Kubu thought for a moment, then said, “I know that happened, Khumanego. But things have changed—for the better. The government is concerned about the Bushmen now. Perhaps because of the outside pressure or perhaps because of changes in the ministers. And the police have new leadership. That couldn’t happen again.”
“We’ll see.”
Kubu found he had nothing more to say. The affair had been a disaster, and Botswana had lost face in the eyes of the world.
They drove in silence for some time until they came to Jwaneng, bypassing the town on the left and the brooding diamond-mine dump on the right.
“And how much of that wealth did my people see?” Khumanego asked, coming to life once again and pointing at the huge pile of tailings. Kubu just shrugged; Khumanego obviously didn’t expect an answer.
As they reached the verges of the Kalahari Desert, Khumanego’s mood improved. As more red crept into the gray sand, he spoke enthusiastically of life in the area, the edible and medicinal plants he spotted, and how once this land had plenty of game if you knew how to find it. At one point he asked Kubu to stop so that he could speak to a small group of Bushmen who eked out a living by being a tourist attraction in a small camp near the main road. The Bushmen squatted on their haunches and talked. The conversation was prolonged, and Kubu was hot and hungry by the time it was over. But when he asked Khumanego what it was all about, he merely shrugged and said, “They see things. They watch things. The tourists laugh at them. But they are all right.”
Near noon, they stopped at a roadside cafe and bought some more sandwiches. The sun glared down at them, and they cowered in the stuffy cafe. Kubu grumbled that the bread was stale and the meat tough, but Khumanego ate without complaint. At least they had cold drinks from the cooler in the car.
When they returned to the Land Rover, it was boiling. Although Kubu had forced it as far as he could under the branches of an acacia tree, the back window remained in the sun, and heat streamed from the open front windows.
Once they were under way again, Khumanego suddenly became talkative. “David, you have to understand about my people. People don’t understand. Even good, smart people like you. You think we want too much, that we should be happy to join with everyone else, to be the same. Some of us want that. Some want to be the same. But others want to be as we were, to have what we had, not more, not less. Is that unreasonable?”
Kubu thought about it. “It depends what it means, Khumanego. This is one country after all, and the laws must apply to everyone. But the laws must be fair. Fair to your people, in particular. I know that hasn’t always been the case.”
Khumanego shook his head. “More than that. We had land before. Land that wasn’t ours, but it wasn’t not ours. Do you understand? It’s not about ownership—that is an alien concept for us—Bushmen don’t own anything. It’s about the right to use. We believe that nobody owns the earth. The earth is there to be shared. Not horded. Or claimed. Or fenced. We must use the earth so it can sustain all that lives on it. That is why we never kill more than we can eat, or harvest so much that the next person will find nothing and starve. That is what we must fight for today—the right to use as we have always used. We are at a point where we must stand up for ourselves, or just be swept away like sand.”
Kubu could see that his friend was struggling to explain, trying to control the intensity of his feelings.
“We have to fight to keep the government from taking our culture, from making us empty of who we are. Making us nothing.”
They drove in silence for a while, each with his thoughts. At last Kubu spoke quietly. “Your people are lucky to have you arguing for them, Khumanego. Don’t give up.”
Tsabong was a helter-skelter of houses seemingly randomly scattered over the flat sands. They clustered around a dry pan, which would occasionally flood the nearest ones after heavy rain. But the pan meant that water was accessible below the surface.
As Kubu drove down the main street, recently tarred, he spotted a gas station and pulled in to fill up. The attendant shook her head. There was no gas today. Perhaps down the road. Perhaps not.
Kubu thanked her and drove on. At the next station they were in luck. There was a buzz of activity as cars fueled while supplies lasted. After Kubu paid, the attendant gave him directions to the Mokha Lodge, the usual lodging for government employees, and they weaved between the houses until they reached it. When they turned into the sandy car park, Kubu didn’t know whether to be aghast or delighted. The entire outside of the hotel was painted a bright burned orange—a bold statement in the desert sands. Then he spotted the window air-conditioning units and decided the hotel would be quite satisfactory.
