Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  “He’ll drink himself to death,” one said as they dropped him off at home for the fourth time that week.

  “If he doesn’t get killed by someone at the bar first,” replied a second.

  ON THURSDAY WITNESS WAS walking toward the school when a pickup truck drove slowly by, posters pasted to its side, a loudspeaker blaring.

  “The government is destroying the country. It’s corrupt and getting worse. What are you going to do about it? Now is the time to stand up to the government and its nepotism. Join us in the fight. Come to a rally on Saturday morning at Motswedi Junior Secondary School. Come and hear the Freedom Party candidate, Jacob Pitso, and the leader of the Freedom Party, Bill Marumo, tell you how they can make the country strong again. How you can prosper. Believe in yourselves, and we can change the world!”

  Witness turned and shouted at the truck. “Marumo seduces young girls! He’s unfit for any office! He should be in jail!”

  Some of the ­people on the truck made obscene gestures in reply.

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, WITNESS woke up with a blinding headache. A week’s worth of Shake Shake and dagga was catching up to him. He struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily, then stumbled toward the kitchen to make tea.

  As he sat drinking it, he was overcome by sadness. Now he was sure that Tombi was gone; gone forever. His prayers hadn’t been answered; the police hadn’t turned up anything, and hadn’t traced the white car. No one except Rra Mikopi had come forward with any information. As he drooped over his tea, he heard music outside, bright, cheerful music. Then he heard the loudspeaker again, encouraging ­people to the school where the rally was to start in twenty minutes.

  Witness’s sadness turned to anger in a flash. It was ­people like Marumo who were responsible. Rich, famous, with big smiles, they could attract girls like the one who’d impersonated Tombi. Marumo and his friends were responsible for how bad Botswana had become, where nobody had morals anymore, where girls could disappear without a trace for God only knew what reason.

  He threw his teacup onto the floor and rushed to get dressed. Then he ran down the road toward the school. A large group of ­people were headed toward the playing field, which had a small platform set up at one end, surrounded by Botswana flags, alternating with posters of Pitso and Marumo. VOTE FOR FREEDOM posters were everywhere.

  “I’ll show him,” Witness muttered as he neared the school. As he panted into the parking lot, he saw the politicians walking toward the platform.

  “Rapist!” Witness shouted and sprinted toward the group. “You’re the Devil!”

  As he charged, several ­people tried to stop him, but he shoved them aside. Gordon and another of his drinking friends from Big Mama’s, who’d come to see the Freedom Party rally, spotted him and called out. When they saw Witness running toward the dignitaries, they shouted at him to stop, but he didn’t hear them. As he reached the front of the crowd, several young men pounced on him and brought him to the ground. He screamed and lashed out, catching one of the men with a glancing blow to the head. But they hung on, shouting for the police. At that moment, Witness’s two friends dashed up.

  “Don’t call the police!” Gordon exclaimed. “We’ll take him home. His daughter has disappeared, and he’s not himself.” Each took an arm. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything silly.” Reluctantly, the men pinning Witness agreed, not wanting a scene. Witness’s friends hauled him away from the crowd to their car and drove him home.

  They spent the next few hours inside Witness’s house drinking beer. The two men tried to persuade Witness that Marumo was just another politician, that his morals were no better and no worse than anyone else’s.

  “Witness, my friend. You’re imagining things. Marumo wouldn’t pick up young girls in a public place. And he wasn’t even in town that day!”

  “Get this nonsense out of your head,” Gordon said. “You’ll only get into trouble, and that won’t help matters.”

  Witness listened, but he didn’t believe. He knew what he knew. Marumo was an evil man. A man without morals. A man who seduced young girls. But, as they spoke, he just nodded, wishing they’d leave him alone.

  Eventually, when the men were sure that the rally had ended, they took their leave with a stern warning that Witness should behave. “Listen to us! Don’t do anything stupid!”

  As they walked to their car, Gordon shook his head. “Poor Witness,” he said to his friend. “He lost his wife last year, then he lost Tombi last week. Now he’s lost himself.”

