Suddenly the wind came up, and dust blew into Kubu’s face. He swung around to have his back to it and, from that position, something unusual caught his eye. About twenty yards away grew a small thornbush. It clung tightly to the ground, cherishing its personal patch of dirt with its touch of moisture leaked from the waterhole. A small patch of white in the center of the bush would have been almost impossible to see from any other angle or might have been mistaken for a cyst on the bark of its spindly trunk—a small patch of white that now flapped in the breeze. The breeze dropped, and the patch became just a white mark again.
Kubu rose with surprising speed and agility and grabbed a pair of tweezers from his bag. Bongani followed him, puzzled but not interrupting. Kubu lay down next to the bush and started fishing with the tweezers.
“Damn!” he said. The first round went to the thornbush. It scored a couple more direct hits before Kubu managed to winkle the whiteness carefully out between the armed branches. He held it up for Bongani’s inspection.
“It’s a cash slip for petrol,” he told Bongani, being careful not to handle the slip or let any blood from his scratches stain it. “It’s lucky the wind blew it into the heart of that little bush. Otherwise it could be in South Africa by now! I can’t read it. I guess that the sun has bleached the ink. Maybe the lab guys can see what was there.”
“There’s nothing to say it has anything to do with the killers,” Bongani said, trying to be the scientist and not get excited. “It could have blown out of any car that stopped here.”
“Yes,” said Kubu. “It could indeed. But let’s play what-if. What if the killers needed to wash here, perhaps even change their clothes? What if they left the car doors open—probably not wanting to handle things too much? What if they even had to clean some blood off the vehicle? It would give the wind a fair chance to help itself to loose bits of paper in the car, wouldn’t it?”
And suddenly the wind was back, moving the heat around. Kubu nearly lost his slip of paper. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind dropped, and there was silence again.
Chapter 6
Much as he was hoping for a few hours’ respite on his return to Gaborone, Kubu was out of luck. As soon as he walked into his home just before three in the afternoon, his wife, Joy, told him that Director Mabaku was expecting him in his office as soon as he returned. Sighing, he asked her to make him a sandwich and decided to take a quick shower.
Half an hour later he was on his way to New Millennium Park, where the Criminal Investigation Department had been housed for the past two years. New Millennium Park was a new office development on the outskirts of town on the Lobatse road and was situated at the foot of Kgale Hill, which thrust up from the dry plains. The development comprised a dozen low-rise buildings, housing both private and government organizations. Kubu thought that the director must have played a good political hand to have his department moved into premises so luxurious by comparison to the old and rather shabby buildings in town. He went immediately to Mabaku’s office. The director’s assistant, Miriam, greeted him and told him to go straight in.
“Sit down, Bengu,” the director said. “Where have you been? I told your wife to send you here right away. I know you arrived in Gabs an hour ago.”
Kubu wondered how Mabaku could keep such close tabs on everyone. He always knew where all the detectives were, when they got there, and how long they stayed. He most probably also knew what they were thinking and saying about him, which would explain why he was often so abrupt.
“I had been on that dusty road for nearly four hours. I couldn’t walk into your lovely office leaving clouds of dust on everything I touched,” Kubu said with a hint of sarcasm.
“When I say that I want to see you immediately, I mean immediately!” Director Mabaku glared at Kubu, who looked down demurely. “So what is going on with this thing at Dale’s Camp? Already there’s a big fuss about what it might do to the tourist industry.”
“It’s a puzzle, Director,” Kubu said quietly. “The body was found at a waterhole called Kamissa, about an hour’s drive from Dale’s Camp. It appears that the deceased is a white male—there were still a number of straight hairs on the skull. I am confident that he was murdered because—”
“How do you know it was a male?” Director Mabaku interrupted.
“You are right,” Kubu said. “I do not know that it was a male. I used the word ‘he’ generically because it is easier.”
“Bullshit!” Mabaku said. “You used the word ‘male’ specifically. Stop trying to bullshit me!”
Kubu continued. “The hair still on the skull leads me to believe the deceased is Caucasian. There are three reasons why I am pretty sure that he or she was murdered. First, all the teeth are missing. They seem to have been knocked out, because there are some roots still in the jawbone. Second, we found tire tracks behind the dunes near the waterhole where the body was found. The area where the vehicle turned near the top of the dune had been swept, apparently to hide the tracks from anyone who discovered the body. Third, there was no sign of clothing or footwear on, or near, the body.”
“How close is the nearest habitation?” Mabaku asked.
“As I said, Dale’s Camp is about an hour away. The nearest village is Kungwane, about fifty miles away—maybe two hours’ drive. There may be a few farms or ranches as well. I expect that BCMC will have land in the area.”
“Why would anybody drive that far to a waterhole rather than leave the body in the middle of the desert? Maybe they wanted the body to be found?” Mabaku frowned.
Kubu smiled inwardly. Mabaku was so predictable; he challenged every assumption. Even though it was often annoying, Kubu had to admit it kept him on his toes. Should he share Bongani’s sweet water hypothesis? He decided against it.
