“So what I say is this: we must make sure that all the lobola cattle are healthy. If we agree to this move, it is we who must select the land that will be used for the new houses, and it is we who must approve the quality of the houses before the old houses are knocked down. And it is we who must be given the money right away. If we wait until the mine expands, I fear what happened before will happen again. Thank you.”
Constable Polanka noticed that many of the people who applauded were elderly and seated at the front.
A young man at the back put up his hand. “Kgosi, I would like to speak.”
The chief nodded, and the man came onto the platform. For several minutes he urged the chief to accept the offer. “I want to work,” he said, “but there is nothing here in Shoshong for me. And many of my friends feel the same. We need jobs and money.”
Shouts of approval and clapping erupted from the back of the crowd.
Another young man ran down from the back.
He grabbed the microphone. “We’re wasting our time,” he shouted. “There are more young people than old in Shoshong. We need the mine. We shouldn’t listen to these old men who have nothing better to do than to dream of the past. We need jobs. I say we tell the mine to go ahead.” The young people roared their approval.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” they shouted.
The chief struggled to his feet and went to the microphone.
“I am the chief of Shoshong,” he spluttered. “It is I who makes the decisions with my council. The government will not listen to you. You—”
“Jobs! Jobs! Jobs!” The chief’s voice was drowned out.
Constable Polanka realized that things were getting out of control. He walked in front of the stage and held up his hands. Nobody paid attention. He waved his arms, but the crowd ignored him.
“Please,” he shouted. “Let Kgosi speak.” He waved his arms more vigorously. Eventually, the hubbub diminished until the chief could be heard.
“We have had kgotlas for many hundreds of years. They have served us well.”
A chorus of boos came from the back.
The chief banged his staff on the platform.
“Does anyone else want to speak?”
A hand shot up, and a woman with a baby strapped to her back with a blanket walked forward. Everyone was suddenly quiet. It was unusual for a woman to speak at a kgotla that was discussing land and jobs. Those were matters for men.
She clambered onto the platform, grabbed the microphone, and glared at the elders. “You speak of lobola and history and tradition. Your children are grown up. What about my children? This is only one of them!”
The crowd laughed, enjoying the feisty woman and the discomfort of the council.
“Look there!” She pointed at a man nearby in the crowd. “That’s my husband. He’s not a bad man, but he can’t find a proper job, a job to support our family. He spends his days with his friends. He does odd jobs, and the money he gets he drinks!”
The crowd laughed again, and the men muttered jokes to each other about this man needing some lessons about showing his wife who was boss. But many of the women clapped. When the crowd was quiet again, she said, “Kgosi, you must get us these jobs. Otherwise, stand aside and let someone else find them for us.” Then she climbed down from the platform and returned to her husband’s side.
The chief was speechless with anger at her insolence, but there was little he could do as another man had already taken the microphone and had started talking. And so it went on for another hour, some people for the proposal and some against. In general, younger people supported the offer enthusiastically, but older people, while not rejecting it out of hand, were much more cautious.
Eventually, the chief put up his hands.
“That is enough! We have heard fine arguments for and against the offer. My council and I will take everything into consideration. We will meet here next week at the same time for my decision. Thank you for attending the kgotla.” He looked toward the back of the crowd. “We would like the young men—and women—of the village to attend all our meetings, not just the ones that may affect them.”
He, his son, and the other elders stood up, descended the stairs, and shuffled through the crowd.
PART 4
CHAPTER 20
Petrus Towane was elderly, but he believed in exercise to keep healthy. So every morning he would start the day with a long walk with his dog. Lenny was a mongrel, his silky brown coat suggested spaniel, but the shape of his head and often erect ears suggested something more like a border collie.
This morning Petrus chose the road along the Gaborone dam that led past the yacht club. It was quiet with little traffic, and Lenny could run free. The walk started as usual with Lenny noting and replying to messages left by other dogs. However, when they came to the dirt-road turnoff to the dam, Lenny started to behave strangely. He sat on his haunches at the intersection and stared down the track with his ears pricked up. Petrus followed his stare and could see the rear of a car tucked into the bush a short way down the track. It seemed an odd place to park.
“Let’s take a look, Lenny.”
Petrus started down the track. Lenny walked along behind, still alert and with his tail steady.
From some distance away, Petrus thought that the vehicle was empty, but Lenny sat again and stared at the vehicle. Intrigued by the dog’s odd behavior, Petrus walked up to the passenger side of the car and looked through the window. The glass was tinted, which made it hard to see clearly, but he realized there was a man sprawled across the front seats. It was too uncomfortable a position for the person to be asleep.
“He’s drunk, Lenny,” Petrus told the dog. “He pulled off here and passed out.”
He shook his head and was about to turn away when he spotted a garden hose sticking through the top of the driver’s window. He swore and tried the door, but it was locked. Rushing to the other side, he yanked the hose out of the window and tried the driver’s door, but it was also locked. Lenny came to life and ran around the car barking.
“Quiet, Lenny. We have to get him out! He may still be alive.”