  TEN

  SUNDAYS WERE FAMILY DAYS in the Bengu household. Kubu liked to stay in bed late, Joy curled up by his side, and let his mind float in and out of sleep. Later they would drive to Mochudi for lunch with his parents, a tradition that was rarely missed. Finally, in the evening, the family would relax at home.

  This Sunday, Kubu woke near seven with the sun streaming through the window. Joy was still asleep, and he could hear that Tumi and Nono were already awake and playing with Ilia in their room. They were obviously teasing the fox terrier, because every time she barked, there were loud shushes from the girls. Kubu smiled, but it faded as he thought of Nono’s future.

  She and Tumi played well together and enjoyed each other’s company. Around Joy and Kubu, she was polite and restrained, and she seemed to regard her temporary home with acceptance rather than enthusiasm. Kubu sighed. They really needed to find her a new home as soon as possible, so she could settle into a new life. But it was very difficult. No one wanted an HIV-­positive little girl.

  At last Joy stirred and gave him a sleepy kiss. Kubu put his arm over her and pulled her into his embrace. He kissed her neck. “I love you, my darling. So very much.” She smiled and snuggled even closer. Just as he was about to kiss her again, the door flew open, and the two young girls burst in. Tumi jumped on the bed, followed by Ilia. Nono stopped at the foot of the bed.

  “Mommy, Ilia caught a rat! A big one. It’s dead. In the hallway.”

  This news didn’t exactly make Joy’s day, so Kubu rolled out of bed to take care of the matter.

  “Coffee in bed?” Kubu asked. Joy smiled and nodded. He walked over to Nono and lifted her onto the bed with the others. “Do you girls want cereal for breakfast? With milk and sugar?”

  Tumi enthused, and Nono nodded with a shy smile. Kubu smiled back and went to start the day.

  THE TRAFFIC TO MOCHUDI was unusually light, and few cows and sheep had strayed onto the road to slow progress. As soon as they turned into Kgafela Drive, Ilia jumped up and stuck her nose out the slightly open window, tail wagging furiously. She knew where they were. They drove past the Taliban Haircut & Car Wash and the dubiously named Jailbird Security Company. Nono, who had never been outside Gaborone before, looked around with wide eyes.

  They arrived at Kubu’s parents’ house at around noon, earlier than expected. As soon as Joy opened the door, Ilia bounded up the stairs to the veranda and jumped onto the lap of Kubu’s waiting father. Wilmon patted her for a few moments and then struggled to his feet to greet his family. Ilia yelped as she jumped off his lap. At the sound of the car doors, Kubu’s mother, Amantle, came out of the house and stood at the top of the stairs beaming.

  Kubu walked up the stairs and greeted his parents formally, in the traditional Tswana way. “Dumela, rra. Dumela, mma.” He then extended his right arm to his father, touching it with his left hand as a mark of respect.

  Wilmon took Kubu’s hand and responded solemnly: “Dumela, my son.”

  “I have arrived,” Kubu said. “And I apologize for being early. The traffic was light.”

  “You are welcome in my house. How are you, my son?”

  “I am well, Father. How are you and Mother?”

  “We are also fine.” Wilmon’s voice was strong, but quiet.

  Then Joy reached the veranda, the girls in tow. She and Amantle embraced affectionately—­Amantle
had long regarded Joy as a daughter. Then Joy hugged Wilmon—­a nontraditional greeting that always confused the old man. He obviously liked the touch but was uncomfortable with the intimacy. Tumi rushed around demanding to be picked up and kissed, and her grandparents reciprocated her affection with huge smiles. Finally, Joy introduced Nono, who was hanging back, apart from the proceedings.

  “Come, Nono. This is Kubu’s father, Uncle Wilmon, and this is his mother, Aunt Amantle. Come and say hello.”

  The girl came forward, accepted a hug from each of them, and then stood looking around. With her usual enthusiasm, Tumi said, “Come, Nono, let’s go to the garden. Grandfather has plants for medicine. I know their names!” She glanced at Wilmon for permission. He nodded, and they ran off.

