A Death in the Family (17 page)

Kubu wasn't sure what to say. How had this matter got out of hand so suddenly? “How can I contact him? I need to speak to him urgently.”

“Hold on a minute. I have phone numbers for him. A local cell number and a number in the US. I'll give you those.” She read off Newsom's Botswana cell phone number and the same US number Kubu had picked up from Newsom's phone.

“I've tried both those numbers but just get recorded messages.”

“Well, he's in transit. You'll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Do you have an address for him in the US?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I'm sorry, Assistant Superintendent, I'm not allowed to give you that information.”

“I can get the information from Interpol.”

“Well, of course, Assistant Superintendent. Please go ahead with that.”

Kubu thanked her as politely as he could manage and hung up. He would alert the border posts and the airport, but he didn't think Olsen was lying to him. They must have driven Newsom through the Tlokweng border or flown him out of the country in a private plane. And he had no hope of getting the South African authorities to hold Newsom on a few hours' notice; he wasn't accused of any crime and had presumably left Botswana legally. He cursed again. He should have insisted on holding Newsom's passport, but there'd been no justification for that at the time.

He dressed quickly. He was going to have to explain the whole mess to Mabaku, but he doubted that the director would be too upset. As far as Mabaku was concerned, the Kunene issue was already history, and with Newsom gone, the knife attack would decline in importance.

Kubu had an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he'd just lost his main connection to the Kunene murder and any hope of understanding how it linked with the attack on Newsom the night before.

 

CHAPTER 31

Constable Polanka was worried. There were just as many people headed toward the
kgotla
as the previous time, but now many of the young men had cartons of Shake Shake beer and were brandishing heavy sticks. The talk was aggressive.

“The chief had better say yes to the mine!”

“We need the jobs.”

“We'll throw him out if he says no!”

“And the other old men also.”

“I'll beat some sense into them!”

Constable Polanka was scared. He could never stop this crowd if it got out of control, so he pulled out his cell phone and called the station chief.

“Rra. I think there's going to be trouble at the
kgotla
. The young people are angry and are carrying big sticks. If the chief says no to the mine, I don't know what they will do. Please send some more men up here. Quickly.”

*   *   *

THE STAGE WAS
set as before. The chief's son and the elders were sitting under a canopy, and the people from the village thronged around it. However, this time much of the space close to the stage was occupied by young men, restless as they waited for the chief. The older men had been pushed to the back and were muttering at the disrespect. There were women scattered here and there, but the mood was quite different to the previous meeting; children and babies had been left at home. And Constable Polanka had been reinforced with the arrival of five other constables.

Eventually, there was a buzz as the crowd parted, and the chief walked slowly toward the stage and climbed the steps. He went straight to the microphone and waited for the crowd to quiet down.

“Thank you for your patience. I have consulted with the elders and have now made my decision.” The chief looked around at the audience. If he saw the sticks, he didn't show it.

“As we heard last time, there is great opportunity in the offer the mine has made…” A growl of approval came from the young men. “But we also have had a bad experience in dealing with the mine—promises were broken and a number of families were thrown out of their homes with nowhere to go.”

The elders onstage nodded.

“I have listened to many opinions from young and old and have considered the issue from all sides. This has been a very difficult situation because whatever decision I make will pit young versus old, the past against the future. So it will be impossible for all to be satisfied. So I ask everyone to accept what I have decided and to move forward without looking back.” The young men leaned forward expectantly.

The chief cleared his throat. “This is what I have decided.”

Constable Polanka was startled by the silence. How can so many people be so quiet? he wondered.

“Shoshong is a town with a great history,” the chief continued. “It was the center of all of this part of what is now Botswana. It was the home of the great Khama the Third before the droughts forced him to leave. There is no doubt that expanding the mine will bring jobs.” He paused to clear his throat. “But it will also destroy our heritage.” He looked at the crowd. “I believe that a heritage is more important than jobs. So I will tell the mine we do not want it to expand. I have—”

The young men jumped up, bellowing in anger, and started to move forward.

