“There’s no harm in making enquiries about what Monzo was up to,” he said. “Might turn something up. We can check the phone records for the ranger station, if you like. And it should be easy enough to find the girlfriend too. Do you want to go out to Tshane?”
Kubu shook his head. “Director Mabaku wants me back in Gaborone. Anyway, it’s your case, and it should be coordinated here. But I’d like to stay involved. I feel we’re starting to make progress.”
They shook hands formally, and Kubu left to fetch his stuff from the Mokha Lodge.
He hated leaving just as the case was warming up. But the good part was that he was going home—home to his family.
Chapter Twelve
Gobiwasi stood up, steadying himself against the stunted tree that had been his shelter for the past six hours. The last two days had tested him to the limit. Physically, his seventy-year old body was nearly depleted. Mentally, he was determined, but the pain and the relentless heat were wearing away his resolve. One more day, and he would be there—at The Place—where he would appease the spirits and sleep his last sleep. He wondered whether he could stay alive long enough to reach it and die in peace.
He slung his leather hunting bag over his shoulder. It was his oldest friend, and its contents knew his entire history, had shared his whole life. From a time before he could remember, it had been with him—a gift from his grandfather. It had been with him when he had met his wife. It was on his back when he had made his pilgrimage to the sacred hills of Tsodilo, several weeks’ walk to the north, where man was first born on this earth. It had seen every springbok and eland that he had hunted, run every mile in pursuit of the slowly dying prey. It had danced the dance of the ancestors, and been with him whenever he visited their world.
He picked up his spear. It had saved him on one of his first hunts, when a desperate hyena, a front paw lost in a skirmish over carrion, attacked him as he slept in the heat of the day. He had been lucky that he could pull the spear from his bag as he was being dragged away and plunge it into the shriveled stomach of the once proud animal. It had let him go and, rather than retaliating with traditional ferocity, had sat down, looked at him, and died with resignation and relief.
And this was his bow, used so many times to help feed his people. How many times had he hunted? He was too tired even to guess. And the arrows, so lovingly crafted into missiles of death, which enabled the Bushmen to survive in the harshest of environments. Their poison eventually downing the strongest of animals, whose deaths completed the circle of life.
He lifted the ostrich egg, dribbled the last drops of water onto his tongue, then placed it gently on the ground. For how many miles had it been his companion? How many times had it been his link to life?
He turned toward the hill in the distance, put emotion aside, and set off across the shimmering sand, walking, no longer able to run, clutching a large tuber that would provide his liquid for the day.
Gobiwasi rested in the shadow of a small blackthorn bush. The sun was low now, turning the dusty air into swirls of reds and purples. A few thin clouds shined gold before darkening to indigo.
He had been walking for three hours over the hot sand and was exhausted. Again, fear ran through him that he wouldn’t reach The Place, which still looked far away, silhouetted against the sky. He gnawed on the tuber, relishing the moisture oozing onto his tongue. He didn’t swallow it right away, but let it sit there as he anticipated it sliding into his body. He swirled it around in his mouth, then swallowed. He imagined it to be a long drink of water rather than merely a few drops of tuber sap. That made him feel better.
Finally he opened his hunting bag and unwrapped some Hoodia flesh and chewed it. From before anyone could remember, his people had used this plant to prepare for the hunt. It took away hunger and provided energy. Hunger was no longer important, but he needed the energy for the next few miles. Not long now before he could start his final journey.
He stood up, focusing on the distance still ahead, feeling the exhaustion. He admitted to himself that he needed help. Would his ancestors help him still? He put his hand into his hunting bag and pulled out a small animal horn, closed at one end with a cap of leather. Carefully he took the cap off and poured a small heap of the white powder onto his left hand. He licked his palm until all the powder was gone.
As he set off once more toward the hill on the horizon, Gobiwasi’s mind wandered back to his first hunt. How old had he been? Twelve? Thirteen? His father had been teaching him how to stalk prey and hunt with bow and arrow and spear; had told him about poisons and about the importance of taking only what was needed, never more. Always leave something for whoever follows, his father had admonished. The desert is hard, and we must support each other.
As the drug crept into his brain, Gobiwasi’s mind began to spin and slowly left his body. Now he was crawling in the sand toward an eland, huge with horns that spiraled tightly to the sky. As he slithered closer, the eland grew even bigger and turned its head toward him. Its eyes, dark brown and sad, grew larger and larger and slowly sucked him in.
Now he was in the eland’s mind, tumbling, rolling as a tree in a rare flood.
“What brings you here?” the eland asked.
“You bring life to our people,” Gobiwasi whispered. “I have to know your thoughts.”
“I have no thoughts. I am born; I survive; I protect my family.”
“And if you do not survive?”
“Then I bring life to your people, or to the lions, or to the hyenas. And they survive.”
“Are you not sad to die?”
“I do not feel. I am, or I am not. That is how it is.”
Gobiwasi understood. His people were nearly the same. They lived to survive, and they survived to provide for themselves and each other. The one was insignificant against the whole. The one would always die to save the others.
