A Death in the Family (38 page)

“Come on, Tumi. Come on, Nono. Lunch is ready.”

“Coming,” the girls called in unison.

They came out of the garden and carefully closed the gate as Wilmon had shown them so many times. They ran over to Kubu with their hands behind their backs, laughing uncontrollably.

“What's going on?” Kubu asked, sensing trouble.

“Nothing,” Tumi said.

“We have a present for you,” said Nono with a huge smile. “A lunch present!”

Kubu frowned. What were they going to make him eat? he wondered.

“A present? I can't wait,” he said. “Let's go.”

The two girls ran ahead of him, careful to keep what was in their hands hidden.

When Kubu arrived at the table, everyone was already seated.

“David, please say a prayer.”

“Yes, Mother. Hold hands, everyone.”

When everyone was ready, Kubu spoke quietly. “Lord, we thank you for the food on this table and for the family we enjoy. We ask you to give us good health and to look kindly on the soul of Amantle's husband and my father—Wilmon Bengu. Amen.”

Nobody said a word for a few moments as they reflected on changed times. Then Tumi couldn't restrain herself anymore.

“Daddy, Daddy, we've got a present for you.”

She handed Kubu something wrapped in a piece of newspaper.

“I've got one too,” Nono said, jumping up and handing Kubu her newspaper.

Kubu warily unwrapped one of the packets while the girls watched as they jumped up and down. In the center of the paper was what looked like a dry piece of wood.

“Eat it, eat it,” Nono shouted.

“It's from Grandfather,” Tumi yelled.

“What do you mean, it's from Grandfather?” Kubu asked.

“Grandfather told us that a friend of yours gave it to him to give to you.”

Kubu had no idea what was going on. He looked at Joy and Amantle, but they just shook their heads.

“Did Grandfather tell you who gave it to him?”

Tumi shook her head. “I can't remember the name. It was difficult.”

“He said he was a friend of yours when you were little,” Nono interjected.

Kubu frowned. “Did Grandfather tell you what this is?” Kubu asked, pointing at the contents of the newspaper.

“He said it was called hoody,” Nono said.

“Grandfather said it will make you small like your friend.”

Joy burst out laughing. “It's
hoodia
, Kubu. That's what the Bushmen use to suppress their appetites when hunting. It must have been Khumanego who gave it to him.”

Kubu didn't know whether to laugh or be angry. Neither his father nor Khumanego had ever mentioned being concerned about his size, but apparently they'd been plotting behind his back.

He picked up the crumpled newspaper and pressed it flat on the table. The date was May 1989.

“Father kept this for twenty-five years!” Kubu said. “I wonder if he was ever going to give it to me.”

“He never said anything to me about it,” Amantle said. “He was always one to keep a secret if he wanted to.”

“I thought the two of you shared everything,” Joy said. “You always seemed to know what the other was thinking.”

Amantle shook her head. “I did not know everything. I did not know about this. I did not know about what he was doing when he was killed. Maybe there are other things too.”

“Tumi, where did you find these presents?” Kubu asked.

“In the box in the shed.”

“What box?”

“There's a box behind the shelves. Grandfather showed it to us and said we had to keep it a big secret.”

“Will he be angry because we've told you?” Nono said, wide-eyed.

“I don't think so,” Joy said.

“Is the box big?” Kubu asked.

“No, Daddy. I can lift it easily,” Tumi replied.

“Well then, please go and bring it here.”

The two girls ran off, skipping as they did.

*   *   *

BY THE TIME
the girls returned, Joy had cleared part of the table and covered it with a more recent newspaper, in case the box was dirty. The girls put the box down. It was about the size of two shoe boxes and was made from corrugated cardboard. Wilmon had covered it with plastic, presumably to protect it from damp.

Kubu gingerly lifted the top. In the box were two more bundles of paper similar to those the girls had brought in. He took them from the box and placed them on the table. Then he took out a small book, also covered in plastic.

“It's a savings book from Barclay's Bank,” Kubu said. “Mother, did you know if he had a savings account?”

She nodded. “We have had one for many years. I have the book in my bedroom cupboard. Do you want me to fetch it?”

Kubu shook his head, then opened the one in his hand. “This is a different account. There's over twenty-five thousand pula in it.” He flipped through the pages. “He's been putting money into this account since you were married. Five pula a week for the first twenty years, and then ten.”

Amantle burst out crying, and Joy put her arm around her.

“He was such a wonderful husband,” Amantle sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. “He was always thinking of me.”

Kubu placed the book on the newspaper next to the packages. Then he lifted out a stained envelope. “That's the last thing,” he said.

He opened the envelope carefully and pulled out two sheets of paper.

“Aha!” he exclaimed. “Here's his will. He didn't keep it in the house with the other papers. For some reason he hid it in his shed.”

