Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  Kubu checked his watch. If he hurried, he could still spend some time with Tumi and Nono before they went to bed. He smiled, and his feet felt better as he started walking away.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING, and Kubu was looking forward to seeing his parents. They hadn’t visited the previous week because his parents’ church in Mochudi had hosted an all-­day retreat that they’d attended. When Kubu spoke to his mother during the week, she said that she’d found the day very uplifting, but that his father had behaved strangely. Wilmon had become quite agitated and had argued with the pastor about a variety of issues. It had started with Wilmon being upset by two young women who arrived in shorts and T-­shirts, and he’d harangued the pastor to eject them, saying that they were being disrespectful. When the pastor replied that he was pleased to see young ­people taking their religion seriously, Wilmon had shouted at him for ignoring the traditions of respect and for encouraging disrespect. It was only when Amantle led Wilmon from the room and scolded him that he settled down.

  As they drove to Mochudi, Kubu and Joy ignored the squeals and shouts of Tumi and Nono playing in the back of the Land Rover and discussed Wilmon’s uncharacteristic behavior.

  “I’m worried that he’s getting dementia or Alzheimer’s,” Kubu said, as he negotiated a small herd of cows that had wandered onto the road. “I can’t remember ever seeing him shout at anyone, except that time he got so angry with the kids for being in his garden. I think he needs to see a doctor.”

  “Good luck!” Joy replied. “I’d be amazed if Amantle can make that happen.”

  “Perhaps you can talk to her, my dear,” Kubu said. “She loves and respects you. I think you’ve a better chance.”

  Joy thought for a few moments. “I’ll try, but I’m not optimistic.”

  “Now let’s have some fun,” Kubu said with a smile. “Tumi. Nono. Get ready. We’re going to sing.”

  The two girls squealed with delight.

  “What do you want to sing?”

  “The hippo song! The hippo song!”

  Kubu sighed. Ever since the girls had heard the song—­which Kubu had translated into Setswana for them—­they always wanted it. He needn’t have bothered to ask.

  “Okay, let’s go.” They all joined in.

  Mud, mud, glorious mud.

  Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.

  So follow me, follow, down to the hollow,

  And there let us wallow in glorious mud!

  When they finished the rousing Flanders and Swann song, the kids clamored for a reprise. And so Kubu and his family sang all the way to Mochudi.

  THE LAND ROVER PULLED up in front of the senior Bengu’s home just before eleven-­thirty. As soon as they opened the doors, Ilia bounded up the stairs and jumped onto Wilmon’s lap. He scratched her nose and tickled her ears, and she started to pant contentedly.

  Tumi followed closely behind Ilia and was enveloped in a big hug from Amantle. Even the reserved Wilmon smiled as Tumi threw her arms around the old man’s neck. Nono was more hesitant but obviously enjoyed Amantle’s attention. However, Wilmon’s frown kept her from embracing him.

  “My son,” Wilmon said as Kubu reached the veranda. “Why did you not tell me you had another child? What is her name?”

  “Father, she’s not our daughter. Her name is Nono, and she’s Tumi’s friend. We are looking after her at the moment. She was with us two weeks ago when we visited you. Remember?”

  Wilmon looked puzzled for a few moments, then extended his hand and greeted Kubu in the traditional manner. As was her wont, Joy was much less formal and embraced both of them with much affection.

  Wilmon gave the two children permission to explore his vegetable garden, and the adults sat down to enjoy a cup of tea and catch up on the previous two weeks’ news.

  “And how is Pleasant?” Amantle asked Joy. “Is she pregnant yet? Bongani takes so much time to make decisions that soon she’ll be too old to have children. I’ve never met a man who is so slow.”

  Joy smiled. “I’m hoping that there will be good news soon. Pleasant told me that they had decided it was time to have a child soon.”

  “Aaii. I don’t understand ­people anymore.” Amantle shook her head. “When you get married, you should have children right away. ­People think too much now. They should just do what God intended them to do.”