He could get his fingers through the gap at the top of the window by pushing through the duct tape sealing it, but he couldn’t force the glass down. “Damn it, Lenny!”
Petrus looked around for something to use to break the glass and settled on a rock tapering at one end. Closing his eyes, he slammed it into the middle of the window, but it just bounced. Cursing, he tried again, as hard as he could but without success. Then, aiming at the exposed edge of the window, he managed to get the window top to shatter. He reached in and unlocked the door, cutting his arm in the process. Flinging open the door, he reached in, grabbed the man’s shoulders, and dragged him out of the car. He put his hand on the man’s forehead. It was warm. Then he felt for a pulse but couldn’t detect any signs of life. Leaving the body where it lay, he phoned for the police.
CHAPTER 21
Kubu had known that his first day back at the CID was going to be painful. He made his way to his office through a gauntlet of sober-faced detectives. He knew his colleagues meant well, but all the condolences, all the vows to get the murderer, just made Kubu feel worse. He didn’t want to keep being reminded. Now that the funeral was over, he wanted a semblance of normalcy. He wanted to sit in his office and think about something else.
He started catching up with e-mail and paperwork, a job he usually hated, but one he found almost relaxing now. He was glad to be left alone, and it was nearly lunchtime before he was disturbed. There was a knock on the door, and he looked up warily. It was a relief to see Ian MacGregor.
“How are you doing, Kubu?”
Kubu shrugged.
“Yes, well, it’s going to take time, my friend, a lot of time. There isn’t anything else that helps.”
The words were clichéd enough, but the way he said them sounded as though he’d been there himself. Kubu realized that he’d never asked Ian about his family. The Scotsman seemed
happy enough living alone in Botswana, being the state pathologist and indulging his passion for painting watercolor scenes of the Kalahari. But what history lay behind that?
“I’ve got a story for you, Kubu. I’ve just been to see Mabaku, and he sent me to you. He’s busy himself with…” Ian’s voice trailed off. Kubu just nodded. He knew what Mabaku was busy with.
“Anyway,” Ian continued after a moment, “it’s that suicide. Kunene. A high-up in the Department of Mines.”
Kubu looked puzzled. He had no idea what Ian was talking about.
“It’s been all over the news,” Ian added.
“I haven’t been following the news much lately.”
“I suppose not. Well, I’m talking about Goodman Kunene. He is, or rather was, the assistant director of the Department of Mines. On Friday, he was found dead, gassed in his car. It was down a quiet road near the yacht club. It seems he connected a hose to his exhaust, fed it into the driver’s window, sealed it with duct tape, and ran the engine. When he was found, the car had run out of fuel, but Kunene had run out of breath long before that. I did the autopsy this morning.”
Kubu wondered why Mabaku had sent Ian to him. He wasn’t really interested in suicides.
“Was there a note?”
Ian shook his head.
“Problems at home? At work?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t know any of that stuff. You’ll have to ask the investigating officer. The point is that I have doubts about it.”
“That he was killed by the car fumes?” Kubu wished Ian would be less obscure.
“No. No question about that. The fingernails and lips had the characteristic reddish hue of death from carbon monoxide poisoning, and I confirmed it with blood tests from a sample we took when the body was brought in. The blood alcohol level was also quite high. He’d had a wee bit too much to drink—about seven or eight drinks, I would estimate. I was surprised that he was sober enough to set up the whole suicide scenario after that.”
Kubu thought about it. “Maybe something depressed him, and he went on a binge. That would just make him feel worse. Maybe he couldn’t see any way out.” But it seemed wrong. This had been planned down to the hose and the duct tape.
Ian seemed to share the thought. “That’s not really consistent with a suicide like this.”
“Could someone have got him drunk and then put him in the car?”
“I doubt he was drunk enough to pass out, and it would’ve been very risky. Suppose he came around and escaped? But I’ve sent off some samples to the lab. Maybe the drinks were mixed with something else.”
Kubu digested that and then asked, “Any signs of a struggle? Bruises or blood on him?”
Ian shook his head. “There was blood on his jacket, but that came from the man who found him. He cut his hand breaking the window.”
Kubu felt a stirring of interest. “I’d better go and chat to the director about this.”
* * *
MABAKU SAW HIM at once. He waved Kubu to a chair and looked him over critically.
“You look tired.”
Kubu forced a smile. “I’m not sleeping too well. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“Kubu, you can take some more time off if you like. We can cope for another week.”
Kubu shook his head. “Better to get back to work. I’m interested in this Kunene story.”
“Ian spoke to you?”
Kubu nodded.
“It’s a bit of a mess, Kubu. Goodman Kunene was a senior civil servant. It’s a big deal. A man who lives in the area found him. He thought Kunene might still be alive, so he broke into the car to get him out. And the policemen who came to the scene didn’t do a great job. To be fair, they naturally thought it was a straightforward suicide. So they got an ambulance to take him to the morgue and had the car towed to the police vehicle lot. Not exactly a perfect crime scene, if that’s what it is.”
“Who is working on the case?”
“Edison.”
Kubu sighed. Edison would follow procedure. He was a good enough detective, but he lacked flair.