He read the page quickly. “Mother, with one exception, he's left everything to you, as you would expect. You don't owe anything on the house. It's fully paid for.” He paused. “He left me one thing. Let me read it: ‘To my son, David Bengu, I leave the attached legacy. It must always remain in the family.'”

He unfolded what looked more like a parchment than a piece of modern paper and read it silently. When he reached the end, he laid it on the table and put his head in his hands.

“What is it, Kubu,” Joy asked.

He didn't reply.

“What does it say?”

When he didn't reply, she stood up and put her arm around him. “Please tell us.”

Kubu lifted his head and picked up the paper. Joy could see that it was handwritten in an elaborate cursive script. Kubu took a deep breath and started reading.

I, Khama the Third, in recognition for the healing he provided to my people during the Great Drought, do hereby grant to Rra Mephato Bengu, his family, and heirs, the right to graze his cattle on all the land west of the Bonwapitse River and east of Tobela village, and north of Tobela village to the hills, from this day for one hundred and twenty-five years.

Signed: Khama III

14 April 1887

“That's where the mine wants to expand,” Kubu said quietly.

“But the rights expired two years ago,” Joy said. “Why are they relevant now?”

“It was his Alzheimer's. He remembered he
had
the rights but couldn't remember they'd expired, which happened only a few years ago. That's why he insisted on giving it to Chief Koma. He thought the grant was still in place.”

“You mean this deed was worthless? He could have given it to Julius and still be alive?”

Kubu nodded.

For a few moments there was silence around the table as the adults pondered the unfairness of life.

“Daddy, Daddy, eat the hoody! We want to see you small like Grandfather.”

Kubu took the two girls in his arms. “Grandfather wasn't small, my darlings. He was a much bigger man than me.”

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The idea for this story originated during a trip Stanley made through northern Namibia and Botswana.

In Namibia, even in the smallest towns, he noticed a proliferation of Chinese-owned shops. He also saw several instances of local Namibians joking with the Chinese, who appeared not to want to join in the fun.

When Stanley was driving between Katchikau and Goma Bridge in northwest Botswana—a road we've both driven several times before—he found the road now paved, with no economic reason justifying the upgrade. Then he saw a new, small village next to the road—a Chinese village—surrounded by a barbed-wire fence.

Subsequent research showed that many infrastructure projects were being done by Chinese companies that imported Chinese labor, ignoring the locals.

So there was the situation that locals were being sidelined by the Chinese, the Chinese were making no attempts at integrating with the locals and were isolating themselves, and the natural friendliness of the locals was being rebuffed by the Chinese.

What a good backdrop for a murder mystery!

*   *   *

Few people outside Botswana have heard of Shoshong, yet in its day it was a very important town in southern Africa—much more so than the current capital of Gaborone (which hardly existed at that time). Founded in the mid-nineteenth century, it was chosen for two critical reasons: it was protected on the north by a horseshoe of hills that are difficult to climb because of dolerite scree and it had comparatively plentiful water from the Bonwapitse River, which flowed into the town through a gorge in the hills. Sekgoma I chose it for his capital in 1849, and his son, Khama III, consolidated and built Shoshong into an important center of approximately thirty thousand people.

The town thrived because it was strategically placed on the main road between Zimbabwe and southern Botswana. It became an important trading center and was host to hunters, missionaries, and famous explorers—including David Livingstone. Some Europeans settled there, and traces of their tin-roofed rectangular houses and artifacts have been found in the area.

However, the river dried up, and a prolonged drought forced Khama to abandon the town in 1889. Little is left of old Shoshong—only the remains of a few stone walls and the graveyard. Even though the town was resettled and is quite a bustling little place these days, it never regained its importance.

There are significant mines in the area, but, of course, the Konshua Mine of our story and the friction with the local people are entirely fictitious.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people in Botswana have generously given us their time to make this book as authentic as possible. In particular, Andy Taylor, headmaster of the wonderful Maru-a-Pula school in Gaborone, has been extraordinarily patient with all our questions and requests and invaluable for introducing us to people in the know. Alice Mogwe gave us insights about the Chinese presence in Botswana.

Eileen Pooe helped us with Setswana colloquialisms and found us the funeral song. Dr. Tom Combs helped us with medical issues. Finally, Patti Weber helped us a great deal to understand the role and methods of the CIA.

We were very fortunate to have a variety of readers of drafts of this book giving us input and suggestions and catching errors. Our sincere thanks to Jacques de Spoelberch, our agent, Steve Alessi, Linda Bowles, Pat Cretchley, Pat and Nelson Markley, Steve Robinson, and the Minneapolis writing group—Gary Bush, Sujata Massey, and Heidi Skarie. With all their comments, it is hard to believe that the book still has mistakes. But it probably does, and we take responsibility for any that remain.

We are grateful to our editor, Marcia Markland, for her confidence in Kubu, and also to Carol Rutan for the excellent copyediting of this version of the book.

 

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