  “You are right, my mother,” Joy said. “But Bongani wants to be a good father and have the time to spend with his child.”

  “I hope Pleasant will stop working. She’s lucky to have found someone who would marry a woman who worked. A woman’s place is at home.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be a wonderful mother.”

  While this exchange was taking place, Kubu watched his father. The old man looked the same as ever, quietly watching the others talking.

  “Father, let us leave the women and take a walk before lunch. I always like seeing your friends.”

  Wilmon struggled to his feet, and the two men walked down the steps to the sandy road.

  PREPARING THE COLD MEAT and salads was an excellent time for the two women to talk about topics they would not discuss in front of the men.

  “Joy dear, how are things with Nono? What are you going to do about her?”

  Joy stopped what she was doing. “I don’t know. She is such a lovely girl when you break through her shyness.”

  “Do you want to adopt her?” Amantle cut to the core of the matter.

  “At first we thought we’d look after her until we found a good home. We never thought we’d start to love her as though she were our own.”

  “What does Kubu think about the idea?”

  “Well, we haven’t actually talked about it directly, but I can see how much he enjoys having her around. And Tumi would be very upset if Nono left. She’s like a sister now. I’ll have to speak to Kubu soon about it all.”

  “And what about her AIDS?”

  Joy controlled herself. “She doesn’t have AIDS, my mother. She has the HIV virus, but it is under control with retrovirals.”

  “I think you should speak—­”

  “Wilmon can’t help her, nor can any of his healer friends.”

  “But . . .”

  “I always listen to you, my mother, but this is one thing you are wrong about. I work with kids the whole time, and I know all about it.”

  Amantle took another tack. “Has she seen a doctor?”

  “Yes. We’ve taken her to see Dr. Patel—­he’s our doctor—­and she also sees the doctor who comes each week to where I work. They both say she’s fine and quite safe to be with Tumi.”

  “Do they know what they are doing?”

  “Yes, my mother. They both work at a lot of schools and know all about HIV.”

  “Well, my dear, I can see you want to adopt Nono. Even though I am afraid for Tumi and you, I will treat her as my own granddaughter. She is very quiet, but I like her.”

  Joy gave Amantle a huge smile, relieved that she’d come round. It would be easy to persuade Kubu with Amantle on her side.

  “Thank you, my mother. Thank you.”

  WILMON AND KUBU WALKED down the street and were greeted by numerous passersby. Wilmon smiled and proudly told everyone that his son was an important man in the police—­a comment he’d made for at least ten years on their frequent walks around the neighborhood. After walking around the block, they were nearly home when Wilmon’s neighbor Edwin came up to them.

  “Hello, Wilmon. Hello, Kubu,” he said jovially.

  Wilmon took his extended hand and shook it, respectfully touching his right arm with his left hand. “How did you know my name?” he asked.

  Edwin burst out laughing. “Your father is becoming a joker in his old age,” he said to Kubu.

  “Who are you, rra?” Wilmon was quite
serious. Kubu and Edwin exchanged glances.

  “Father,” Kubu said. “This is your neighbor, Edwin Ngombe. You’ve known him for many years.”

  Wilmon frowned, staring at Edwin. Then he smiled. “I know you, but I can’t remember your name.”

  “It’s Edwin Ngombe, Wilmon. I live next door.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, rra. Please come and visit my wife, Amantle, and me for tea. I will ask Amantle to make arrangements with your wife.”

  “Okay, Wilmon. I will do that.” Edwin looked at Kubu and shrugged.

  “Come on, Father. It’s lunchtime. We must go. Goodbye, Edwin.” As he turned to leave, he continued in a whisper. “Have you noticed this before?”

  Edwin nodded. “It’s so sad to see this happening to such a wonderful old man.”

  “MY MOTHER, THERE IS one other thing I want to talk to you about.”

  Amantle frowned. “Is there a problem?”

