“I’ve never read of anything like this,” Ian replied. “And here’s something else.”
He passed Kubu a petri dish containing a blackened lump of what Kubu took for metal.
“That’s a bullet, no doubt about it. I found it by chance when I got intrigued by the young organs.” Ian paused and corrected himself. “The young-looking organs, I should say. It was lodged in one of the rectus abdominis muscles, just under an inch below the skin. Probably pretty spent when it hit him, or it would’ve killed him. I was surprised.”
“Surprised? Was it recent?”
“Not recent at all. I was surprised because there was no scar. Nothing. I take photos as well as examining the body before I start the autopsy. I went back to the photos to check. No scarring at all.”
“If he was a nomadic Bushman and someone shot him long ago, he wouldn’t see a doctor in the desert. If he didn’t die, he’d recover. How long would the scar take to disappear?”
Ian shook his head. “Never. The scar would never disappear. Certainly not without an expert plastic surgeon and proper medication at the time of the injury.”
Kubu was starting to understand why Ian was so puzzled. “Could he have swallowed the bullet or something?”
Again Ian shook his head. “It would be impossible for it to get there from inside the body. And it’s badly corroded. It’s been there for a very long time. I’m surprised the lead didn’t cause him more problems.”
It was Kubu’s turn to shake his head. The Bushmen were strange people, and strange things happened with them, but a young man in an old frame, who seemed immune to bullets, was another thing altogether. It didn’t make any sense.
Ian glanced at his friend and realized that Kubu had followed the same path he’d walked earlier that morning. He nodded slowly.
Kubu had had enough. “Well, let’s get out of here and go back to your office.”
* * *
“SO,” KUBU SUMMARIZED, after they’d washed their hands and disposed of the masks and gloves, “what we have is a very old man, apparently in good health except for his skin and his bones. He was killed by a blow to the head. And he was shot long ago, but that, presumably, has nothing to do with his death. Correct?”
Ian nodded, but said nothing.
Kubu brooded about it. “Is it possible we have the wrong end of the stick? Maybe he’s a middle-aged man and had some illness that affected the bones. Maybe a nutrition problem? You said that Bushmen all have wrinkled skin.”
“What about the white hair?”
Kubu shrugged. “Can’t that happen after an extreme shock of some kind, like being bitten by a scorpion or poisonous snake?”
Ian frowned. “I suppose it’s possible. But that doesn’t explain the bullet.”
Kubu was sure Ian had more to say. He leaned back in his chair and waited.
Ian fiddled with his pipe and took a long draw. “You know I’m interested in the Bushmen, Kubu. Always have been. One of my colleagues at the University of Botswana told me about a visiting anthropologist from the US giving a seminar on what he called the ‘oral memory’ of the Bushmen peoples. I wasn’t all that taken with the topic but went along to see what he was talking about.
“What made me think of it now was his story about a certain Bushman he’d met. He said the Bushman was a great raconteur of stories about historical events that had happened to his people. He’d tell them in the first person—as though he’d been there himself. The stories changed a little with each retelling, but all the main points stayed consistent. The anthropologist was fascinated by this. He postulated that it was a way history could be retained by a people without a written record—that they learned the events as though they had actually been present. He thought perhaps that the storyteller visualized himself experiencing events that had actually been seen by his father or grandfather—maybe with the help of a trance or drugs.”
“It sounds as though that would lead to exaggeration rather than accuracy. I don’t remember any Bushman doing that.”
“His suggestion was that only special men were selected for this oral memory task.” Ian shrugged. “I said I wasn’t convinced. And he got a lot of questions after the talk, some pretty pointed.”
Kubu caught on. “You think our corpse in there could be one of the Bushmen he was talking about?”
