“What will the other groups say when they hear you’ve already taken your father’s place?” This time it was the commissioner who asked the question.
“It’s only until they elect someone. Somebody needs to be in charge until then, somebody who understands the situation, who knows the young men. Otherwise, more bad things will happen. When I go to them tomorrow to arrange the kgotla, I will sit with their elders and explain why I had to do what I did. They’ll understand.”
The commissioner frowned. “I hope so. Tradition runs deep in places like Shoshong that have a long and prominent history. The elders may want to preserve that tradition and use the riot as the reason why.”
“I think the elders will support me,” Julius said. He stood up. “I have to go now. It’s been a terrible day, and I need to go and comfort my mother.”
The commissioner looked at the other two, who both nodded, relieved that they might soon be in bed.
When Julius had left the room, the commissioner turned to his colleagues. “What do you think? Is he telling the truth?”
“About what?” Mabaku asked.
“That he needs to be chief if the unrest is to stop.”
Both Mabaku and Kubu shook their heads. “I don’t know anything about this area,” Kubu said. “But what he claimed is easy to check out. Perhaps you can speak to the elders from the other villages tomorrow, Commissioner. They would respect a man of your position.”
“It seems very strange to me that people would riot like that without someone urging them on,” Mabaku said. “Were there any reports of strangers being at the kgotla? Could someone from the mine have stirred up trouble?” He looked at the other two. “And what’s mined here anyway? I’ve never heard of a mine in this area.”
“I seem to remember that my history teacher said there had been mines here for hundreds of years, but what was being mined, I’ve no idea,” Kubu responded.
“I think I read that a uranium mine upgraded the kgotla last year, as a gesture of goodwill to the community.” The commissioner sounded skeptical. “Probably smoothing the way for the offer they made.”
“I need to get to bed,” Kubu said, “and it’s quite a drive back to Mahalapye. I’ll check all that out in the morning.”
The three men left the police station and headed for what they knew was going to be a short night’s sleep. The press would have no mercy if they weren’t on the job at dawn.
CHAPTER 33
As Kubu drove back to Shoshong early on Sunday morning, he tried to come to grips with what had happened the day before. The Batswana were known as peaceful people who respected traditions and believed in the wisdom of elders. They didn’t settle their problems with violence and riots. Or so it was in the past. Now the youth were impatient for money and the things they expected for a good life—cars, smartphones, nice clothes, houses. They had lost patience. And why shouldn’t they? Kubu thought. The diamond boom was over. The new generation had missed out. But to riot and kill weak old men and batter policemen to death? To him it was inconceivable, and he was going to find out who was responsible.
He was so focused on his thoughts that he almost missed the village of Tobela. The sign caught his eye as he was already driving past the entrance track. He braked and pulled over to the side of the road. He’d known that Tobela was somewhere along this road, but he’d missed it the night before in his rush to meet Mabaku, and by the time he drove back to Mahalapye, he was too tired to do more than watch for stray animals. But now that he was at the entrance, he wasn’t sure if a detour into the village was a good idea. He wanted to get to work on the reasons why Shoshong had turned into a battlefield, and he knew that anything he did in Tobela would be frowned upon by Mabaku, but the lure of finding out who had visited his father proved too great. He should have carried on to Shoshong at once, but instead, he turned onto the dirt road that took him through a rusty gate into the village.
He bumped down what was really a donkey track until he reached what he guessed was the center of the village. People were already up and about, chatting in small groups. Some were dressed up for church—presumably in Shoshong—but others were in casual clothes. The mood was somber; only the children seemed happy, enjoying the weekend break from school.
“Dumela.” Kubu approached a group talking in the road. They returned his greeting, but instead of introductions and polite questions about himself and his relatives, they at once wanted to know who he was and whether he knew the details of what was happening in Shoshong.
“Yes, I am Assistant Superintendent Bengu of the Botswana CID in Gaborone. I’m here to help the local police find out what caused this disaster and who was responsible.” This wasn’t the way Kubu had meant to introduce himself, but there was no option. Only one thing was of interest in Tobela on this Sunday.
“Aaii! So it is true then? Their chief is dead? Murdered? And all their elders?” It was an old woman who said this, shaking her head.
Kubu nodded. “There was some sort of riot at the kgotla yesterday. Some men attacked the chief when he told the gathering that he wasn’t going to allow the mine to expand. Several people were killed, including the chief.”
A man with a sour face looked at Kubu. “Their chief cared nothing for what the people need. He was stuck in the past. I’m not surprised his people got tired of him.”
The woman sucked in her breath. “How can you say such a thing, Dithebe? And on the Sabbath. They did not depose him. They murdered him! Hacked him to pieces. It is shocking, and I cannot understand it.”
The rest of the group joined in, and Kubu was flooded with questions. They expected him to know all the answers, but at last they ran out of steam. The elderly lady said firmly, “Well, I am not going to the church today. I do not know if it is safe, and I do not know what to ask God. I do not know.” There was silence, and several people nodded agreement. Then she continued, “And you, Rra Detective, what are you doing here? As you see, no one here knows what happened yesterday in Shoshong.”