“I’ll talk to him. And I’ll ask Zanele to have her people check out the car and the place it was parked.”
“Look, Kubu, this could blow up in our faces. It’s very high profile, and we can’t afford to go crashing around. That’s why I want you to take over from Edison. Suicide is one thing, but murder…”
“I’ll be careful, Director.”
Mabaku nodded and waited for him to leave, but Kubu wasn’t going anywhere just yet.
“Jacob, what have you got on my father’s case? It’s been over a week. And what about the break-in at the house? We should have something by now.”
It was Mabaku’s turn to sigh. “Nothing much yet. You know it takes time. I realize this is hard for you, Kubu, but we’ll get to the bottom of it. The whole department is working on it.”
“The whole department, except me.” Kubu hesitated. “Did you get any leads on the man who upset my father so badly at the shebeen?”
“Samantha got a decent description, but the man was apparently from out of town. She hasn’t been able to find anyone who recognized him, but she’s circulated the description to other police stations. If the man’s a criminal, they may recognize him. Also she’s trying to trace the silver Toyota, but there’re plenty of those. No luck so far, but she’s working on it.”
Kubu thought that was a long shot, but he didn’t have any better ideas. Still, he might get some if he had all the information.
“Look, Jacob, I want to be in the loop on the case. Sit in on the meetings, offer suggestions.” He held up both hands as Mabaku frowned and started to interrupt. “I won’t do anything. I’ll leave everything to you and Samantha. But at least that way, I can follow what’s happening and feel that I’m helping.”
Mabaku thought about it. Kubu was back in the office, and everyone talked about the case; CID meetings focused on it. And, in fact, he could do with Kubu’s insights.
“All right, Kubu. If I have your word that you’ll do nothing. No more talks to neighbors. No more chats to bartenders. Nothing!”
Kubu promised and rose to leave. He was relieved and pleased. Mabaku had been fair, and now he could get a detailed report from Samantha about what was going on. He was sure he’d be able to persuade her to follow up on any ideas he had. It was almost as good as being on the case himself.
* * *
KUBU WASTED NO time contacting Samantha, who immediately called Mabaku to check that she could answer Kubu’s questions.
“You don’t trust what I say?” Kubu asked after she hung up.
Samantha didn’t answer, but she pulled out her notebook. “From what the director tells me, I don’t have much to report that you don’t already know,” she said. “We are still looking at silver Toyotas, but that’s going to take us a while yet. There are lots of them, especially because it probably came from somewhere other than Mochudi.”
“How are you going about it?” Kubu growled.
“We’re trying to speak to the owners of all silver Toyotas in the Mochudi, Mahalapye, and Gaborone areas to see where they were on Monday, the twenty-seventh of January. We also cross-checked this with our Known Criminals database. It’s very tedious, and several people are working on it.”
Samantha hesitated. “I went up to Mahalapye to check out the public phones where the calls to your father were made, and I spoke to your uncle, Mzi. I must say he wasn’t very helpful, but he was at his favorite shebeen—Kalahari Oasis—the whole night when your father was attacked. I also stopped at Tobela, but I didn’t discover anything.” She looked at Kubu. “That’s all I have. I’m sorry.”
Kubu stood up. “Thank you, Samantha. Please let me know when you learn something.”
He returned to his office frustrated by the lack of progress, but he acknowledged a little sheepishly, at least to himself, that Samantha was doing a good job.
CHAPTER 22
Kubu realized he had to
talk to Kunene’s wife. For the first time in his life, he felt that he really understood what she was going through, and he was reluctant to trespass on that grief. But there was no option, so he found her address and headed to the house.
Tasela Kunene was drinking tea with a neighbor. She was a stout woman, dressed formally in black. Her eyes were red, but what struck Kubu at once was that one eye looked swollen, and she had a crepe bandage on her left forearm.
Kubu introduced himself, and the neighbor retired to fuss in the kitchen and allow them some privacy. Feeling strangely embarrassed, Kubu offered his condolences. She nodded and offered him a chair opposite her. He wasn’t sure where to begin.
“Mma Kunene, I’m sorry to disturb you at a time like this, but the police need to investigate any death not due to natural causes. It’s standard procedure.”
Tasela surprised him with her response. “I hope you don’t believe that Goodman committed suicide like that other detective did.”
Kubu hesitated. “The circumstances seemed to suggest suicide, mma.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know him. Goodman got a promotion about six months ago, so he was making good money. We have two fine sons and a fine house. Why would he kill himself?”
“There was no indication of depression? The two of you were happy?”
She nodded.
“Was your husband on any regular medication? Was he under the regular care of a doctor?”
She shook her head firmly.
“So what do you think happened, mma?” Kubu asked gently.
She shifted about in her chair, obviously uncomfortable. “Could it have been an accident?”
Kubu shook his head. Although he didn’t explain, she accepted that.
“Then someone killed him!”
“Why would anyone do that? Did he have any enemies? Has anyone made threats?”
“He was a senior man in the government. Such people always have enemies. People after their jobs.”
A Death in the Family Page 8