“I don’t know, but I got to thinking. If he was some sort of genetic freak—and you’ve seen the evidence yourself—then perhaps he’s a lot older than he looks. Maybe he’s around ninety or even older. If Collins’s subject was also that old, perhaps he was telling those stories in the first person because he actually was present at the events.” Ian looked uncomfortable. “I know it’s far-fetched, but just look at the internal shape this man was in.” He hesitated. “One of the stories he told the anthropologist was of a hunting party from what is now Namibia that attacked his group and shot many of them. Men, women, and children. Disgusting, but we know these things happened. He claimed to have been shot himself, but it wasn’t a bad wound. I was thinking about that bullet I found in him.”
“But the last parties hunting Bushmen were nearly a hundred years ago!”
Ian nodded. “Yes, Kubu, I know. I said it’s far-fetched. But still.”
Kubu thought for a few moments. Ian’s speculation wouldn’t go down well with an unimaginative, by-the-book type of detective like Segodi. And why would Segodi care anyway? There was no reason to think there was any connection between the Bushman’s age and his death. No reason, but intuition told Kubu differently. He understood why Ian had called him.
The two friends sat quietly, each lost in thought, puzzling about the anomalies they’d just talked about. Then Kubu’s stomach announced that it was time for lunch. He grunted and climbed to his feet. “I’d just stick to the bland facts with Detective Sergeant Segodi, Ian. Let’s see what he comes up with. I’ll let you know.”
They shook hands, and Kubu took his leave. When he reached the door, he hesitated. He’d learned over the years to take Ian’s hunches as seriously as his own. He turned around.
“Is there a way of accurately estimating a dead person’s age? Like that Bushman?”
Ian didn’t reply for several seconds. “I’ll have to look into it. I’m not sure there is. How long someone has been dead, yes. The longer the better. But not how long since the person was born.”
“Well, send the bullet to forensics. See what they make of it.”
Ian nodded. “I’ll do that.”
Kubu waved and left the pathologist sucking thoughtfully on his pipe.
CHAPTER 3
Kubu ate his lunch in his office. His wife, Joy, had abandoned her efforts to get him to eat healthy salads—which had only led to clandestine visits to local fast-food restaurants—and now supplied a lunch that included Kubu’s favorites in modest amounts. This gave him something to look forward to and at least didn’t increase his weight.
There was cold bobotie with sambals and a little rice, a salad, pieces of fruit, and an energy bar. Kubu washed it down with a cup of proper coffee from a flask filled at home, and settled back in his chair, more or less satisfied for the time being. He would have liked a second helping of the excellent bobotie, but there was none to be had. He consoled himself with the thought that Joy would cook something special for Amantle’s visit, and that they’d enjoy a glass or two of wine with it.
There was a perfunctory knock on the door, and almost before he could respond, Detective Samantha Khama was in his office.
“I won’t have it, Kubu. I’m going to see the director right now, and I expect you to back me up.” She looked at the debris of Kubu’s meal. “Even if it is lunchtime,” she added with a hint of sarcasm.
Kubu sighed. Samantha was a fine junior detective—until something upset her. Then there was no holding her back.
“Sit down, Samantha. What’s happened? Would you like a coffee? Joy makes it for me from real beans.”
Samantha settled into a seat, but d
eclined the coffee. “Kubu, you know I’ve been pushing for the police to take crimes against women much more seriously, and particularly crimes against young girls. But you also know how male dominated the CID is, and how no one really cares anyway. I’m sure Detective Sergeant Seleke beats his wife, but the director turns a blind eye to it!” She paused, but rushed on before Kubu could respond. “There’s rape and domestic abuse everywhere! And girls just vanish, often taken by witch doctors for their muti potions. What’s worse is that half the people in this office are scared of the very witch doctors who’re behind everything. Well, this is the last straw!” She tossed a report onto Kubu’s desk.
He picked it up and read it, but was none the wiser about Samantha’s agitation.
“It’s a missing persons report,” he said. “A certain Botlele Ramala is reported missing by his wife. What’s the matter? I don’t get it.”
