A Death in the Family (9 page)

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.

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 offered 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.