Dying to Live

by Michael Stanley

  “What’s the surprise?” Kubu was curious.

  “Malva pudding,” Joy answered. “She likes it a lot.”

  “Is it safe for Tumi to be with Nono?” Amantle interrupted.

  “My mother,” Joy replied, “we’ve told you before that Nono doesn’t have AIDS. She’s what we call HIV positive. She takes pills every day to suppress it.”

  “And what happens if she forgets to take the pills?”

  “She can’t forget, because I give them to her. If she didn’t take the pills, she could get sick. But I don’t think that’s the problem. She’s very good about taking them.”

  “You should take her to my traditional healer.”

  Joy bristled. “They know nothing, my mother. They are part of the problem, persuading people to stop taking the antiretrovirals. That’s why so many people die. The witch doctors don’t understand the disease.”

  “They have served our people for hundreds of years. I do not understand why you reject them.”

  “My mother, HIV hasn’t been around for hundreds of years—only about thirty. The witch doctors know nothing about it. And all they do is give bad advice. They should take a lot of the blame for what is happening.”

  “Something funny came up at work today concerning a witch doctor,” Kubu interjected, hoping to nip the budding disagreement before it got out of hand. “A witch doctor has gone missing. And what’s funny is that Samantha is in charge of finding him.” He laughed. “You should’ve seen her face when I told her it was her responsibility. You know how much she hates witch doctors.”

  “Who is Samantha?” Amantle asked.

  “You must remember her, Mother. She’s the detective who was responsible for finding the witch doctor who murdered that young girl from Mochudi for muti.”

  “I remember her. But I don’t understand why she isn’t married and having children. The girls these days do not know what is best for them.”

  “And there’s a second interesting bit of news,” Kubu said, and proceeded to repeat what Ian MacGregor had told him about the strange Bushman. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Being shot and having no scar; being old and having young organs. Ian didn’t have a clue about what was going on.”

  “Some witch doctors live a long time—a few hundred years, I am told,” Amantle said. “They take muti made from the leaves of a baobab tree. You know those trees live forever. Perhaps the Bushman was taking the same muti.” She shook her head. “You cannot trust those Bushmen, you know. He probably did not pay, and so the witch doctor made him pay with his life.”

  Kubu decided not to comment. He’d given up long ago trying to change his mother’s old-fashioned ideas.

  “You say he was murdered?” Joy asked.

  Kubu nodded. “It looks like it.”

  “Another murder?” Amantle frowned. “What is happening to our country? Not long ago, we were peaceful with each other. Now there are many murders. Look what happened to Wilmon.” She turned to Joy. “And even worse things happen to women. God is angry with our people. You must be very careful when you go out.”

  “I’m always careful, my mother.”

  “Would you like some rooibos tea before you go to bed?” Kubu asked.

  “Thank you, my son. That will help me to sleep. I am not sleeping well these days. I still think of Wilmon.”

  And so do I, thought Kubu, as he went to put the kettle on.

  CHAPTER 5

  On Monday, Detective Sergeant Segodi set out to solve the case of the dead Bushman, at least to his own satisfaction.

  He started with the report from the pathologist in Gaborone, carefully working his way through the details, grateful for Ian MacGregor’s straightforward style. It seemed the dead man was in very good health for someone of his age, except for the extreme brittleness of his bones. The peculiarities of the organs held no interest for Segodi, and neither did the bullet, which obviously had nothing to do with the Bushman’s death. On the other hand, he read the piece concerning the blow to the face and the broken neck twice; the death could have been an accident or an altercation that went wrong. Segodi was relieved. Something like that could be dealt with.

  It was time to pay a visit to New Xade to get more information.