“I can’t figure it out either. But why would anyone want a body found, especially in such a remote spot?” He decided not to mention the cash slip he had found at Kamissa for the moment either, until he had confirmation that it was relevant.
“What does the pathologist have to say?” Mabaku asked.
“Director, I’ve just got back. Ian MacGregor promised to send his report to me tomorrow.”
“Well, let me know as soon as you hear something. That’s all for now. I’d like to have your report first thing in the morning.”
Kubu decided to stay at the office to complete the homicide report before going home. He called Joy and told her he would be home at about 7:00 p.m. She said that was fine and promised a treat for supper. That motivated Kubu, and he set about the despised paperwork. At least he did not have to fill out forms in triplicate, handwritten, using carbon paper, as had been the case only a few years before. Now his word processor had a proper template that enabled him to do everything, including file the final report. His only problem was that he had never learned to type properly. However, his two-finger approach proceeded with respectable speed.
Chapter 7
Now and Then
Bongani sips from his bottle of Castle beer in the staff compound at Dale’s Camp. Initially the beer is cold and refreshing, but the desert soon sucks up its coolness, leaving it tepid and unattractive. Yet again he asks himself what possessed him to agree to join this group on this particular night. But in fact he is enjoying himself.
They sit outside in a semicircle, a fire providing primeval comfort. Between the men and the fire stands a camping table with a variety of arcane items, including a small rawhide bag, supposedly made from lion skin. The men sit on the sand or on stools. No women are present. There is some singing and traditional dancing, which Bongani joins tentatively, unused to the ceremony. Most of the time they sit and chat and pass round a calabash containing a mixture of maize beer and additives that are neither specified nor discussed.
The proceedings are led by the Old Man, a witch doctor, who lectures and trances and fiddles with items from the table. The witch doctor is an important figure in any community. He will be knowledgeable about the healing pro
perties of local plants, as well as offering a variety of spells and charms to help people achieve their desires or avoid the unpleasant. And he will throw the bones to foretell the future. He is an important force for good or evil, and, Bongani thinks, usually a mixture of both. His is a self-made route to power. To be a chief, you have to be born into the right family, but a witch doctor makes his own destiny. A successful one will be a consummate politician and will weave his community into a web of dependency. No chief will cross a witch doctor who has that sort of hold on his people. The witch doctor will become the power behind the throne.
The Gathering is a cross between a boys’ night out and a séance. Bongani finds his immediate neighbor convivial and tries to explain what he does for the game reserve as an ecologist. Soon they conclude that this is too esoteric to be recognized as genuine work, so they tactfully change the subject to common friends and family. Without much surprise on either side, they discover that they are distantly related, as most Batswana are if one looks hard enough. The man on Bongani’s left wears a traditional garment of animal skins, but most of the others are in their everyday clothes. Bongani rolls up his shirtsleeves and relaxes on the plastic chair, which the group has saved for him as a guest of honor.
It is the first time he has joined the local people socially. I should have done this before, he thinks, although not in this context. His young face breaks into an easy grin as his neighbor makes some small joke. Some of the men have brought beer or something stronger; others concentrate on the calabash and its contents. Bongani has never developed a taste for this native beverage and prefers the lager tucked out of harm’s way under his chair. Nevertheless he politely sips from the calabash each time it is passed. They spend a lot of time in companionable silence, allowing Bongani to concentrate on his thoughts.
He watches the Old Man, who sits near the fire talking rather wildly to his companions. Bongani can’t hear what he is saying and finds the pronunciation hard to understand in any case. The man is old and gnarled. Are witch doctors always old and gnarled? Bongani wonders. Are they somehow born that way? Perhaps they start as babies with serious frowns and the coarse markings of age, just growing larger until they fit the part. Or maybe there is a special cream that they use on their faces to age quickly—a sort of antifacial, which causes wrinkles to develop with unseemly haste. Probably you can order it on the Internet. He smiles, visualizing the flood of spam offerings with which modern-day witch doctors would have to contend.
He realizes that someone is speaking to him. It is Peter Tshukudu, his unpleasant visitor of the night before. “The Old Man is ready now,” he says.
Again Bongani wonders why he has allowed himself to be involved in this charade. He knows what is in the lion-skin pouch—Tshukudu’s trophy, the desiccated finger—and also knows how inappropriate it is for the witch doctor to have it.
Tshukudu walks to the camping table, selects the lion-skin pouch, and gives it to the Old Man, who clenches it tightly in his right hand. He starts to move rhythmically, this time to some internal beat only he can hear, and his trance deepens. After a while he starts to speak to Bongani, who only understands a few of the words. But Tshukudu is there to interpret.
“He says this person was murdered. He says that animals were not the killers.” It isn’t common knowledge that the police suspect foul play, but Bongani is not surprised that rumors move fast in this small community. “He says that they stole from this person. He says that they stole his mowa.”
