The only positive time came after dinner, when people drew together to pray and sing. The throng gathered around Amantle’s house was so large that Kubu could sing at the top of his voice without embarrassment. Normally, he only sang in his Land Rover when no one could hear him. But tonight, he let loose.
CHAPTER 18
It felt as though he had barely gone to sleep when he was abruptly awakened.
“Wake up, David. Wake up, please.” Kubu opened his eyes to see his mother shaking him by the shoulder.
“I have made a big mistake,” she continued. “A big mistake.”
“What is it, Mother?” Kubu muttered.
“When we went shopping, we bought food for four hundred people. I thought it was enough. But everyone is telling me that it is likely to be closer to one thousand.”
“One thousand?” Kubu sat up. This was going to cost a fortune. “That’s not possible, is it?”
“Today is Friday, and the funeral is tomorrow. We will have to go shopping right away, David. And we will have to buy two large pots as well. The church only has two. We can donate them to the church afterward.”
Kubu tried to get his mind around this news.
“But we will not have to buy as much meat as we did before,” Amantle continued. “Wilmon’s friends have brought a cow, and they will kill it this evening. Then we can carve it up and use it. It is so very kind of them.”
* * *
THAT AFTERNOON, THE funeral festivities—there really was no other name for them—moved to the church kitchen and hall. Dozens of women helped Amantle prepare prodigious amounts of pap, beef seswaa, and samp and beans—a process that would last all night with waves of helpers coming and going.
The men, on the other hand, had it easy. Mochudi was a big enough town that there was a small backhoe at the cemetery to dig the graves. So they had the time to sit around, talk, and enjoy a lot of beer, both St. Louis and Shake Shake. Kubu would have preferred a glass of red wine but decided against opening a bottle because he would have had to share it with people he didn’t know, whose taste buds were better attuned to the revolting Shake Shake beer.
When Joy, Tumi, and Nono arrived in the late afternoon, he only had time to give them each a hug and a kiss before they all headed to the church kitchen to be with Amantle. He felt a bit put out. His mother had lots of company, and he felt quite lonely in the crowd.
Early in the evening, a hearse arrived with an elaborate coffin. Here was an opportunity for the men to help. They put down their beers and carried the coffin into the church, where the funeral-home attendant unscrewed the top and slid it open so that Wilmon’s face could be seen. Almost immediately, women began to ululate and shout prayers. A line formed, and people shuffled up to pay their last respects. Kubu stood at the back of the church, overcome with emotion. This was the last time he would see his father.
It’s amazing, Kubu thought. His mother had arranged everything, and he, Kubu, had done virtually nothing. But that was the way of things in traditional funerals.
* * *
THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, preparations progressed, punctuated with prayers and singing, not organized, but rather different groups spontaneously standing and lifting their voices. Kubu found it very moving even as he felt exhaustion slowly taking hold. He didn’t dare to lie on one of the couches in the hall lest he fall fast asleep. His mother would never forgive him.
As dawn broke, a bakkie arrived with several men on the back, holding large urns. “I hope it’s coffee,” Kubu said to the man standing next to him—a man Kubu had never seen before. Fortunately, it was, and lines soon formed. People needed something to keep them going until ten a.m., when the service was due to start. When Kubu reached the urn, he filled three Styrofoam cups with coffee, milk, and sugar—two for him and one for his mother.
Around eight, people started to drift home to change into their finest clothes for the service. Amantle only had one black dress, so she stayed, but Kubu went and donned his only suit.
* * *
THE CHURCH WAS full for the service. Fortunately for the hundreds of people outside there were a few clouds to break the oppressive heat. When the service was over, the crowd moved toward the grave in a long procession, led by Amantle, Kubu, Joy, Tumi, and Nono. The air was filled with songs and ululations.
At the grave, the casket was poised above the hole, ropes in place. Close by was a small awning, erected to protect the dignitaries from the sun. When all in the procession had arrived, the priest said a few final words and asked if anyone would like to speak. It was an hour before he turned to Kubu. “It is your turn,” he said.
Kubu pushed himself to his feet, mopped his brow, and took the microphone.
“Dumela. Amantle, Wilmon’s wife, and I want to thank you for your support. It is overwhelming.” He used both his arms to illustrate the extent of the crowd.
“Our family will miss Wilmon a great deal, as I know you will.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Those who spoke before me praised my father as he deserved, and I’m not going to repeat what they have already said. But I have to say, as his son, that I couldn’t have had a better father. He brought me up to respect the traditions of our people, but he also saw the future and made sure that I had an education that would enable me to raise a family in a changing world. He was wise and tolerant and fair. But he also demanded obedience.” He paused. “I remember the first time I came home late for dinner—I had been playing with one of my friends in the hills—and the time slipped away from us. He took me behind the house, made me bend over, and gave me six lashes with a reed. I don’t think it was actually sore, but I thought it was and cried for about an hour. And I didn’t have any dinner.” Kubu smiled. “I never missed dinner again!”