  The women went into the kitchen carrying the provisions that Kubu and Joy had brought, leaving the men alone on the small veranda. Wilmon turned to Kubu and nodded thoughtfully.

  “I am glad you have another child. It is good for a man to have many children.”

  Kubu looked at him with surprise. “We can’t keep her, Father. We’re only looking after her for a few weeks.”

  Wilmon frowned. “Where did she come from then?”

  Kubu sighed. He had told his father the whole story by phone earlier in the week. “She isn’t my child, Father. Joy knew her sister. We’re just looking after her.”

  Wilmon shook his head. “You should have more children,” he said with annoyance. “You should not look after the children of other ­people, because they will not look after you when you are old!”

  He looked around. “Where are the girls?” He struggled to his feet, causing an irritated Ilia to fall to the ground again. He stepped off the veranda and looked toward the back of the house. “Look! They are in my herb garden.” He called out angrily to the girls. “Children! Come out of there right away. Quickly now!”

  The girls ran up with worried expressions. Kubu came to their defense. “Father, you told them it was okay to look at the herbs.” But now Wilmon was smiling. “Tell me what you saw, girls. Tumi, what are the names of the plants?”

  Kubu frowned. His father’s thoughts often jumped without apparent connection these days. His mother must have noticed it, too. He would have to talk to her. It was time for his father to see a doctor, but he had no idea how they would persuade him to do that.

  JOY HAD BROUGHT FRESH tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, radishes, and a selection of cold meats and fruits. It wasn’t traditional fare, but Kubu liked a generous cold lunch on a hot Sunday. And the older Bengus had also come to enjoy this style of meal. At home, Kubu would wash it down with a generous helping of dry white wine, suitably chilled, and retire for an afternoon nap. However, Wilmon didn’t approve of wine on the Sabbath, so Kubu had brought a cooler with the makings of steelworks, his favorite nonalcoholic drink—­Kola tonic, lime juice, ginger beer, bitters, and ice.

  While Kubu made a pitcher of the drink, Joy and Amantle worked in the kitchen, slicing cucumbers, washing lettuce, halving radishes, and making a fruit salad.

  “Nono is a sweet little girl,” said Amantle. “It is a pity about the AIDS. It is so sad.”

  Joy paused. “She doesn’t have AIDS, my mother. She’s HIV positive. She’s had the virus from birth. But she’s perfectly healthy right now. As healthy as you and me.” She went back to her vegetables.

  Amantle continued. “And you must be worried about Tumi. You know how children are. Touching and kissing. I am very worried about her. She could pick it up, too.” She finished washing the lettuce. “Do you want to keep Nono?”

  “She’s just with us for a few weeks. Till we can find her a permanent home,” Joy said firmly. “Have you finished the lettuce?”

  “I think you want to keep her. I do not mind—­everybody needs a family, but you must fix the AIDS problem.”

  “Fix it? What do you mean?”

  “When Kubu told me about it on the phone, I spoke to Wilmon. He knows about these matters. He makes good medicines from his herbs, but not for this. First, we must all pray.” She hesitated. “And then Wilmon knows someone who handles such things. A very wise woman. She only deals with good spells and medicines. She can fix the AIDS. But Kubu will have to pay. You will need to arrange it with him.”

  All Joy’s training and education kicked in. Nothing cured HIV. Antiretrovirals only held it at bay—­if you could get them. She shook her head.

  “Joy? Are you listening to me?”

  “A witch doctor? It’s not possible. You can’t fix AIDS. HIV is a virus. You can’t wish it away.”

  “This woman can. You know Funile, who lives by the school? She tested positive. She took the special medicine, and we all prayed. And the next test was negative!”

  Joy muttered about false positives, then finished the salad in silence. Amantle let the matter drop. But just for the moment.

  WHEN THE PREPARATIONS WERE complete, they all sat down around the small dining room table. After Kubu poured the steelworks, they joined hands, and Wilmon said grace. Then they all tucked in.