Bongani recognizes this word. It means “breath,” but also much more; it means identity, soul. With a shock he is swamped by an old horror he thought long forgotten. There are said to be evil spirits that will steal mowa and take it for purposes that should not be imagined lest that in itself attracts their attention. The body left behind will continue to function behind vacant eyes, going through its daily routine, but with no guiding force within. These are tales from childhood. They are deliciously scary at the time, but you don’t really believe them. Nevertheless, they stay in your subconscious waiting to emerge when they are least wanted. The sudden shock on top of the drink leaves him nauseous.
The Old Man stops talking and swaying and is now standing rigid. He holds out his right hand toward Bongani and opens the fingers. Defying gravity, the pouch flies toward Bongani, who watches, frozen. It falls among the other men to his left, who scramble away, knocking over chairs in their haste not to be touched by this thing. There is no more laughter or talk now. Bongani’s head pounds as adrenaline fights with alcohol and calabash drugs. He has to escape. Even as he tells himself not to be stupid, not to panic about sleight of hand or obvious deductions from common knowledge, he lurches to his feet. Bongani walks with clenched jaws, but does not run, from the circle into the night. The derisive laughter of the Old Man follows him, soon joined by comments and laughter from the men as their tension drains away.
The next morning Bongani woke up headachey and drained. He could hardly believe his reactions to the events of the night before. Things that leave their victims drained of identity have no need to smash jaws and scatter teeth to obviate dental records. He had made a fool of himself and been laughed at, and deservedly so. Now it was time to put the matter behind him and get back to work. He was impressed by Kubu. It was the detective’s business to find out who this man was, to restore to him his identity, and to punish his killers. Nothing more was possible.
But if Bongani believed that his involvement with the grisly murder was over, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
Part Two
NATURE’S NEEDS
Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast’s.
—SHAKESPEARE, KING LEAR, ACT 2, SCENE 4
January
Chapter 8
The dream was always the same. He was flying his brother’s Cap 10, and he loved it. He had never flown a plane, but in the dream it felt like an extension of his body. Without conscious thought he could move his muscles and control the plane. He rocketed to two thousand feet, leveled off, rolled the plane onto its back, and pulled back sharply, causing it to dive backward toward the ground—a perfect Split S. He leveled off at fifty feet and did a leisurely barrel roll, then climbed to cruise at a thousand feet, exhilarated. Below him he saw a group of Bushman people staring up at the plane. He waved and called to them, telling of his joy in their own language, but as always, there was no response.
Suddenly the cockpit filled with flames. He felt the heat and inhaled smoke and fire. There was searing pain, and he blacked out. Then the perspective changed and, to his temporary relief, he stood on the ground with the Bushmen, watching the plane gently dive with smoke pouring out of the cockpit. He thought he heard screams. He called out to the Bushmen, “It’s not me! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” But they only stared into the sky, watching the plane descend, turn slowly onto its back, and eventually hit the ground. There was a moment of silence. Then there was an explosion; fire engulfed the plane and spread inexorably and inexplicably across the sand toward them. He stood frozen, not daring to look at the Bushmen, knowing that if he did, he would find them changed into other creatures. Then the fire reached him, melting the ground beneath his feet, and they descended together into the deathless flames.
Cecil Hofmeyr woke drenched with sweat, a scream of horror petrified in his throat. He shook with feverish spasms, drawing his legs into a fetal position as if to save them from the fire. At last his breathing became calmer. He got out of bed and walked to the window, pulled the curtains apart, and threw open the windows as though the Botswana night air could cool him when the air-conditioning could not. The near-full moon was directly overhead, and he could see the garden clearly in monochrome. That cold light comforted him.
In the bush, prey animals—antelope, zebra, wildebeest, giraffe—would be glad too of that extra visibility, extra safety. In Africa the full moon is a blessing; it has none of the bad connotations of Western legend. Six weeks later, two range
rs would long for its support as they faced a grueling night guarding a corpse from hyenas by starlight alone. However, Cecil knew nothing of these things as he gulped the cool air and felt reality return.
He collapsed into an easy chair near the bed, trying to relax, but not daring to go back to sleep. It’s Kobedi, he thought. That’s why I’m having the dream again after all these months. It’s him. It is always him. His mind returned to the meeting of the previous afternoon—Kobedi’s unwelcome visit.
Kobedi had insisted on the meeting, and eventually Cecil had reluctantly agreed. Kobedi pretended to be an agricultural consultant—an expert on cattle grazing requirements. It was a simple way of gaining access to Cecil at the office without raising anyone’s suspicions. He arrived punctually for his appointment at four o’clock. Cecil’s secretary showed him in, but pointedly reminded Cecil of another appointment at half past four.
“What do you want?” Cecil asked, neither rising from his chair nor offering Kobedi a seat. Kobedi just laughed and settled himself into a chair in front of the desk. He still had a touch of animal magnetism, with fine facial features and a good build. However, his face was puffed by alcohol and loose living, and fat blurred the once muscle-sharp outlines of his body. A blown rose, Cecil thought. How did I ever find this snake attractive?
“I think that you need some more consulting help, Cecil. Things aren’t going too well around here, from what I hear. Should we say twenty thousand pulas’ worth?” Kobedi smiled. He still had teeth like pearls.
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 5