“Haven’t you heard of Kgosi Ramala, Kubu? He’s a witch doctor! He calls himself a chief among witch doctors and promises to prolong life and heaven knows what else. Guess what he uses to try to do that. Muti, of course. We’ve been watching him, but haven’t been able to connect him to anything illegal so far.”
“Well, even a witch doctor can go missing,” Kubu said mildly. He shrugged. “Maybe he got into a disagreement with a competitor—another witch doctor.”
“That Detective Sergeant Seleke just came to my office and said, ‘Here you are, my girl. You’re interested in disappearances.’ I’m not his girl!” Samantha paused for breath. “I know he sneers at me behind my back and makes nasty remarks. And now he expects me to investigate a missing witch doctor who’s probably off kidnapping some girl, or worse.”
Kubu sighed and spread his hands on his desk. Seleke did go out of his way to bait Samantha, and taking her the missing witch doctor report probably was his idea of a joke.
He tried to defuse the situation. “Samantha, calm down. Everyone has instructions to let you see copies of missing persons reports. At your request. And that’s been great, letting you get on top of the cases while they’re warm enough to follow. This Ramala has been missing since yesterday. He didn’t come home and didn’t have any plans to be away. He may not be your favorite person, but we have to investigate it. He’s also a member of the public, and we’re obliged to protect him.”
“You’re not suggesting I actually follow this up?” she said indignantly.
“Definitely. Wait till Monday, and if he hasn’t reappeared, look into it,” Kubu said. “That will show Detective Sergeant Seleke that you take your job seriously and follow up every case. Then he can’t go around saying…” Kubu caught himself and made a show of finishing his coffee. It certainly wouldn’t do to tell Samantha what Seleke reportedly said behind her back.
“Saying what?”
“That you don’t follow up cases against men,” Kubu improvised.
Samantha thought about it. “I don’t care if Ramala is missing. In fact, if he disappeared for good, I’d be delighted.”
Kubu spotted a way to turn Seleke’s tease to Samantha’s advantage.
“Samantha, you’re missing something. You’ve been watching this guy and suspect he could be in on something really bad. Here’s your chance to investigate what he’s been doing, interview his wife, his clients! You couldn’t do that before. Now you can. You’ve got a legitimate reason to investigate everything about him: to try to find him. Detective Sergeant Seleke has done you a favor.”
For several moments, Samantha considered that. Much as she disliked Seleke, Kubu had a good point. Whether Ramala’s customers and colleagues would actually cooperate was less clear, but now she had a solid reason to ask them questions and expect to get answers, at least until the odious man reappeared.
Grabbing the report, she headed for the door. “Thanks, Kubu,” she said with a rare smile, and was gone.
Kubu relaxed. He’d redirected Samantha’s anger toward the case. Even if she realized how he’d done it, a blowup in Director Mabaku’s office had been avoided.
Kubu poured himself the last cup of coffee from the flask, added sweetener instead of sugar—another compromise agreed with Joy—and stirred well. Then his mind drifted back to the mysterious Bushman.
He turned to Google for help and looked up “longevity.” Wikipedia seemed to be the place to start. He found some surprising facts there. For a start, there were documented cases of people who lived to over 120. That in itself was amazing. Then there was the genetics issue. Kubu subscribed to the popular belief that choosing your parents correctly was the most important factor determining longevity. That seemed to be false. Only around 30 percent was explained by genetics, the rest by lifestyle choices, such as exercise, healthy eating, and leisure. There was nothing about differential aging of the organs of the body, though.
Was it possible that the Bushman actually had been present at the events the anthropologist had described? He tried “Bushman hunting party,” but this produced hits about the Bushmen doing the hunting. But when he added “German,” he was more successful. The last permit to hunt a Bushman was issued by the South African government in 1936. That was eighty years ago and not impossible to fit into a human’s normal life span. But Ian had said it was Germans who attacked the Bushmen, so that would move the attack back to the time of the First World War, twenty years earlier, or even before that. On the other hand, many Germans had stayed in what had become South West Africa, so perhaps the attack had happened later.