Constable Polanka jumped in front of the stage, waving his arms, and shouted for the mob to stop. It did not. He pulled out his handgun and fired it into the air. “Stop,” he cried. “Go back!” It had no effect. One of the other constables also fired into the air and, when the crowd continued to move, pointed at it and fired. A man fell, howling in pain. The constable fired another shot. Another man fell. There was pandemonium. People ran in all directions, and the screams of women could be heard over the din.

Some of the young men turned and charged toward the shooter. He panicked, fired again into the crowd, then turned tail and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. The rest of the mob rushed the stage and knocked Constable Polanka to the ground.

“Help!” he screamed, as he was trampled and kicked. Then he gave a second but weaker shout for help. But it was to no avail. No one heard him over the angry roar.

The men poured onto the stage. One of the elders was smashed to the ground and kicked and beaten with sticks. He writhed, knees to his chest, arms covering his head. But soon his arms were broken. And then his head. Blood oozed over the stage.

A second elder was dead before the crowd reached him—his heart stopping in terror at the wave of anger headed his way.

The third elder stood up and started to run, but his spindly legs were no match for angry young ones. He died from a single blow to the head from a hardwood
knobkierie
.

The incensed men then turned to the chief, who had jumped off the back of the stage and was running away as fast as his ancient legs would carry him. Julius turned and followed his father. Several of the screaming men sprinted after them. A shot rang out. The mob closed on the chief. There was another shot, barely heard above the din, just before the first man reached the old man. The chief stumbled and fell. Nothing could stop the rampage. In seconds, he was nothing more than a bloodied, broken body facedown in the sand.

Like a flock of queleas, the crowd changed direction and surged toward the remaining constables, who were trying to get away. One turned and stood his ground, taking careful aim. The crowd didn't break its stride and ran screaming at the man. His courage evaporated, and he fled, firing over his shoulder until the magazine ran out. He knew he was running for his life, but it was not fast enough.

 

CHAPTER 32

“Let us pray.”

Kubu, Joy, Amantle, Tumi, and Nono joined hands around the dinner table.

“Nono, will you please say grace.”

“Thank you for this food, Jesus,” Nono said. She hesitated a moment and then continued in a rush. “And-please-fill-the-tummies-of-everybody-who-is-hungry-because-it-is-not-nice-to-be-hungry.-Thank-you-Jesus.-Amen.”

“That was very thoughtful of you, Nono,” Joy said with a smile. She recalled how hungry Nono had been when they took her into their home, as thin as a rake, after her sister had succumbed to AIDS. “I'm sure Jesus will listen to you.”

Amantle, who was sitting next to Nono, took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “That was very nice, my child.”

“Daddy, Daddy, serve me first,” Tumi shouted.

“Please don't shout at the table, Tumi,” Kubu said. “I can hear you very well.”

Tumi bounced up and down in her chair. “Please serve me first,” she said in an exaggerated whisper. She picked up her knife and fork expectantly.

Kubu put a large spoonful of mashed potato on the top plate and covered it with steaming meat stew. Then he added a helping of boiled cabbage and passed the plate to Amantle, who put it down in front of Tumi.

“You can start,” Kubu said.

He then served Nono, followed by the three adults.

Joy frowned as she saw how little Kubu put on his own plate. “Are you sure that's enough, dear?” she asked.

He nodded. “I'm not that hungry,” he replied.

“If you carry on like this, you'll need to take in all your trousers,” she said, attempting to make light of her concern. “At least can I get you a glass of wine?”

Kubu shook his head and started playing with the food on his plate. He built a wall of mashed potato and dammed the stew behind it. Then he stuck his fork into the dam wall, opening a hole through which the stew trickled onto the rest of his plate.

Joy shook her head but said nothing, and for the next few minutes, the only sounds were the clinking of knives and forks on the dinner plates.