  “You mentioned on the phone that Wilmon behaved strangely last Sunday at the retreat. We’ve also noticed some changes in his behavior. Is it getting bad?”

  Amantle leaned against the counter. “My dear, I am so scared. He cannot remember things I tell him just a few minutes before. He sometimes does not remember ­people he has known for many years.”

  “I think you should take him to a doctor.”

  “I can’t do that, my dear. He won’t go.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Joy, when you have known Wilmon for as long as I have, you will know that you can’t force him to do anything.”

  Joy sighed. “But he must see someone,” she said.

  Amantle just shook her head.

  “I have an idea,” Joy said. “Let me speak to Kubu.”

  “My dear, please don’t force him to do anything. I have to live with him.”

  “I promise, my mother. We won’t do anything without talking to you.”

  ON THE WAY HOME, Joy broached her idea with Kubu.

  “Your mother’s also worried about Wilmon. She says he’s deteriorating quickly. Mentally, that is.”

  “I know. He didn’t even remember Edwin Ngombe. He’s only known him for thirty years.”

  “He needs to see a doctor but refuses to go.”

  “Can we sing some more?” Tumi shouted from the backseat.

  “Your mother and I are talking. We’ll sing in a few minutes,” Kubu said.

  “Next Sunday, let’s have them to our house for lunch. We can ask Dr. Patel if he’ll come to the house when they’re there.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”

  Kubu and Joy sat in silence, each wondering about the implications for the family if Wilmon continued to deteriorate so quickly.

  “Can we sing now, Daddy?” Tumi asked.

  Although not in the mood, Kubu nodded.

  “It’s Sunday. Let’s sing a hymn,” he suggested, hoping to avoid the hippo song.

  “ ‘Jingle Bells.’ I want ‘Jingle Bells’!” Nono called out.

  Kubu glanced at Joy and smiled.

  Part Five

  A DEED WITHOUT A NAME

  “How now, you secret, black, and midnight Hags? What is’t you do?”

  “A deed without a name.”

  MACBETH, ACT 4, SCENE 1

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  MABAKU AND KUBU WEREN’T sure if they’d be welcome at the deputy commissioner’s home. Or what they would find, if they were. All the deputy commissioner’s PA had told them was that Gobey was ill, and she was canceling all his appointments for the week.

  Mabaku rang the bell, and Maria opened the door.

  “I’m Jacob Mabaku, Mma Gobey. I’m a colleague of your husband. And this is Assistant Superintendent Bengu. We’re from the CID. We need to see the deputy commissioner. I’m sorry he’s not well, but I’m afraid it’s quite urgent.”

  Maria looked at the two men; she was unsure what to do. But Kubu smiled and held out his hand so that she had no option but to take it. “You’d better come in. I’ll see if he’ll talk to you.” She had meant them to stay in the hall while she found out, but they followed her up the stairs.

  “He likes to sleep alone when he’s not well,” she said almost apologetically. “He thinks his coughing will disturb me. I don’t mind, of course, but he insists . . .”

  Kubu nodded sympathetically. “It’s very natural that he’d be concerned.” He hoped Joy wouldn’t decide to solve his snoring problem that way.

  She brought them to the closed door of the guest room and stopped. “When he came home on Friday, he wouldn’t tell me what had happened. Just that he wasn’t well. He looked terrible. I gave him supper, but he just fiddled with it. Hardly ate a thing. Just drank some water. He usually enjoys a beer on a Friday. Then he went to bed. He hasn’t been up the whole weekend. And he hardly eats or drinks. Just a little water.”

  Kubu could see that she was close to tears.

  “Can’t you call family?”

  “Our son phoned from Francistown. Tebogo talked to him, but he sounded so flat. They’re usually so close.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He won’t see anyone. I know he won’t want to talk to you, but I thought maybe work colleagues—­”

  “We’ll try to help,” Mabaku said. “The deputy commissioner is a good man. He has helped make the BPF a first-­rate police force. He needs to know that.”

