“I have no idea what he meant. Where did they meet?”
“In Mochudi.”
“Yes, of course, but where in Mochudi?”
“Kubu, you know I can’t give you any details.”
Kubu gritted his teeth.
“Did your father know anyone from Tobela?”
“Not that I know of,” he replied. “Where is it? Or can’t you tell me that either?”
“It’s a small place between Mahalapye and Shoshong.”
There was a silence. “Kubu, I have to go,” Samantha said. “I hope you realize that I dislike this situation just as much as you. Look after yourself. Good-bye.”
Kubu breathed deeply for a few moments, then went to find his mother. When he asked her about what Samantha had just told him, she replied, “I told her that I did not know what he was talking about. I told her she should talk to you.”
“When did she speak to you?” he asked, puzzled.
“Oh, this morning, when you were out. I told her to call you because you always have your phone with you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Mother?”
“She said I should not say anything to you.”
“Goddammit!”
“There is no need to swear, David.”
Kubu took a deep breath, then continued, “Mother, did Father know someone from Tobela?”
Amantle frowned. “The lady detective asked me the same thing this morning. I do not think so. Not that I can remember. You know your father was born in Mahalapye, but his ancestors came from Tobela. But they moved away many years ago. More than a hundred, I think. Your father said that one of his ancestors was an elder at the kgotla of Kgosi Khama the Third.”
Kubu decided not to pursue the matter but started wondering whether he needed a short vacation—in Tobela, for example.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, and walked back to the veranda.
* * *
AT HALF PAST five, Ngombe arrived, and the two of them walked to the shebeen. Along the way Kubu turned to him and asked what had happened at the meeting with Samantha.
“Nothing,” Ngombe said. “As I told you, I don’t know anything.” But he didn’t meet Kubu’s eye.
“What did she ask you about?”
“Just who Wilmon’s friends were. She wanted to talk to them too.”
“That’s all?” Kubu knew there had to be more. Samantha would do better than that.
Ngombe hesitated. “Look, Kubu, I don’t know anything important. And she said not to talk about it anyway.”
Kubu frowned, feeling frustration build. But he let the matter drop. He was sure Ngombe didn’t know anything useful, or he would have said something long before Samantha shut him up. Let’s see what they let out after a few beers, he thought.
When they arrived, two of Wilmon’s friends were already there, beer in hand.
“Dumela, Rra Vilakazi. Dumela, Rra Kgole,” Kubu said. “I’m pleased you could join me this evening. You know Rra Ngombe, of course.”
They nodded and greeted their old friend.
“I’m so pleased to have a reason to come here,” Kubu said. “I feel totally helpless at my mother’s. She won’t let me do anything.”
“Aaii! It’s not your place to help at the moment. You must get yourself ready for Friday night. You won’t get any sleep.” Rra Kgole laughed. “But we’ll come and keep you company. And Saturday’s going to be even worse. It’s hard work to fill a grave in Mochudi because there are so many stones. And, of course, you will say good-bye to your father for the last time.”
“I’m surprised that Amantle wants him buried here in Mochudi,” Rra Kgole interjected. “People his age usually want to be buried at their ancestral home.”
“I think my mother wants to be able to visit his grave, and Mahalapye is too far for her. She doesn’t drive, of course, and taking a bus would be very difficult.”
“Mahalapye?” Rra Vilikazi frowned. “He was born in Mahalapye, but the ancestral village is Tobela, near Shoshong. I think his grandfather was an elder at Khama the Third’s kgotla.”
“That’s what my mother said too,” Kubu said. “I don’t remember my father telling me that.”
“Fathers are like that,” Ngombe said. “Their friends know more about them than their sons.” He laughed and lifted his glass. “Here’s to Wilmon—what a good friend he was to us.”
Just as they were drinking to their old friend, three other elderly men arrived.
“Look who has arrived,” Rra Kgole said. “What is this shebeen coming to?”
Kubu heaved himself out of his chair. “Thank you all for coming. I know my father didn’t drink much, but I’m sure he’s watching us now and happy we’re remembering him.”
* * *
BY THE TIME the men were on their third beer, they’d had one beer too many. The stories flowed about Wilmon’s many successes, and a few failures, with his herbal remedies.
“Do you remember the time Mma Ramote went to see him for her runny tummy? He was confused and thought she was constipated. He gave her a special muti he made from an aloe he’d imported from South Africa. It was a laxative! She couldn’t leave the toilet for a day and a half.”
“She didn’t speak to him for months!”
Kubu smiled. It was so nice to hear stories about his father, some he’d never heard before.
“And what about the time the mayor came to him for muti to help him get reelected?”
“Wilmon couldn’t stand the man!”
“He gave him something that made him fart a lot. Every time he spoke to a group of people, they had to run for cover.” He guffawed.
“The mayor still won though!” one of the others said.
The six men, who had known Wilmon for years, laughed until they had tears running down their wrinkled faces. Then there was a silence as they reflected on their old friend. Kubu felt the moment had come to see what the beers and good fellowship might produce in the way of information. Maybe Samantha hadn’t spoken to all of them.