  As they ate, Kubu watched the two girls. Tumi picked out the food she liked best, while Nono, as usual, ate everything she was given. She’s never had enough to eat before, Kubu thought. That should never happen in a country as rich as Botswana.

  When the meal was over, Kubu turned to his mother. “Do you recall the Khama family here? There was a girl called Samantha. She’s in the CID now. She works with us.”

  Amantle thought for a moment. “Yes, it is a good family. I remember Samantha. She was a pretty girl. Is she married now?”

  Kubu realized that he didn’t know the answer to this most important of questions, so he just shook his head. Amantle continued, “Well, I am not surprised she cannot find a man if she joined the police. It is not a proper job for a girl. She should already have several children.” She paused. “It is interesting that you should mention her. I was thinking about her last week.”

  “Why was that, Mother?”

  “I saw Dikeledi Betse at the café. She is the sister of Lesego Betse. You know, the girl who disappeared last Christmas?” She looked at the two children, who were staring at her wide-­eyed. “Never mind. She reminded me of another girl who disappeared in Mochudi—­Segametsi Mogomotsi. You remember her, of course. It is nearly twenty years since she disappeared. The police never solved that case, either. Samantha and Segametsi were very good friends.”

  Kubu said nothing. This explained a lot about Samantha’s behavior.

  It was Joy who responded. “The case was never solved because the police didn’t care enough about it. Probably they were told not to. It’s all part of the corruption in Botswana. The ­people who run this country are only interested in their own positions. I’m tired of it.”

  Amantle and Wilmon stared at her. They were not used to Joy straying outside her social role. She was usually the oil that made the family functions harmonious.

  Wilmon said, “My child. You were not even alive when Botswana became independent. And you did not live through the period before independence. We had very little. We were poor. But today the country has cities and factories and employment. We can be proud.” He nodded and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look.

  “The things we have, we have because of the diamonds,” Joy said. “Some of that money went to useful things. But only some of it.”

  Amantle chipped in. “Joy is right, my husband. They never found who killed Segametsi. And now there is Lesego, and there have been others. Who knows what happens to these girls? The police do nothing or everything is kept secret.”

  Kubu said, “What you say isn’t right, Mother. In fact, Samantha is working on exactly these issues, and I’m helping her. The police are very active in these cases. But they are hard to solve because—­”

  “Because they aren’t seen as important, or there are high-­up ­people in
volved,” Joy interrupted.

  The two children sat quietly and looked from one adult to the other. The talk of the murders didn’t frighten them—­they didn’t understand that—­but they sensed friction developing. Nono put her hands over her mouth.

  “That’s why I support the Freedom Party,” said Joy. “Marumo may not have all the answers, but at least he’s asking the right questions.”

  Kubu snorted. “I had the pleasure of meeting him last week. I’m sure you all heard about the dog’s head at his door? I was sent to investigate. He wasn’t interested in that at all. He just cared about getting as much publicity as possible for the by-­election in Gaborone North. I wouldn’t be surprised if he set up the whole thing himself.”

  “There are stories that he sleeps with many women,” Wilmon began, but Amantle interrupted.

  “Many ­people here have heard him speak and have met him. He is trying to make things better. I do not think you should talk about him like that.”

  Kubu was dumbfounded. On the domestic front, Amantle’s word was law. But he had never heard her contradict a man on a matter of business or politics. He realized that he’d underestimated his mother after all these years. Perhaps Joy was influencing her.

  “Bongani and Pleasant support him, too,” Joy said. “Bongani is a professor. So he knows about these things.”

  Wilmon shook his head. “These ­people do not understand that we must preserve our culture and our history. They want everything changed. But change does not always mean that things are better. Sometimes they are only different. Sometimes they are worse.” Wilmon leaned back and folded his arms.

  Amantle stood up abruptly and started removing the dirty dishes. Kubu could see she was angry. He could see Joy was angry. He could see that Wilmon—­stubborn as always—­wouldn’t budge. How had this discussion got out of hand so quickly? Why was it that women always reacted emotionally instead of weighing the points of discussion? Was this Marumo’s secret weapon? That the women believed his façade?