  He went to his police Land Rover in the parking lot and checked that it had been properly cleaned since it had been used as a hearse. It had an overpowering smell of disinfectant, made worse because it had been closed up for the weekend and covered only by shade cloth against the sun. He grunted, climbed into the vehicle, opened all the windows, and put the air conditioner on full blast. Then he drove to the service station to refuel. While he waited, he bought a couple of packets of cigarettes as gifts. He didn’t smoke, but he had no objection to the Bushmen tarring their lungs if they wanted to. Then he set out to repeat the long drive he’d made the previous week.

  Soon he was following the road to Hanahai. Initially, it was corrugated and potholed, then it became narrower but smoother when he turned east toward the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. It was uninspiring country. Scattered acacias, small shrubs, and patches of spiky grass were the highlights. The rest was grayish sand mixed with shards of the lighter gray calcrete. For some reason the donkeys, with no fences to inhibit them, preferred the middle of the road to the verges. At one point, he spotted an ostrich heading off into the distance, muscular legs pumping.

  It took him nearly two hours to cover the seventy-five miles to New Xade, and he pulled into the small town with relief. The town was a discouraging mishmash of different styles—small concrete block houses in need of maintenance, mixed in with thatched huts, some neat, some dilapidated, built on a framework of branches. People sat along the road watching their goats, or squatted outside their houses. Recently, some problems with drunkenness and theft in the town had motivated locating Constable Ixau there as a community police resource. Segodi thought it was a waste of effort; in his opinion, the Bushmen would be best left to their own devices.

  The day was hot, so he found a group of trees in the center of the town and tucked his car into the weak shade. He climbed out, stretched, and went in search of Constable Ixau. Segodi found him in the single office that constituted the police station, taking down a complaint from a Bushman woman, who seemed extremely angry. The exchange took place in Naro, the local language, replete with a variety of click sounds. Segodi had no idea what it was about.

  At last, the woman seemed more or less satisfied and left. Ixau apologized for the delay and offered tea. When Segodi accepted, Ixau went to a small bathroom adjoining his office to wash a couple of chipped cups.

  “What was all that about?” Segodi asked when Ixau returned.

  “The woman?” Ixau shrugged, as he poured boiling water from an electric kettle on his desk into the cups. “She says someone has stolen one of her goats.” He dropped a rooibos tea bag into each cup.

  “And is that so?”

  “Probably.” He didn’t seem to be very concerned about it, although the woman obviously had been. “I’ve been asking around about that man we found last week, Sergeant. I think I know who he is. His name’s Heiseb.”

  Well, that’s some progress, Segodi thought. “You had pictures of the dead man?”

  Ixau nodded. “I took some while I was waiting for you.”

  Segodi wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or annoyed. It seemed the man had initiative, which he didn’t expect in a Bushman constable, let alone one posted to the middle of nowhere. He drained his tea. “Well, introduce me to these friends of Heiseb,” he said.

  “Well, they’re not exactly friends of his,” Ixau replied, “but they know him all right.”

  * * *

  IXAU DROVE THEM in his beaten-up Land Rover away from the central group of modern buildings to the outskirts of the town, where there were a few roughly thatched huts that looked as though they’d been built overnight and might vanish as quickly. A small group of men of various ages was relaxing under some trees, drinking from
a calabash that they passed around. Although it was still morning, it was obvious from the animated conversation that the calabash contained something alcoholic. The youngest of the group was just a boy, but he took his turn with the calabash. Segodi frowned. He can’t be more than fourteen, he thought. He should be in school, not loafing around drinking.

  Ixau walked over to them, introduced Segodi, and made himself comfortable in a sandy spot in the shade. In the absence of any chairs, Segodi reluctantly joined him on the sand and passed over the two packets of cigarettes he’d brought as gifts. These were enthusiastically accepted, and one packet was opened and distributed at once. There was a pause as the men lit up. Even the boy eagerly took a cigarette, begged a match to light it, and inhaled the smoke without coughing.