“I don’t think he had any enemies,” he began. “He was such a popular man. Why do you think he was murdered?”
The others all shook their heads but said nothing.
“Did any of you notice anything different about him recently?” Kubu continued. “Did he say anything to you?”
“Only that he couldn’t remember who I was,” said one.
“He got very angry with me last month when I told him we’d been friends for years,” said another. “He told me that we’d never met.”
“What about someone visiting him recently? Maybe a man from the village of Tobela?”
There was a silence. Kubu glanced at Ngombe, who looked away. Kubu turned to the others, and they also couldn’t hold his gaze.
“Rra Ngombe, what’s going on? You don’t look happy. Nor do the rest of you.”
Ngombe looked down but said nothing.
Kubu banged his fist on the table. “What’s going on? Tell me, please.”
“We can’t tell you, Kubu. I’m sorry,” Ngombe muttered. “The detective said—”
Kubu jumped to his feet. “Detective Khama? She’s the most junior detective in the CID! What right does she have to tell you what to say to me? Damn it! I’m Wilmon’s son!”
Ngombe put a hand on Kubu’s arm. “She said it was important. That the murderer might get off. That it was an order from your boss!”
“We can’t say anything, Kubu,” Vilikazi said. He hesitated. “But you may want to speak to the bartender,” he added quietly.
Kubu frowned. “Order another round. I’ll be right back.”
Kubu walked over to the counter and accosted the bartender.
“You knew my father, Wilmon Bengu?”
“Of course, rra. A wonderful man.”
“My friends tell me that you may be able to tell me something that could be related to his death.”
The man stared at Kubu. “You mean about the man from Tobela? I can’t do that, rra
. I was told not to tell you anything.”
“Goddammit!” Kubu shouted, and leaned forward to grab the man’s shirt. The bartender jumped back.
“I’m his son!” Kubu slammed the counter with his fist, causing glasses to rattle along its length. Patrons stared at the large man, and those close by moved away.
Ngombe jumped up and came over. “Come on, Kubu,” he said, grabbing his arm. “I’m sure the police told him the same thing. You have to keep out of it.”
At first, Kubu didn’t move, then he acquiesced and walked back, head hanging.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he sat down. “It’s just so hard to be kept away from what is going on.”
The others nodded. “We understand,” Vilikazi said.
“Let’s finish the drinks, my friends,” Kubu said. “Then I must get back to my mother.”
The group finished their beers and moved unsteadily toward the exit. Kubu paid the bill, glaring at the manager as he did, and left, wondering how he was going to extract information from Samantha without jeopardizing his future at the CID.
* * *
AS KUBU AND Ngombe approached Amantle’s house, they heard singing.
“The prayers have started,” Kubu said. “We’d better go inside.”
But when they reached the house, they realized that going inside was pointless, probably impossible. At least fifty people were on the sidewalk and even on the street below the veranda. Amantle, Mma Ngombe, and several others were on the veranda overlooking the crowd. A man Kubu didn’t recognize was leading the singing.
“Lumelang! Kea tsamaea,
Ke ea lefatšeng lela.
Jesu oa mpitsa,
O ntokisetsa,
Sebaka sa ho lula.”
Kubu joined in with gusto. Every Motswana knew the song.
When the song ended, the man on the veranda said a short prayer praising the Lord and offering salvation to all believers.
“Amen,” he shouted.
“Amen,” came the response from the crowd.
The man started singing again.
“Greetings! I am leaving,
I am going to that world.
Jesus is calling me,
He is preparing me,
A place to stay.”
Again the crowd joined in.
* * *
IT WAS WELL past midnight when the singing stopped and the crowd dispersed. It’s amazing, Kubu thought, how music is at the core of everything we do. We sing when a baby is born, we sing at birthdays and weddings, we sing at work, and we sing when people die. Everyone just loves to sing. It’s amazing.
And what happened today will happen again tomorrow. And on Friday, the activities will last all night. What a send-off for Father.
Then he went inside and found Amantle making a cup of tea.
“I need something to make me sleep,” she said. “It has been a long day, but I keep thinking of your father. Forty years together. It does not seem that long.”
“You two were very lucky,” he said.
Amantle shook her head. “There was no luck. If you believe in God and never give up in hard times, a marriage will last. Just remember that when you and Joy have problems.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said quietly. “I would never want to lose her. She’s the only person I could ever love.”
“I will take my tea to the bedroom. Tomorrow will be tiring again. Please take this cup to the constable outside.”
Kubu had forgotten about the guard Mabaku had ordered. He delivered the tea, then came back and sat down.
It was the first time in hours that he’d had time to reflect. He wondered who the man from Tobela was and if Samantha had learned anything that would really help to find his father’s killer.
What if I never find out? he wondered. What if I have to spend the rest of my life not knowing?
He shook his head, trying to banish these insidious thoughts.
What if the killer comes after Joy or the kids?
What if he comes after me? What will my family do if I’m dead?
He stood up and started undressing.
Dear God, please let me sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Director Mabaku was so frustrated at the lack of progress that he called Thursday’s meeting for seven in the morning. He hoped that would send a strong message of urgency.