Khumanego settled for a modest single room. He liked small rooms, perhaps surprisingly after the openness of the desert. But he felt that he fitted a small room. For once, things were the right size. He unpacked his overnight bag, thinking how much more he carried now for a few days than he would have living full-time in the desert. He wondered how long he would have to stay in Tsabong this time and whether Kubu could save his friends from jail. He ground his teeth, trying to keep feelings of worry and anger at bay. Then he washed his face and headed to the Sand Dune bar to meet Kubu for a quick cold drink. They would visit Lerako next. Kubu would just introduce him as interpreter, and he was to keep his mouth firmly shut. The Bushman role, he thought bitterly.
Khumanego found the bar, opening onto the heat of the veranda. Behind the counter was a small two-door refrigerator containing beer, soft drinks, and a few bottles of inexpensive South African wine. The counter was decorated by a small vase of purple plastic flowers, which partly obscured a large dispenser of free condoms mounted on the wall. Khumanego shook his head in disbelief.
A black woman was sitting on one of the bar stools, drinking what appeared to be soda water. Her hair hung in braids around a long face. Oakley sunglasses clasped her ears and balanced on the top of her head. She was wearing blue running shorts and an orange tank top stretched over broad shoulders and generous breasts. Strong legs descended to running shoes and white socks. Khumanego was amazed to see her, and embarrassed. But there was nothing he could do. She was bound to recognize him. He walked up to her and held out his hand.
“Cindy, what a surprise.”
For a moment she looked down at him quizzically, and Khumanego realized that she might not have recognized him after all. The invisible Bushman. All look the same. “Khumanego!” She mispronounced his name using a hard k. “Great to see you! What are you doing here?” The two sentences revealed her Southern U.S. accent.
Khumanego didn’t answer her question, but indicated Kubu, who was sitting at a table watching this exchange. “This is Superintendent David Bengu of the Botswana CID. He’s come to help us.” He glanced at Kubu’s surprised face. “David, this is Cindy Robinson. She’s a freelance journalist from the U.S.”
Cindy offered Kubu a smile, walked over, and firmly took his hand as he struggled to stand. “So you’ve come to sort out this mess with the Bushman suspects, Superintendent? Something to do with my call to the director of the CID perhaps?”
“Assistant Superintendent. I’m here to assist the local CID people, in case they need extra help.”
“And do they need extra help, do you think?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t comment on the case at this point. Our investigations are continuing.”
Cindy laughed, a loud, attractive laugh. “You’ve been watching American TV, Mr. Bengu! Don’t worry, I won’t quiz you about the case. But we’re the only guests here tonight. Shall we have dinner together? Here or somewhere else if you like. It’s not much fun being alone in Tsabong.”
Kubu hesitated, obviously uncomfortable. “I’m not sure if it would be appropriate . . .” he began, but Cindy interrupted. “Look, just dinner. You off duty, and me off the record. Promise.”
“Of course,” said Kubu after a brief pause. “Khumanego?”
Khumanego wasn’t happy about it
at all, but it would be rude to refuse. And he might need Cindy’s help again one day. “That would be nice,” he said.
“Great! See you later then. I’m going for a run now. See you here at around six?” With that Cindy swallowed the soda water, pulled the sunglasses over her eyes, and headed out into the heat.
Detective Sergeant Lerako met Kubu in his office while Khumanego waited outside. Lerako had made a point of firmly closing the door on him. Yet he was more amenable than Kubu had expected.
“You’re welcome to talk to the suspects. Use your own translator if you like. See what you can get out of the bastards.”
“What have you got so far?”