Now Gobiwasi flew from the majestic beast back to the scorching sand. He stood up, and the eland turned and ran, dust trailing, into the mirages of the Kalahari. Gobiwasi raised his hand. We are brothers, he thought. And then there were a hundred eland running into the desert. And then a thousand. Then he too was running, running. Was he a man or an antelope? The pace got faster. He couldn’t keep up.
Suddenly he fell.
Reality returned to Gobiwasi. He had stumbled over a small calcrete ridge. His heart was pounding. Looking back, he saw his tracks in the sand, not the stumbling tread of an old man, but the lope of a runner. He had been a runner once, and now he had run again. How long had he been dreaming? The hill was close now. Less than an hour to go. He put his head down and walked.
The light was nearly gone, and it was only the dark red of the western sky that allowed the aging Gobiwasi to see The Place. There would be no moon tonight. But in just a few minutes, he would be there.
He wondered about his own final journey. Would his ancestors welcome him? Or would they spurn him for what he had done? It had been his most difficult decision, torn between his people’s age-old commitment to the sanctity of human life and his reverence for the spirits. Twelve years earlier, Gobiwasi had watched at The Place, moving from bush to bush, always invisible. Watched as a white man went in and out of the caves, disturbing the ancestors, chipping at the walls with the paintings. For two days he had waited his chance, following the man until he was far from The Place. Then Gobiwasi had done the unthinkable.
In the desert, he had taken a human life.
When he arrived at the base of the koppies that were The Place, Gobiwasi was exhausted, but relieved. Even in the dark, and after all the years, he soon found the cave with the spring and drank deeply. Then he found a sheltered place, arranged his blanket, and sat down. He gazed upward at his thousand ancestors, all looking at him. How often had they comforted him and guided him to safety? Tomorrow he would be one of them.
He finished what was left of the tuber and chewed his last piece of Hoodia. He would need energy for tomorrow. A good sleep was important. He
was tempted to have more of the white powder, but decided against it. He would need what he had left for his last journey.
He lay down, pulled the blanket over his wizened body, and slept.
Gobiwasi was awake before the sun eased its way into the sky. Although exhausted from the walk, he had not slept well. There was too much to think about: long-past deeds, his family, and where today’s journey would end. Dying did not worry him. It came to everyone. It was what happened thereafter that was of concern. How would his ancestors judge his life and his actions? Would they accept him even though he had killed another human? Would they understand why he had done it?
He wasn’t used to resting when awake. Normally he would rise at once and be active around the camp. Today, however, he decided to lie where he was for a little longer. He needed to prepare for when he met his ancestors and justified his life. He wanted to be strong but humble, proud of his life but modest about his accomplishments.
He thought back to when the black men found their camp but a few days ago. And a Bushman, Khumanego was his name, had sought him out. The wrinkles on Gobiwasi’s forehead deepened. The man seemed to be asking for help, for guidance. Who was this man? Had he been sent by the ancestors to talk to him? Perhaps he should have let him speak more, should have answered his questions. Gobiwasi shook his head slowly, his spirit weeping. Everything was changing. And he doubted it was for the better. He feared for his people. They might not survive.
When the whole cliff face was covered in orange light, he rose and carefully folded his blanket. He had a long trip ahead today. He gazed one last time at the rising sun, to where his people and family were, dealing with his departure. Already the trees quivered and floated above the sand in huge pools of water. And animals sought shelter although it was still early.
He went to the cave with the spring and sipped only two scoops of water—enough for the trip. He walked toward one end of the hill. He had seen a scrawny shrub clinging to the cliff about halfway up. If there is a bush there, he thought, there will be a small cave behind that has nourished it over the years. Drips of water for the thirsty. Gobiwasi liked the idea of leaving from a place of plenty.
He scrambled up, pushed the branches aside and peered into the darkness, initially seeing only black. As the black eased into gray, he saw that it was as he had thought. Small, but big enough to lie down. Hidden from view, unlikely to be seen. And high enough to protect him from predators. Perfect, he thought. A good sign, he hoped. Perhaps the ancestors would forgive him.
He unfolded his blanket and spread it on the rocky floor. Then he slowly removed all the contents of his hunting bag and arranged them in a circle around the blanket. He placed two small leather-capped horns on the blanket, and gently put an arrow tip next to them. He thought back to the similar arrangement of the hunting bag and its contents that he had seen so many years before.
Finally, he picked up one of the small horns, poured the remaining white powder into his hand, and swallowed all of it. I am now ready to meet the ancestors, he thought. I am ready indeed. Then, he wrapped several strands of cocoons around his neck for his final dance. He looked around, pleased.
The climb down from the cave was straightforward. He hoped that the final climb up would be as easy. That would depend on the conversation he was about to have. What if they are not pleased? He quickly banished the thought. I am proud of what I have done, of the man I have been.
He walked slowly to the middle of the hill and stopped on a flat, hard area directly in front of the cave of the spirits. How many others like me have stopped here too? he wondered. He turned toward the hill, his back to the sun, which was already fiery hot. The hill was now white; gone was the orange of earlier. Gobiwasi gazed up at the cave and began a slow dance, his cocoon necklaces rattling to his rhythm. For twenty minutes he shuffled backward and forward, side to side. He sang the songs of the gods, the songs of the ancestors.