  Segodi asked Ixau to explain in their language that the police needed their help with an investigation. This was met with silence, but it didn’t seem hostile. Ixau went on to remind them about the dead old man and passed around the pictures that Segodi had brought with him. There were nods and some discussion, and two of the men seemed to have a disagreement and insisted on seeing the pictures a second time. At last, they too nodded. “Heiseb,” said one firmly, and they all nodded.

  “Ask them to tell us about him,” Segodi instructed. Ixau translated that, and after a pause, the man who looked the oldest started speaking. He waved his arms and pointed so dramatically to the northwest that Segodi automatically looked in that direction. After a long speech, the man stopped for a gulp from the calabash and to finish his cigarette. Two of the others took over, but shut up again when the older man was ready to continue. Segodi hoped something useful was emerging from all this; again he had no idea what was being said. At last the man stopped, and Ixau turned to the detective.

  “Detective Sergeant, he says that Heiseb was a very old man. He’s been in this area for many, many years, but he was old when he came here, and before that he came from there.” He, too, pointed to the northwest. “He never lived here in the town, but sometimes he spent a few nights here and told wonderful stories of our people and of things in the past. So he was always welcome. Sometimes he traded things that he found in the desert—”

  “What sort of things?” Segodi interrupted.

  Ixau translated. There was a moment of silence, and the men muttered to each other. Ixau repeated the question, surprised by their reticence. He obtained a few comments and translated, “They say he found things in the desert, sometimes old things. Sometimes he brought plants and herbs. Some of these are good medicine. He would trade for cigarettes, maybe some food, or cloth. Not much. He said he didn’t need much.” Ixau looked around. The men showed no sign of understanding, but they no longer smiled.

  After a pause, Ixau continued. “They also told of the subjects of the stories. Some from long ago. Some from the beginning of all things, when the gods walked at Tsodilo.”

  Segodi wasn’t interested in that. “Ask them when they last saw him.”

  This created more disagreement. At last Ixau said, “Not for two moons—that’s two months.”

  Segodi shook his head. He didn’t believe them. Something else was going on here, and he meant to find out what it was.

  “Was he alone?”

  Once again there was excited discussion, but apparently no disagreement.

  Ixau looked surprised. “They say he was with a white man.” He asked more questions before he continued. “Apparently the man comes here sometimes. They say his name is Krisfer or something like that. Maybe Christopher?” He tried this out on the group, and they nodded enthusiastically. “The man came here before, asking who knew stories about the past. They used to tell him stories—some they made up—but when he met Heiseb, he stopped asking the other people. He would get his stories from Heiseb after that.”

  “Why was he interested in the stories?” Segodi asked.

  No one seemed to know.

  “Maybe he was a scientist or a historian or something?” Ixau suggested.

  Segodi nodded. That was possible. “And no one’s seen Heiseb for two months?”

  The group all agreed that was the case, but again the reaction was muted. Heiseb came and went, once or twice with the white man, but neither of them had been seen recently. Segodi insisted Ixau tell them that, if they were holding anything back—either about Heiseb or his death—they would be in a lot of trouble. This was met with silence. Segodi asked Ixau to say it again, but no one volunteered anything more. The mood no longer had the friendly atmosphere that had been generated by the cigarettes.

  Segodi was sure the men knew more than they were willing to share with the police, but realized it was time to give up. He stood up, tried to dust the fine sand off his pants, and turned to Ixau. “Can I get something to eat here?” He didn’t feel like driving back to Ghanzi on an empty stomach.

  * * *

  LUNCH WAS SIMPLY pap with a sinewy gravy that was supposed to be goat, but could have been anything.

  “Maybe it’s that woman’s goat,” Segodi joked. “And if it is, I can understand why you weren’t concerned that it was stolen.”

  Ixau smiled. “At one time, people would share. There was enough for everyone. Now one owns this and another owns that.”

  Segodi grunted. That was how things worked. He concentrated on his food, wondering what he was going to do about the dead Bushman. New Xade had been a dead end. Ixau could go on making inquiries, but nothing seemed to connect Heiseb with the people here. He was a nomad, just someone who passed through.