“Nothing. They deny everything. They say they were in the area and came on this man lying in the donga. Tried to help. But of course that ignores all the other evidence. I suppose you’ve reviewed it. We checked for a hundred yards in all directions. There were no footprints, except for the Bushmen’s. Unless the murderer could fly, nobody else was there. And there was the ongoing animosity between Monzo and the Bushmen—they’d had run-ins before—the murder weapon in the riverbed, and the fact that they were all there when Ndoli arrived. Much too much of a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“You sound like Director Mabaku. He’s not strong on coincidences either. Did any of them say they saw the man fall? Or just that they found him?”
“They found him.”
“And the murder weapon? What was it exactly?”
“Hard chunk of calcrete. It’s limestone and absorbs fluids. So there was enough blood on it and in it to test. Got the results back this morning. Human blood all right. I was spot-on.” He hesitated.
“But?”
“No fingerprints.”
So that was it. Lerako’s case had just become much weaker. There was nothing to connect any of the Bushmen directly to the murder. “Is it possible it was an accident after all? He slipped and hit his head so hard on a piece of protruding calcrete that it broke off and fell too?”
Lerako shook his head. “Too far away from the body. It must’ve been thrown.” He might be battling for evidence, but he wasn’t going to give up on his murder.
Kubu didn’t rub it in. “Well, let’s see if I can get anything more out of the suspects,” he said.
Kubu interviewed the three Bushmen together. Normally he would have seen them separately, trying to get contradictory stories, trying to catch them out. But Lerako had tried that to no avail. Kubu wanted the three men to feel that this was a more sympathetic meeting, that they were witnesses rather than suspects. Khumanego had introduced the three—Dcaro, Gai, and N!xau—but Kubu wasn’t sure that he could remember their names let alone pronounce them. He addressed them as a group through Khumanego.
“What were you doing when you found the man lying in the donga?” he asked.
“They were looking for food!” Khumanego replied at once.
“Please ask them, Khumanego.”
Khumanego gave Kubu a quizzical look, but then turned to the Bushmen and spoke. After a few minutes of discussion he turned to Kubu and said, “They were hunting.”
“What were they hunting for?”
“Anything they could find. They say they caught two spring hares. They fished them out of their burrows with hooked sticks.”
“Did any of them hear anything or see anything before they found the man?”
Again there was discussion, but when Khumanego reverted to English he had nothing to add. They had discovered the man lying in the donga unconscious, and that was all they knew.
Kubu sighed and started from the beginning. Where was their camp? When had they left it? Where had they gone? How long until they discovered Monzo? What did they do then? How long until Ndoli had appeared? It took a long time, but the answers seemed natural and consistent. At last he got up and indicated to Khumanego that they should leave. But Dcaro had a question. He spoke to Khumanego for almost a minute. Then Khumanego turned to Kubu.
“Dcaro says that they have done nothing wrong. That they tried to help the man who was hurt. That they are sorry that he died but it wasn’t their fault. He wants to know when they can go back to their people. He is worried that they are starving. There are only a few men left to hunt.” All the Bushmen looked at Kubu expectantly. He thought for a few moments. There was really no case against them. They should, in fact, never have been arrested. His instinct was that they should be released immediately, but he remembered Mabaku’s warning. He should at least go to where the body had been found, and check the suspects’ story with the other members of their band tomorrow. He sighed. “Soon,” he said. He saw the hope fade from their faces.
Khumanego said little on the way back to the hotel. Kubu explained that he wanted to visit the band, and Khumanego nodded. “I understand,” he said. “They’re guilty until they prove themselves innocent.” But he said it as a matter of fact, without rancor.
It was six when they got back, and Cindy was already in the bar. Kubu excused himself to have a shower before dinner, leaving Cindy and Khumanego alone. When he returned almost half an hour later, he found Khumanego with an orange juice and the reporter drinking a beer. Khumanego looked uncomfortable. Serves him right, Kubu thought. Teach him to try to use reporters. “Let’s get some wine,” he said. “And some dinner. I’m starving. I’ve had nothing all day except some cereal—with awful skim milk—and a few sandwiches on the way here.”
