co-operatively – why, we’ll all be rich in no time. The only problem we’re faced with is the flatness of the land. It needs a slight slope and well-drained soil. We’ll either have to create this artificially or lay down pipes.”

  George Appleby-Smith was very impressed, and after this made a great show of minding his own business by staring at a wall. Gilbert glanced at him slyly, smiled to himself and continued his work.