As usual with browsing the Web, time passed quickly, and Kubu’s stomach started sending signals that dinner wasn’t far off. He turned off his computer and wondered what Joy would be making. Soon he was counting the minutes until it was time to go home for the weekend.
CHAPTER 4
When Kubu arrived home, he was met, as usual, with a frenzied welcome from Ilia, their fox terrier, who jumped into the car and sat in the passenger seat, panting happily. Normally, the barking would result in an equally enthusiastic welcome from Tumi, their daughter, and Nono, the daughter they’d adopted after all her family succumbed to the widespread AIDS epidemic.
Joy should be back by now, he thought. Probably the traffic was worse than normal for a Friday afternoon. Perhaps there’s a concert in Gabs this evening, or a big football match.
He parked the Land Rover in the shade, spent a few minutes patting Ilia, then went inside to change into something more comfortable. He’d barely reached the bedroom when Ilia started barking again. The others had arrived.
Kubu walked out to the veranda and was immediately rushed by Tumi, who gave him a huge hug. Nono followed in a more reserved fashion and hugged him too. When Joy had parked, Kubu went to help his mother, who was struggling to climb out of the car.
“Good afternoon, Mother,” he said quietly, taking hold of her hand. “Welcome to our home. It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, my son,” she replied. “I never get used to being here without Wilmon.”
“That’s not surprising, Mother. You were married for nearly forty years. How are you?”
“I am well, thank you. Sometimes I feel very old, but today I am strong. I think the children give me energy.”
“And how is Mochudi? Are you still happy living alone there?”
“Yes, I am. That is where my friends are.”
“The traffic was terrible!” Joy exclaimed as she lifted Amantle’s bag from the trunk. “And it took us at least an extra fifteen minutes. A herd of cows got loose on the road. They were wandering all over the place. I’m surprised none were hit.”
“And I’m pleased to see you too,” Kubu teased.
Joy rolled her eyes and came over to Kubu. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m feeling frazzled. So nice to see you,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek.
It must have been a really bad drive, he thought. She’s normally so affectionate.
“Let’s go in,” he said. “I’ll make drinks.”
* * *
FOR DINNER,
JOY had prepared a delicious chicken curry, not too hot because of the children, accompanied by yellow rice, a cucumber raita, chopped bananas, and mango chutney—Mrs. Ball’s, of course. It was one of Kubu’s favorite meals.
“Eat up, Nono,” Joy said, noticing that she’d hardly touched her food.
“I’m not hungry,” Nono replied.
“You need to eat. You’ve had a long day.”
“But I’m not hungry.” She paused. “I’m very tired. Can I go to bed, please?”
“It’s too early to go to sleep. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night.”
“I want to go to bed.” Nono was beginning to whine, so Joy said she could leave the table.
“Remember that you and Tumi are camping out in our bedroom tonight. Grandmother is using your bedroom for the weekend. And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
Nono stood up and carefully pushed the chair back into position. “Good night, Grandmother. Good night, Mommy and Daddy.”
They all bade her a good night’s sleep.
“She must be sick,” Kubu said. “She always eats everything. Maybe it’s the flu that’s been going around.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” Joy said quietly.
Kubu knew immediately what she was referring to. Nono had been born HIV positive but had controlled the disease through daily antiretrovirals.
“Finish up your dinner, Tumi,” he said. “Then why don’t you go and read one of your books? Then I’ll come and read you a story, but you must decide which one.”
“Isn’t there any pudding?” she asked.
Joy shook her head. “Not tonight, darling. But tomorrow I have a big treat for you. One of your favorites.”
“Ice cream?” Tumi shouted.
Joy shook her head.
“Milk tart?”
Joy shook her head again.
“That’s all I like, Mommy. I want ice cream.”
“I have something special. A big surprise. But you’ll only get it if you go and read now.”
Kubu thought Tumi was about to cry, but he was wrong. She smiled, said good night, and trotted off.
Dying to Live Page 2