  Maria nodded and opened the door. “Tebogo, these men are from the CID. They need your input very urgently. Please help them.” She sounded desperate.

  Gobey was lying on his side wearing long pajama bottoms, with just his feet under the covers. His head was turned away from them, facing the wall. His back gleamed with sweat.

  Kubu was shocked at how ill he looked. He’d never visualized the deputy commissioner as other than a leader, appropriately dressed.

  “Go away,” Gobey said without turning to them. “I’m sick. It’s the weekend. I’ll see you in my office on Monday.”

  “Tebogo, it is Monday,” Maria said nervously.

  Gobey rolled over and tried to sit up. But it seemed too much effort. Maria propped him up with some pillows. He started to cough, and she had to find his inhaler. It had fallen onto the floor and rolled under the bed.

  After a few minutes Gobey was a little better and more alert. He focused on the two men.

  “Mabaku, Bengu, what do you want?”

  Kubu leaned forward. “We need you, Deputy Commissioner. You have to help us catch this evil man. He’ll kill again. You’re our only link. Our one hope of getting to him before he murders another child.” Maria gasped but didn’t interrupt.

  Gobey looked from Kubu to Mabaku and back. “I’ve told you what I know. I tried to help you. I can’t do anything now. He doesn’t need me anymore. Don’t you understand?” Suddenly he jerked up and peered over the end of the bed. Then he relaxed back onto the cushions and started to cough. When he could talk again, he said to Maria, “Why did you bring them here? I said I didn’t want to see anybody.” He turned his back and faced the wall again. He started to shiver, and Maria pulled the covers over him.

  “You’d better go,” Maria said. She sounded defeated. They left the room, and she closed the door.

  Mabaku took her hand. “Mma Gobey, he needs a doctor.”

  She shook her head. “He won’t see anyone.”

  “I’ve seen this before, mma. He believes the witch doctor has cursed him. It’s in his head somehow. You will need a real doctor, but maybe also a witch doctor to lift the curse.”

  “We don’t believe in that sort of stuff,” Maria whispered, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “We go to church. We trust in God.”

  “Well, get your minister then. The church also believes in demons, in exorcism. You must do this at once before it’s too late.”

  Kub
u wondered if Mabaku was serious. He was talking about a deputy commissioner of police! An educated man, respected throughout southern Africa. Then he thought of the man in the room next to them, scared and sweating and shivering. He’d probably absorbed his belief in witch doctors with his mother’s milk. “I think the director is right, mma. Phone your son. Tell him to come at once. This is a crisis.”

  The woman appeared helpless. She just stared at them and nodded, but without conviction. Then the tears started to flow silently, and she turned away.

  They saw themselves out.

  THIRTY-NINE

  KUBU WAS DEPRESSED WHEN he returned to his office. He didn’t know the deputy commissioner well—­Mabaku had more interaction at that level—­but he’d grown to respect the man. Now Gobey needed help, but his wife and family seemed too weak to shoulder the load. Kubu badly wanted to get his hands on the witch doctor behind all this, but they had so little to go on. He calmed himself down by having two cups of tea and several cookies.

  He was in a better mood when the door opened and one of the detectives handed him a phone message.

  “For you. She rang about an hour ago.”

  Kubu looked at the paper. Please call Helenka, it read. ASAP.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number for Helenka Koslov, the forensic IT specialist.

  “I look at computer from shebeen,” she said, after a short greeting. “Only two times computer used for Hushmail. First one in December last year. Last one, one week ago. Monday, May seventh, at sixteen-­forty-­five, for three minutes. Don’t know who used it. Same person also looked at Yahoo and Johannesburg Stock Exchange. Does shebeen have CCTV? Easy to check then.”

  “No, it doesn’t, unfortunately. And there are none in the streets around the shebeen. But I’ll ask if anyone remembers who was using the computer at that time.”