  Keen to get back to Ghanzi, Segodi took his leave of Ixau, told him to keep his ears open, and walked to where he’d parked his vehicle under the trees.

  The boy who had been smoking and drinking with the group was waiting for him on the far side of the car, out of sight of Ixau’s office. He looked scared. “Rra, I talk?” he asked in halting Setswana.

  “Of course. I’ll get Constable Ixau. He can help us talk.”

  The boy shook his head at once. “You only,” he said.

  Segodi hesitated, then nodded, unlocked the Land Rover, and told the boy to get in. He did so, leaving the door open, perhaps to let out some of the heat. Segodi did the same.

  “What do you want to tell me?” he asked, being careful to talk slowly.

  “Heiseb,” the boy said. “They follow sometimes.”

  “Who follows him?”

  The boy shrugged. “The men.”

  “Last week?”

  The youth shook his head. “I not know last week. But they follow. Sometimes.”

  “Why do they follow him?”

  “He know things. About plants. Special. For medicine. More than medicine.” The boy shook his head, frustrated by his inability to explain clearly in Setswana. He said something in his own language, but it meant nothing to Segodi. What did mean something to the detective was that Heiseb had something other Bushmen wanted. That could be a motive.

  “Why didn’t they just ask him? Trade it from him like they told us he liked to do?”

  The boy shook his head again. “Tried. He not give. He not trade. He say he has nothing. But we know. He very old!”

  Ixau came out of his office and spotted that the detective’s vehicle was still there. “Everything okay, Detective Sergeant?” he called, and started to walk over.

  “Yes, I was just talking to…” Segodi glanced to the passenger side, but the Bushman youth was gone. “Myself,” he finished. “I must be off. Thank you, Constable.” And he started the engine and plowed his way through the sand back to the road, leaving Ixau looking puzzled.

  * * *

  ON THE WAY back to Ghanzi, Segodi had plenty of time to think.

  The key was the footprints. He smiled. It hadn’t been two people walking in the desert together after all. Ixau had been wrong. It had been Heiseb searching for his magic plants or whatever nonsense it was, and then later someone else followed his tracks. Maybe that person came upon him digging up the plants; maybe they walked together to the road,
while the follower begged for some of the magic. Until, angrily, he tried to take it from Heiseb. And Heiseb’s brittle bones had broken, leaving his shocked assailant with a dead man. Then the follower panicked and ran back along the road toward New Xade. Ixau must have been wrong about the direction; it had been impossible to tell from those smudges in the sand.

  Had it been the boy? Segodi thought not. The boy was scared, but surely if he had been the culprit, the last thing he would have done was to volunteer any information to the police. No, it was one of the others. Alone. There had been only one other set of footprints. No witness. And it really was nothing more than a scuffle that had gone wrong.

  I’ll write my report tomorrow, he decided. I’ll explain what happened: accidental death following a scuffle with a person unknown. The coroner will be happy to get rid of it. And so will I.

  Despite the long drive, it had turned out to be a good day.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was with great reluctance that Samantha drove to Tlokweng to interview the wife of the missing witch doctor, Botlele Ramala. If Samantha had had her way, she’d have let him stay missing. To her way of thinking, a missing witch doctor was better than a found one, but not as good as a dead one.

  Her intense dislike of witch doctors emanated from her childhood, when a friend of hers went missing and was later found dead, parts of her body having been harvested for muti—supposedly a particularly potent potion. This traumatic event was the spark that made Samantha want to join the police. And since doing so, she’d focused both on pursuing cases of missing girls, cases that were often neglected by the police, and on trying to make the police force less chauvinistic—a task of great difficulty, in which she’d had little success.

  As much as she didn’t want to find this man, who called himself the chief of witch doctors with powers to heal, to influence, and to prolong life, Kubu was right. It did provide an opportunity to question people, not only about Ramala’s disappearance, but also about other cases where he might be involved.