Deadly Harvest (21 page)

THIRTY-SIX

L
OO
KING AROUND THE CROWD
packing the cemetery, Kubu wondered if every supporter of the Freedom Party had turned up. It was more like a political rally than a funeral. Whether they'd come to bid farewell to their old leader or to offer support to Jacob Pitso, the new one, he couldn't say. The only reason he could see and hear what was going on at all was that a platform had been erected at the graveside and a portable public address system had been installed. The coffin, draped in a Botswana flag, rested at the front of the platform in silent witness to the dignitaries' speeches.

Marumo's brother gave a dignified eulogy on Bill's life, but the speech given by Pitso was, in Kubu's opinion, more of a political diatribe than a tribute, and he found it in poor taste. Kubu suspected that Marumo's brother felt the same way, because when Pitso called for all to cry out against the injustice of the government and its tardiness in bringing Bill's murderer to justice, he remained unmoved in his seat with his arms folded. But the crowd erupted into angry cries and waved fists. Pitso waited for several moments with obvious satisfaction before he raised both arms to quiet the mourners so that he could continue.

Kubu wondered why he'd bothered to come. It was thought important for the police to attend a victim's funeral to show their concern to the family, but also to keep an eye open for unexpected mourners or peculiar behavior. However, Kubu had been unable to speak to Jubjub or any of Marumo's relatives. Their sorrow was out of reach—­on display only from the platform.

Several hours had passed, and afternoon was turning to evening. Kubu was exhausted. He was hot, his feet were killing him from standing all afternoon, and he was irritated by the crush of sweaty ­people around him. The last words had been spoken, and ­people were starting to drift away. Although he was tempted to join them, he decided he'd better try to have a few words with the family. As the crowd thinned, he made his way forward.

Pitso and the relatives were still surrounded by well-­wishers and friends. Also, Kubu noticed, they were attended by a small contingent of uniformed police. Pitso complained about the undemocratic government and questioned its handling of the murder, Kubu mused, but at the same time expected its protection.

Eventually Kubu was close enough to see Jubjub. She was sobbing on the shoulder of Dr. Pilane. Obviously the stress of the funeral, the heat, and the crowd had proved too much for her guarded composure. It was interesting that it was her neighbor to whom she'd turned. Perhaps her relationship with Bill's family hadn't been particularly close.

Kubu stepped back, not wanting to intrude, and walked around the group to the grave itself and looked around. He realized he was being watched by the undertaker and, not wanting to appear rude, walked over and greeted the man.

“
Dumela
, Rra Rampa, a very ornate affair today.”

The man nodded. “Indeed, Assistant Superintendent Bengu. Very different from the last occasion when we met.”

Both men smiled, each surprised that the other had remembered his name from their meeting at Nono's sister's funeral a month before.

“Obviously you manage a wide variety of funerals.”

“Indeed. As I told you then, I direct funerals of distinction. But not all ­people can afford them. Then I do what I can to provide an appropriate farewell on a limited budget—­sometimes on my own with volunteers from the deceased's family.” Kubu was not altogether convinced about the altruism; these days, funerals seemed to be a growth industry in Botswana.

At that moment Pitso called to the undertaker, who made his apologies and hurried away. Jubjub also seemed to be in a better state, and Kubu offered condolences.

“Detective Bengu. Thank you. I read that you've caught Bill's murderer. You said you would.”

“We have a suspect in custody.”

“But not much has been said about why he killed Bill. Rra Pitso isn't convinced you've got to the bottom of this.”

“Mma, we have good evidence, and we're confident that the man in custody is guilty. But I can't say more than that at the moment.”

“I see,” she said and abruptly turned away.

There seemed little point in staying longer, but as Kubu turned to go, he saw Jacob Pitso moving purposefully toward him.

“Detective? I understand from Mma Jubjub Oteng that you're the person in charge of the Bill Marumo murder case.”

“That is correct, Rra Pitso. I am Assistant Superintendent Bengu of the CID.” He offered his hand, but Pitso ignored it.

“I demand that the police make a full disclosure of the case. Not here to me, but publicly to the ­people of Botswana. You saw for yourself this afternoon how angry the ­people are. It was only with great difficulty that I restrained them.”

“I saw how hard you tried.”

Pitso nodded, missing the irony. “I must warn you, Detective, we don't buy the story of some madman taking it into his head to murder Bill. That's simply not good enough.”