Kubu had just finished his serving when the phone rang.

“I'll get it. I'll get it,” Tumi shouted, and ran to the phone. “Hello. This is the Bengus' home,” she said in a serious voice. She listened for a moment. “I'm fine, thank you. I'll call him.” She laid the receiver on the table. “It's Rra Mabaku, Daddy. He wants to speak to you.”

Kubu heaved himself out of his chair and picked up the phone. “Good evening, Director. I hope you've got good news.”

For the next few minutes, he listened, saying almost nothing. Joy watched his frown grow. It's not about Wilmon's attacker, she thought. God, I wish they'd find him, so Kubu can get back to being himself.

Kubu continued to listen. It must be another damned murder, Joy said to herself. What's this country coming to?

Eventually, Kubu spoke. “Yes, Director. Right away. I'll meet you at the police station as soon as I can get there.” He put down the phone and slumped back into his chair.

“Go on, children. Go to your room and play.”

“But what about dessert? Mommy bought some ice cream.”

“You can have it in a few minutes. I have some grown-up talk to say to your mother and grandmother. Go on.”

When the kids had disappeared and shut the door of their bedroom, Kubu looked up at the two women. “There's been a riot in Shoshong. Several policemen have been killed, and so have the chief and some elders.” He paused. “We knew there were tensions, so we had some constables at the
kgotla
, and they were armed. But we never thought things were as bad as they turned out to be.” He looked at Joy. “Darling, I have to go to Shoshong this evening. We have to try to calm things down.”

“But it will be very dangerous…”

“No, my dear. I'll be fine. The army has been sent to impose a curfew. I have to meet the director there at ten.” Kubu stood up. “I'd better be going. I think it's about a three-hour drive. I'll stay up there tonight and phone you first thing in the morning to let you know what's happening.”

“No you won't!” Joy snapped. “You'll phone me as soon as you get there. You know how dangerous the roads can be at night, especially when your mind is on other things. I'll be worried sick until I hear from you.”

“Yes, dear. Please don't worry. I'll be fine.” He walked over to Joy and gave her a kiss. She clasped his body to hers. “Please be careful, dear,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

He went into their bedroom, dumped a few clothes in a carryall, took his service pistol from the safe, and stopped at the front door.

“I'll call you when I get there. I promise. And don't forget to give the kids their ice cream.”

*   *   *

KUBU WAS FRAZZLED
by the time he pulled up outside the police station in Shoshong. He had narrowly missed two drunks—black men dressed in dark clothes—who'd been staggering along the edge of an unlit road. No wonder the number of pedestrian deaths was so high, he thought. And there were more cows than usual, grazing on the grass at the edge of the pavement. The cows were the worst—totally unpredictable, they could wander onto the road no matter how heavy the traffic. And hitting a cow often did more damage to the car than to the cow.

Kubu pulled out his phone and called home.

“I'm safely at the police station in Shoshong, dear,” he said to a relieved Joy. “The usual stuff on the way up but largely a clear run. I'll call you around lunch tomorrow and give you an update.”

“Please be careful, dear. I'm so scared something will happen to you. I love you so much.”

“I'll be careful, and I love you too.”

*   *   *

WHEN KUBU WALKED
into the small conference room that Mabaku had commandeered as his operations room, Kubu thought that war must have broken out. There was a senior officer from the army—what his rank was, Kubu didn't know—and his aide. They were talking to the head of the police helicopter squadron, whom Kubu knew quite well. The commissioner of police was there in full uniform, listening to an earnest-looking civilian. Kubu's colleagues Zanele Dlamini and Samantha Khama were standing near the window talking quietly. And Director Mabaku was in the far corner, glowering at everyone. He motioned for Kubu to join him.

“What an unmitigated mess,” Mabaku growled. “That person talking to the commissioner—he's the local National Assembly member. Between the two of them, they can only make things worse with their politicking. What do they know about riot control? Neither of them would have thought to bring in a couple of helicopters.”