When he stopped, he lowered his hands and waited. He did not know what to expect. Would the ancestors cast judgment now? Would he learn now what they thought of his life, where he was headed? Or would his future remain hidden until he left this earth and started his journey?
He stood and waited.
And the sun was cruel, even on his leathery skin.
He felt drained.
I must soon go to the cave, he thought. I cannot stand here much longer. I will have to trust.
He stood and waited some more. Weaker. Having difficulty standing.
“It is time!” he croaked. “I must leave.”
He walked slowly to the far end of the hill where his journey would begin. He turned to the east and raised his hand, a final farewell to his family, to his people. He climbed carefully up to the cave, resting twice on the way. He pushed the bush aside, let his eyes adjust, and sat on the blanket, facing the entrance. A glimmer of light fell on his head. My ancestors must be able to see my face, he thought.
He took the top off the second horn and dipped his finger into the paste it contained. Thanking the plant from which the poison had come, he sucked the paste off his finger and repeated the process. Then he placed the horn back in the circle of his possessions.
He closed his eyes. The journey had started.
He smiled, lay back, crossed his hands on his chest, and waited to join his ancestors.
Part III
It will strike us without our knowing it
Chapter Thirteen
Wolfgang Haake pulled his Toyota Land Cruiser into the Tshane police station, leaving the engine on to run the air conditioner, and sat for a few moments composing himself. He yanked off his floppy hat and used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his face, neck, and shaved head. He ran his tongue around his dry lips, feeling the prickle of his moustache and tasting the sweat-salt. Glancing into the rear of the vehicle, he saw shards of glass from the shattered back window all over the seat. He shrugged. He needed to clean it up and replace the window, but that would have to wait until he was back in Windhoek. He wanted to get out of Botswana as soon as he could.
At last he turned off the engine, climbed out of the vehicle, and made his way into the police station. “I’m Haake,” he told the duty officer. “I’m the one who called in about being shot at. And about finding the murdered man.”
Detective Tau kept his vehicle on the two wheel ruts through the thick sand. Scorching air blew through the open windows. As he drove, he glanced at his passenger. The man wasn’t big, but was wiry, strong, and darkly tanned. What had he been doing alone in the Kalahari? He said he liked to explore, to find places no one knew about except the Bushmen, and to follow the trails of the German explorers through the area using old maps. It sounded suspicious, but Tau expected foreigners to do strange things.
A Namibian of German descent—from Luderitz, according to his statement—Haake had entered Botswana four days ago at Mamuno to the northwest on the main Windhoek road. His passport confirmed that.
“What did you want to find out there?” Tau asked, nodding his head toward the driver’s window and the Kalahari beyond.
“Solitude.”
Tau glanced at Haake with a puzzled look. He didn’t recognize the English word.
“I wasn’t looking for anything. I wanted to be alone in the bush. By myself.”
Tau thought about it. He had grown up in the village of Hukuntsi, about ten miles from Tshane. There was plenty of bush there. He wanted promotion to somewhere like Gaborone or Lobatse. It seemed only people from cities were attracted to the bush.
“Alone in the bush? That can be dangerous.”
“Only if someone is shooting at you.”
They were heading into the remotest part of the whole area. Yet it seemed there had been three people out there. Haake himself, and a white man who was now dead with his head bashed in, and a murderer. Not exactly the sort of solitude Haake had in mind, Tau thought.
Tau wasn’t taking any chances. Haake’s vehicle had been hit by two bullets—one through th
e back mudguard and one through the back window—so he’d brought along two armed constables. They were now speculating about Haake’s single gold earring, assuming that because he was white and foreign he wouldn’t understand Setswana. Tau, not so sure, told them to shut up.
“If you were off the road, how did you find the dead man? Was it just luck?”
“I was following my own tracks back to the road. It’s easier and stops you getting to a dead end—bush too thick to push through, or a donga. So I was surprised to see another bakkie there, pretty much on the route I’d taken. And a tent. Of course I stopped to check who it was.”
“And you found the body. Did you recognize him?”
Haake shook his head. “He was lying face down, and I didn’t touch him. He was obviously dead. Back of his head smashed in. Blood all over the place. I didn’t recognize his bakkie either.” He gave Tau a grim look. “I started fiddling with my satellite phone. I was going to call you people from there. That’s when I heard the first shot.”
“You didn’t see the shooter?”
“No! I got out of there as fast as I could. I’m not armed! I’m damn lucky. I could’ve been killed. Or the tires could’ve been hit. I didn’t stop until I was back on the main road and made fucking sure no one was following me. That’s when I called you.”
Tau nodded. He’d asked Haake to wait on the main road, but the Namibian had insisted on driving to the safety of the police station. Still, he looked calm enough now. The two young constables in the back were giggling and chatting again—this time about their girls. Tau sighed, hoping it didn’t come to a shootout.
Death of the Mantis Page 10