They settled at a table in the hotel restaurant and studied the menu. Kubu battled to choose between the restaurant’s famous (so the menu trumpeted) Hunger-Buster rump steak and the Ranch House oxtail stew. Bulk versus taste. Eventually he settled for the oxtail with a side order of chips. Cindy ordered the Mongolian beef-and-vegetable stir-fry, and Khumanego the goat stew. Kubu then ordered a ginger beer—a steelworks seemed highly unlikely—and the wine list. The waiter shook his head. There was no wine list. They did have wine, but he didn’t know what it was. Kubu sighed, and thinking of the red meats, asked for a red. The waiter said he would try to find one. When the drinks came, the wine was a generic cabernet from a big South African producer. Kubu consoled himself with the ginger beer while the wine breathed. Gasped would be a better word, he thought, given how warm the bottle was.
“So, Ms. Robinson,” he said turning to the reporter, “what brings you to Botswana?” As if I didn’t know, he thought sourly.
“Please call me Cindy. May I call you David?”
Faced with that, Kubu was forced to relax. “Call me Kubu. Everyone else does. It means ‘hippopotamus’ in Setswana.”
Cindy smiled. “Hippopotamus! Don’t you mind?”
Kubu chuckled. “I don’t actually respond to anything else. The nickname goes back to my school days. It just stuck right away.”
She laughed. “Well, Cindy isn’t my real name either, but I’m not going to tell you what is. Not now. Let’s try the wine.”
Kubu poured. Khumanego wanted only a taste, but Cindy was happy with a full glass. “Let’s toast new friends,” she said holding up her glass. Kubu thought she was laying it on a bit thick, but was happy to clink, and swirl, and sip the wine. The cabernet actually wasn’t bad. He took a mouthful.
“You asked what I’m doing here, Kubu. I’m a freelancer, writing articles for a variety of U.S. newspapers. I studied anthropology and journalism at college, but journalism won out. I was more interested in current issues than in how things were in the past. My interest in anthropology today is social—looking at how cultures are evolving now rather than historically.”
“So you think cultures should change? Move with the times?” Khumanego interjected.
“Not that they should. I just think they do. But sometimes they are forced to change in unnatural ways by people or governments with ulterior motives.”
“And you think that’s the case with the Bushmen in Botswana?” Kubu asked.
Cindy shrugged. “That’s what I came to find out. And to write about.”
�
�How long have you been here?”
“Two months. Of course, when the issue of the three Bushmen being arrested here came up, it stopped being article stuff and became news. So I came down here and filed a piece on the wire service. I think you’ll have someone from Survival International down here soon also. That should make for an interesting dinner discussion!”
Kubu was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the way the reporter was steering the conversation. But he was saved by the arrival of the food. They settled down to eat. At some point Cindy asked the waiter for another bottle of the wine. Since he now knew where to find it, he returned with alacrity. But Kubu was drinking slowly. He felt the need to be on his guard with this confident young lady.
She turned her attention to Khumanego. “So where does it go from here? The future of your people, I mean, not the future of the three suspects in jail. We agreed not to talk about that.”
“You’re the anthropologist. Why don’t you tell me? What happens to cultures—old indigenous cultures—when another culture becomes dominant? Especially if the new culture despises the older one?”
“Well, it can be preserved. Sometimes outside pressure is needed for that. And a change of attitude.”
“You have to preserve a base. A position you don’t give up. That you defend. That’s the only hope. If there is any at all.” Khumanego got up. “I’m tired. It was a long trip. And this isn’t an academic discussion for me. I’m going to bed.” He turned to Kubu. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Kubu.”
Cindy pouted. “I guess I said the wrong thing.”
“He’s sensitive. That’s understandable, isn’t it? The way things are.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. Let’s have dessert. I’m going to have the fruit salad and ice cream. What about you?”
Kubu would have liked to escape, but that would be rude. He forced himself to have a stack of cinnamon pancakes with ice cream. They had the desserts and then finished the wine. Cindy talked about herself and living in Atlanta. Kubu started to relax.
Death of the Mantis Page 5