As the crowd laughed at the thought of him missing a meal, Kubu looked around, trying to locate Mabaku, whom he knew would be there. Fortunately, Ian MacGregor’s white face stuck out from the throng, and Kubu saw Mabaku standing next to him.
“But I do have something to say which I ask you all to listen to very carefully.” He paused and surveyed the faces in front of him.
“My father was murdered, as most of you know.” There was a buzz from the crowd and several shouts and ululations.
“As of today, we don’t know who did it. We don’t know why he was killed. We don’t know why such a man, whom we all loved, was taken from us.”
Kubu had to pause as the noise swelled.
“He was a good man!”
The noise level increased.
“He was a man of and for the community!”
He had to wait again.
“He was a man who respected every one of you. And helped you with his medicines when he was able. Helped you with his wisdom when he could.”
Kubu looked at Mabaku, but he was too far away to tell the director’s mood.
“And someone killed this man whom you all loved. Murdered my father. Took him away before his time.”
Now the crowd was getting agitated and angry.
That’s enough, Kubu thought. Now I must bring them down. He used his arms to indicate he wanted quiet.
“My father would ask you to do what he would do if a friend of his was killed. If you have any information that may help the police find the man who murdered my father, please tell Director Mabaku, who is standing over there.” Kubu pointed in the direction of his boss. “Or any policeman anywhere. But don’t tell me because it will make me more angry than I am already. And I don’t want that.”
He looked over the crowd.
“We will now lay my father to rest. Ke a leboga. Thank you. Tsamaya sentle. Go well.”
Kubu and a group of Wilmon’s friends took hold of the ropes and slowly lowered the casket into the grave. Amantle stood up, walked to the grave, tears flowing freely, and threw the first bunch of flowers onto the casket. And for the next hour and a half, people filed by the grave throwing in a handful of dirt or some flowers. They then of
fered Amantle and Kubu their condolences and worked their way to the church hall, where mountains of refreshments awaited.
Eventually, the line disappeared, and Kubu and a few of Wilmon’s friends took turns using the solitary shovel to fill in the rest of the grave. When it was finished and the canvas cover moved into place, Kubu stood alone at the grave.
“Good-bye, Father,” he whispered. “Everything I have, I owe to you.”
He turned and headed to the much needed refreshment table.
PART 3
CHAPTER 19
At the same time Wilmon’s funeral was taking place in Mochudi, another gathering was convening a three-hour drive north in the village of Shoshong. Constable Polanka hadn’t seen anything like it before. Dust rose into the air from the hundreds of feet moving along the sandy roads, and the air was full of babble as arguments flared up between different groups. It seemed as though every person in Shoshong was headed for the kgotla. He wondered what the chief would decide.
Polanka didn’t know what to think. He’d heard all the arguments, and whatever position someone took, he found himself agreeing with it. When he’d asked the station commander his opinion, the man growled, “It’s trouble either way. Don’t get involved. Don’t give people your opinion.”
If what they said was true, he thought, Shoshong would benefit from many more jobs. That would be good for a village where many men spent their days sitting in shebeens drinking Shake Shake beer. But what if it wasn’t true? What if the promises were empty? Then so many people would have to move for nothing. The only people to benefit would be the people who owned the mine.
He shook his head. He was pleased he wasn’t the chief, who had to make the decision.
He was about to head for the kgotla himself when a well-dressed white man wearing dark glasses walked up.
“Dumela, rra,” the man said with a broad smile.
“Dumela,” Polanka replied, wondering who the stranger was. He didn’t recognize the accent.
“Are these people all going to the cottler?”
“Cottler? You mean the kgotla?”
“Yes, the meeting.”
Polanka frowned, wondering why white people had such difficulty pronouncing simple words like kgotla. “Just follow the people,” he said.
“Thank you.” The man turned and joined the crowd.
Must be from the newspapers, Polanka thought. Or maybe from television, since he was good-looking. Then he, too, headed for the meeting.
* * *
THE GRAYING CHIEF, leaning on his carved staff, walked slowly through the throng to the low platform that had been set up at the front of the kgotla. He was followed by his son and the four elders who comprised his advisory council. They climbed the two steps and sat down, thankful for the canvas tarpaulin that provided shade from the broiling sun.
A young man lifted a microphone onto the platform and set it up in front of the chief. He tapped it and, hearing nothing, spoke into it. “One, two three, four.” Still nothing.
“We do not need that thing,” the chief said. “I can just speak.”
“Kgosi, only the people in the front will hear you. That’s fine for most meetings, but this is different. The whole village is here, and everyone wants to hear what you have to say.”
“We have never needed it before.”
“Kgosi, let me make sure it’s working. Then I’ll turn it off. You can start speaking without it.” He jumped off the side of the platform and fiddled with some knobs. He stepped back up and tapped the microphone again. Dull thumps reverberated from the speakers he’d tied to the trees.
“It’s ready, Kgosi. If you need it, I’ll turn it on.”