“But I didn’t know that before I came here.” Kubu hesitated. His mission was hard to explain to these shocked people. “But I’m here for another reason too. My father’s ancestors came from here, and I wonder if there’s still family here. The name was Bengu.”
Everyone looked at the old lady, but she shook her head. “No, I don’t remember that name. How long ago did they leave?”
“It was a very long time ago.”
“There is no one here with that name now.”
“I ask because a man came to visit my father in Mochudi. He said he was a relative and that he came from Tobela.”
“And what else did he say?”
“I don’t know. But my father was murdered shortly afterward, and I’m trying to trace this man.”
“Aaii! Even the family of the police are not safe now! What is the world coming to?” Tears started to run down the woman’s lined face, and Kubu was touched by them, whether they were for his father or in reaction to the dreadful events of the previous day.
A man turned to Kubu and said, “I’m sorry for your loss, rra, but we know nothing of this here.”
There was a murmur of agreement, and Dithebe spat on the ground, not at Kubu’s feet, but the message was clear enough. Kubu realized that his timing couldn’t have been worse. On any ordinary day, a visitor from Gaborone would have been a welcome event in Tobela, and people would have been interested in the historical family connections. But this was no ordinary day.
He thanked the group for their time and turned to walk back to his car. But Dithebe wanted the last word. “When you get to Shoshong, tell their new chief not to drive around in fancy cars while his people are hungry. Then maybe they will respect him.”
“Shut up!” the old lady told him. “You know nothing. He didn’t have a fancy car. It was just an ordinary Toyota. You have a foul mouth. You should wash it out with soap!”
“Well, it was a fancy silver color. And with fancy wheels! That costs plenty o
f money.”
Kubu turned back. “The chief had a silver Toyota? He was here in Tobela?”
The old lady nodded. “Last month he came with his son and two of his elders to consult with our elders. And he even spoke at the kgotla here. He came in a silver car, but it was not a Merc or a BMW like all the big politicians.” She turned on the hapless Dithebe. “It was not fancy. But you speak ill of everyone. Even the dead, who cannot talk back.” The man turned away from her with a shrug and walked off.
Kubu climbed into his Land Rover and drove off, bumping over the pot-holed track through Tobela. A group of goats looked at him casually, but they moved aside to let him pass. And so he left his father’s ancestral home none the wiser about his heritage, but with a piece of information he hadn’t expected to find.
* * *
IN THE EARLY light, the protecting horseshoe of hills around Shoshong made a beautiful sight, the dolerite boulders piled one on top of another a rich gold. In the distance, Kubu could see the gorge where the river had brought water to Old Shoshong, before it dried up over a hundred years ago, forcing Khama III to move his people away.
When Kubu reached the police station, Mabaku was already in his operations room. He glanced up as Kubu entered. “How come you’re so late?”
Kubu thought the question a bit unfair given how little sleep they’d all had. He started to reply, but Mabaku brushed it aside. “Never mind. Another man died last night from a gunshot wound. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Kubu. Who was behind it, who led that riot, who joined in. I’ll get every policeman I can lay my hands on going door to door, finding out who was at the kgotla, and finding out what they saw. We’ll get the bastards who killed our policemen and those elders.”
Kubu started to comment, but again Mabaku interrupted. “What I want you to do is find out who or what was behind all this. It wasn’t spontaneous. Some group must have set it up. Those are the people I want to get my hands on.”
Kubu was relieved that he wasn’t to join the door-to-door brigade. “Any idea where I should start?”
Mabaku nodded. “I’ve been talking to the station commander. He was here early. Good man. He knows what’s happening in his town. It turns out one of the elders on the chief’s council didn’t go to the kgotla yesterday. Apparently, he’s not well. Anyway, he should have some insight into what was going on between the chief and the different interests involved, if anyone does.” As an afterthought, he added, “You’d better talk to the mine manager too.”
Kubu nodded. It seemed like a sensible place to begin. “What’s the elder’s name and where can I find him?”
“It’s Rra Nwako. I’ll get a constable to show you where he lives. It’s in the old part of town, and it’s hard to find anything there.” Mabaku sighed. “Kubu, this is a very big deal. It could affect tourism and the stock market—good thing it’s closed today. And the commissioner just phoned me to say that the president wants to come and address the people at the very same place where everything blew up yesterday! That will be a security nightmare. He’s agreed to wait a few days, but the commissioner knows him. He says the president won’t back down once he’s made up his mind.”
A constable bustled in with some papers for Mabaku. He glanced at them and said, “Please take Assistant Superintendent Bengu to Rra Nwako’s house right away.” Then he turned his attention back to Kubu and added with a touch of sarcasm, “You’d better hurry, Kubu, or you’ll miss your lunch.”
It didn’t seem to be the moment to mention the Tobela visit, so Kubu just nodded and followed the constable out to the car park.