He looked very tired as he brought the meeting to order. “Well?” he asked. “I hope someone has made some progress. Zanele, what about you?”
“As I expected, the boot print we found is from boots that are sold in every Chinese store in town. They sell hundreds a year. But the interesting thing is that they are not sold in any of the ordinary shoe or clothing stores. The manager of one told me that they would like to carry them because they are so popular, but the distributor always tells them that it is out of stock. He’s convinced that it only sells them to Chinese stores.”
“That doesn’t help us at all,” Mabaku said. “I assume that they do not have a list of all their customers?”
“I asked about that. I was told most sales are for cash.”
“And probably not reported on their tax forms either,” Mabaku growled.
“We’re not making much progress with all the hairs we found at Mma Bengu’s house. So many people were there after her husband was killed. We’ll just keep at it.”
Mabaku turned to Samantha.
“I have a lot of information, but I’m not sure I’ve made any progress.” She opened her notebook. “I went to Mahalapye yesterday and spoke to Mzi Bengu—Kubu’s half uncle. He’s a surly, unhelpful man. He lives near one of the pay phones but denies knowing anything about calls to his half brother. He claims he hasn’t spoken to Kubu’s father for years.”
Mabaku grunted. “Do you believe him?”
Samantha shrugged. “I met him at his favorite bar. He was there last Saturday too. He left when they threw him out. He definitely wasn’t in Mochudi.”
“What about the pay phone itself? Maybe someone saw him use it.”
Samantha sighed. “There are no CCTVs in the area. I asked some people who live around there, but nobody can remember anything out of the ordinary.” She shrugged.
“On Tuesday, I spoke to all of Rra Bengu’s friends. He told them he was going to meet a relative from Tobela—that’s a small village close to Shoshong. They had some sort of disagreement, and Bengu stormed out of the shebeen, calling the man a fraud. Anyway, they came back, talked for a while, and when Bengu left, he said something about it being for Kubu. Nobody knows what that means.”
“Does Kubu’s mother know anybody in Tobela?” This time it was Zanele who asked.
“She told me that she doesn’t but that it’s Rra Bengu’s ancestral home, so maybe it could have been some distant relative. She also had no idea what it could be that Rra Bengu was referring to when he said it was for Kubu.”
She paused. “I spoke to Kubu and asked if he knew. He also said he had no idea what his father was talking about. There is one small piece of information I’ll follow up on—the bartender saw the man drive away in a silver Toyota. I’m sure there are plenty around, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Mabaku grunted. “It’s probably nothing, but ask the newspapers to say that the police want to interview a man who visited Rra Bengu last week, who came from the Tobela area and drove a silver Toyota. Maybe the man will come forward, and then we can close the issue. Or maybe someone recognized him.”
Samantha glanced nervously at Mabaku. “I’m sorry I haven’t made any useful progress.”
“This is how most investigations go,” Mabaku said. “It’s slow work gathering information. We hope suddenly a pattern will emerge that will lead us to the killer. It’s always hard work. Keep on it.”
CHAPTER 17
On Thursday morning, the need to know what was going on proved too strong for Kubu, and he decided to call Mabaku and ask for permission to speak to Samantha.
After the pleasantries were ov
er, Kubu took a deep breath.
“Jacob, I was at the shebeen last night with some of my father’s friends. We were having a drink to his memory. The bartender mentioned that Father had recently met with a man from Tobela. He wouldn’t say anything more but said that he had told Samantha everything. I wonder—”
“No, you can’t! And I don’t believe for one moment that the bartender told you that without some encouragement from you.”
“But, Director—”
Kubu heard Mabaku take a deep breath and let it out with a sudden whoosh. “I told you to keep out of this case, Bengu, and the first thing you do is start questioning the neighbors, and then you start interrogating people in bars! I TOLD YOU NOT TO GET INVOLVED!” The last sentence was so loud that Kubu had to move the phone away from his ear.
Kubu decided that attack was the best form of defense. “Well, Director,” he said angrily, “how can you expect a young detective with little experience to make progress? You need me on this case. Otherwise, it’s not going to be solved!”
For a moment Kubu thought he’d gone too far. The silence on the other end of the line made him think the director had hung up on him. But when the director eventually spoke, it was in an icy voice.
“This is your last warning, Assistant Superintendent Bengu. If I hear of one more breach of my instructions, you will not like the consequences. Good-bye.”
Kubu was left holding his cell phone, which was deathly silent. He wanted to scream.
* * *
THE REST OF Thursday was very frustrating. There was little Kubu could do to help his mother and her army of friends prepare for the funeral, although he did go and buy two pounds of salt to put in the beef seswaa. Even his hopes of seeing his family later in the day were dashed when Joy phoned to say they would only arrive on Friday afternoon.
So Kubu had to while away the rest of the day. He sat on the veranda; he walked around the block; he had a couple of beers at the shebeen and wasn’t sure if he was happy or disappointed that the manager wasn’t there; and he chatted to some of the numerous visitors to Amantle’s home.
A Death in the Family Page 6