* * *
THE CHIEF WAITED for another ten minutes before he decided to start. He lifted his staff and brought it down sharply onto the platform. He repeated this three times. Slowly, the hubbub subsided as the people in the front turned and shushed those behind.
“Dumela,” the chief said. The first couple of rows responded.
The chief looked at the crowd. “Thank you for attending this important kgotla. I have an important and difficult decision to make. I need to listen to what you think.”
“We can’t hear you!”
“Talk louder!”
“Use the microphone!”
The shouts came from the younger members of the crowd, who were standing at the back.
The young man next to the stage looked at the chief expectantly. Eventually, the chief frowned and nodded at the man, who turned on the microphone. Then he jumped up and set the microphone just in front of the chief’s face.
“Please. You must talk into the microphone, Kgosi. Otherwise, people won’t hear.”
The chief didn’t look pleased with this intrusion of modern technology into the traditional kgotla. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for attending this important kgotla. I have an important and difficult decision to make. I need to listen to what you think.” He looked around and saw people throughout the crowd nodding in agreement.
“As you know, the mine to the east of Shoshong wants to expand. The director of mines for Botswana, Rra Mopati, has told me that the mine expects to hire another two hundred men and twenty-five women if the expansion takes place. That would be very good for Shoshong, because there are many people here without work, and families are suffering.”
A number of young men at the back of the crowd cheered.
The chief, not used to being interrupted, lost his train of thought and glared at them. He banged his staff into the platform.
“For the mine to expand,” he continued, “it will need to take land between the existing mine and the village. There are about eighty homes where the mine wants to go. The mine has told the director that it will provide better land for the people who live there and build better homes for every family that is displaced.”
There were more cheers from the back.
“And it will also give each family ten thousand pula to help make the move.”
“Let’s do it!”
“Why are we waiting?”
The chief looked angrily at the back of the crowd. “Please, please. Let me finish.” He leaned forward toward the microphone again. “The offer appears to be a fair one, and the director says that the government is supporting the application by the mine because it will help the people of Shoshong, and it will bring many millions of pula into the country, which can be used to benefit everyone.”
He pulled out a dirty handkerchief and coughed into it—a deep, rattling cough that lingered for some time.
“On the other hand, some of the elders on my council are not in favor of the proposal…”
That brought a chorus of jeers from the back.
“This is the last time I will say this,” the chief said angrily. “If you cannot behave in a manner befitting a kgotla, I will have to ask Constable Polanka to remove you.” He pointed at the policeman, who was standing at the side of the stage. Polanka stuck out his chest and tried to look official. The chief tried to locate where the sniggers were coming from, but his eyesight wasn’t good enough to make out individual faces at the back of the crowd.
“I will ask Rra Maedze to speak to you.”
The young man jumped onto the stage again and moved the microphone in front of one of the elderly men, who remained seated.
“Speak into the microphone please, rra.”
The old man cleared his throat.
“Dumela.” He looked around and was gratified that he heard a few dumelas in return.
“Last summer, my granddaughter was to be married. Several weeks before the ceremony, the father of her betrothed brought the agreed-upon lobola.” He smiled. “It was a good amount of cattle. Some he had to buy because his family did not have enough.
“I was with my son when the cattle arrived, so we inspected them together. Of course, we could have just sat down and enjoyed many beers, but it was our responsibility to make sure that the lobola contract
had been satisfied.” He looked around but didn’t notice that the men at the back were getting fidgety at the story that appeared to have nothing to do with the purpose of the meeting.
“When we looked carefully, three of the cattle were not well. It was quite embarrassing for everyone. When we pointed this out, the father said they were among the ones he bought, but he had been in a rush to get them to us and had not looked at them carefully enough. He was an honorable man and took the cattle away. When he returned the next day with healthy cattle, he told us that he was able to make the man he bought them from give him healthy ones. So all ended well.”
Once again, he looked around.
“I know some of you wonder why I tell this story. Mainly you young men at the back.” He waved his hand dismissively. “As we consider the proposal from the mine, we must think of it like a marriage. What the mine is offering us is lobola for the village of Shoshong and for those who will have to move. We must make sure that the number of cattle offered is enough, and we must check that all the cattle are healthy.”
He shuffled in his chair trying to get comfortable.
“Let me tell you a story,” the old man continued, to a chorus of groans from the back. “Before some of you were born, there was no mine here. And officials from the government and from a mining company approached us because they needed land for the mine. Land where many people lived. Just like today. They made a promise to the chief that the people who moved would have better land and better houses. And they would receive some pula for their trouble. It was just like today. The chief—Kgosi’s father—agreed. So did the elders. And the village was excited.
“The mine took the land, knocked down the houses before new ones were ready, and then took a year to build the new houses. And they were poor in quality—no better than shacks—on land that could not be used for cattle, only for a few goats. And this happened even after the government spoke to the owners of the mine.” He cleared his throat.
“My family was one of those moved. Where we lived before was a fine house with good grazing around it. The new house was bad. So bad, we left the house and had to stay with relatives. And we had no money.
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