* * *
RRA NWAKO’S HOUSE looked as though it had been built in the glory days of Khama III at the end of the nineteenth century, when Shoshong was a trading post for travelers from all points of the compass. It was large with a view of the hills, but it had fallen on hard times and needed plastering and a good coat of paint.
An old man was sitting on the veranda eating porridge and drinking black tea. He greeted Kubu but didn’t interrupt his breakfast.
“Would you like tea, rra? My daughter will make you some.” Without waiting for a reply, he called out, “Funeka, will you come out here, please.” Raising his voice was too much for him, and he started coughing. A woman appeared and watched the old man with concern.
Once he caught his breath, Nwako introduced Kubu to his daughter, adding, “The assistant superintendent would like a cup of tea. And I would like another myself.” The woman nodded and left, and Nwako started coughing again.
“Funeka says it is the smoking. Maybe she is right. She will not let me smoke in the house. Do you have any cigarettes with you?”
“I’m sorry, rra. I don’t smoke.”
“It’s a terrible thing that has happened here, rra.” Nwako shook his head and swallowed another spoonful of porridge. “All these people dead. Young people with lives before them. Old people with much wisdom. This town will never be the same again. The trust is gone.” He shook his head again and finished his breakfast in silence.
After a short while, Funeka brought the tea. She looked at her father with concern. “Emphysema. That’s what the doctor called it,” she said. “I know it’s because of the smoking, but he won’t stop.”
“Just as well, is it not?” Nwako said. “If I did not have the excuse of being ill, I would have been at the kgotla yesterday, and you would be arranging my funeral this morning like the families of the others.” His voice caught as he said it.
“He’s completely impossible,” she told Kubu, but it was said with affection. Then she left them to talk.
“Rra,” Kubu began, “we’re trying to understand what happened yesterday. We’re hoping you can help us with that.”
The elder met Kubu’s eyes and said nothing for a few seconds. “It is impossible to understand what happened yesterday. But I can tell you what happened before.” He paused. “You know about the mine and the jobs?” Kubu nodded. “Traditions are important, Assistant Superintendent. Our culture is based on our traditions. History is important too. Shoshong has a very long history. Many years before the days of Khama the Third, there were Tswana people here. Thousands of years before that, there was an Iron Age settlement in these hills. There are important relics from those people in the museum in Gaborone, pottery, iron tools. Perhaps you have seen them?” Kubu shook his head.
“You see,” the old man commented, “people these days are not interested in such things; they live for the present.” He paused. “But sometimes old people think that the past is all that is important. Our chief, rest his soul, was like that. He knew the town needed jobs, that the young men wanted to work—at least those who were not content to lounge around the shebeens all day—but his mind was always on the past, preserving our traditions and our history. That was what was important. He said that the young men could go to Francistown for work.” He shook his head. “If that happens, the town will die.”
“So you supported letting the mine expand?”
Nwako nodded slowly. “It was the only way. But I was the only elder who thought so. Of course, the chief’s son, Julius, supported it too. Very strongly.”
“But that made no difference?”
Nwako shook his head. “Julius went to the mine management. He told us he was negotiating with them. That made his father very angry. It is the chief’s role to do that; Julius went behind his back. I think it hardened the chief’s resolve to turn down the mine’s offer.”
Kubu brooded about that. So there was tension between Julius and his father, and Julius had now all but declared himself chief. And presumably if Julius did become chief, the mine would get its way. So both Julius and the mine had much to gain from the chief’s death. Another mining issue, Kubu thought. Newsom had come to Mahalapye to visit a mining company on the day he was attacked. Could there be a connection?
“I’m confused, rra. Why was this even an issue for the chief? It is the director of mines in Gaborone who decides on mining lic
enses and so on.”
Nwako nodded. “Yes, but here people are living on the land the mine wants. The mine has to get our agreement. Julius told us the mine would get approval from the director if we gave our permission. I do not understand how he knew that.”
“I suppose you will support him to be the new chief?”
Nwako raised his eyebrows. “In Shoshong, the chief rotates between groups, Assistant Superintendent. It doesn’t automatically go from father to son.” He shook his head. “As for Julius, I agreed with him on this issue, but I do not trust him.” He coughed again, hawked, and spat into his handkerchief. “Rra, you must excuse me now,” he said when he’d caught his breath. “I am old and much saddened by all this. Now I must go and visit the families of my late friends.”
“Of course, rra. Thank you for your help. I may come back again if I need to know more. But I have just one more question for now. What sort of car did the chief drive?”
Nwako looked surprised. “The chief? He did not have a car. He did not know how to drive. Why do you ask that?”
“I was just curious. Someone told me the chief drove to Tobela to speak at the kgotla there.”
Nwako nodded. “A group of us went to visit their elders. It was about a month ago. Julius drove us in his car. It’s a silver car. A Toyota, I think.”
Kubu took a deep breath. Now he recalled that the Mochudi bartender had told Samantha about the age difference between Wilmon and his visitor. Although he had no real evidence, Kubu’s gut told him that it was Julius Koma who visited his father in Mochudi the week he was killed.
CHAPTER 34
A Death in the Family Page 14