“Rra Pitso, I'm not sure where you got that information. We've arrested a suspect. We haven't established his motivation at the moment. We're still building the case. Everything will be out in the open when he comes to trial.”

“
If
he comes to trial. I've heard that he may be declared unfit to stand trial. How convenient for the government.”

Kubu sighed. The man wasn't as stupid as he appeared, and he had more information than had been given to the press. It seemed as though Mabaku's fears might be realized.

“I think it would be improper to speculate on the case, Rra Pitso. We'll just have to wait and see.”

“I'm warning you, Detective, we won't wait too long.” Pitso turned on his heel and stalked away.

Kubu sighed again. The whole afternoon had been wasted, and now he was also late for supper. He'd achieved nothing except upsetting Jubjub and being upset by Pitso.

He took a last look at the remaining group. Pitso was talking animatedly to Jubjub and Marumo's family—­no doubt telling them of the police's incompetence or worse. Workmen were dismantling the platform, taking down the loudspeakers, and packing up. And off to one side, Dr. Pilane was talking to the undertaker.

Kubu checked his watch. If he hurried, he could still spend some time with Tumi and Nono before they went to bed. He smiled, and his feet felt better as he started walking away.

THIRTY-SEVEN

I
T WAS
S
UNDAY M
ORNING,
and Kubu was looking forward to seeing his parents. They hadn't visited the previous week because his parents' church in Mochudi had hosted an all-­day retreat that they'd attended. When Kubu spoke to his mother during the week, she said that she'd found the day very uplifting, but that his father had behaved strangely. Wilmon had become quite agitated and had argued with the pastor about a variety of issues. It had started with Wilmon being upset by two young women who arrived in shorts and T-­shirts, and he'd harangued the pastor to eject them, saying that they were being disrespectful. When the pastor replied that he was pleased to see young ­people taking their religion seriously, Wilmon had shouted at him for ignoring the traditions of respect and for encouraging disrespect. It was only when Amantle led Wilmon from the room and scolded him that he settled down.

As they drove to Mochudi, Kubu and Joy ignored the squeals and shouts of Tumi and Nono playing in the back of the Land Rover and discussed Wilmon's uncharacteristic behavior.

“I'm worried that he's getting dementia or Alzheimer's,” Kubu said, as he negotiated a small herd of cows that had wandered onto the road. “I can't remember ever seeing him shout at anyone, except that time he got so angry with the kids for being in his garden. I think he needs to see a doctor.”

“Good luck!” Joy replied. “I'd be amazed if Amantle can make that happen.”

“Perhaps you can talk to her, my dear,” Kubu said. “She loves and respects you. I think you've a better chance.”

Joy thought for a few moments. “I'll try, but I'm not optimistic.”

“Now let's have some fun,” Kubu said with a smile. “Tumi. Nono. Get ready. We're going to sing.”

The two girls squealed with delight.

“What do you want to sing?”

“The hippo song! The hippo song!”

Kubu sighed. Ever since the girls had heard the song—­which Kubu had translated into Setswana for them—­they always wanted it. He needn't have bothered to ask.

“Okay, let's go.” They all joined in.

Mud, mud, glorious mud.

Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.

So follow me, follow, down to the hollow,

And there let us wallow in glorious mud!

When they finished the rousing Flanders and Swann song, the kids clamored for a reprise. And so Kubu and his family sang all the way to Mochudi.

T
HE
L
AND
R
OVER PULLED
up in front of the senior Bengu's home just before eleven-­thirty. As soon as they opened the doors, Ilia bounded up the stairs and jumped onto Wilmon's lap. He scratched her nose and tickled her ears, and she started to pant contentedly.

Tumi followed closely behind Ilia and was enveloped in a big hug from Amantle. Even the reserved Wilmon smiled as Tumi threw her arms around the old man's neck. Nono was more hesitant but obviously enjoyed Amantle's attention. However, Wilmon's frown kept her from embracing him.

“My son,” Wilmon said as Kubu reached the veranda. “Why did you not tell me you had another child? What is her name?”

“Father, she's not our daughter. Her name is Nono, and she's Tumi's friend. We are looking after her at the moment. She was with us two weeks ago when we visited you. Remember?”

Wilmon looked puzzled for a few moments, then extended his hand and greeted Kubu in the traditional manner. As was her wont, Joy was much less formal and embraced both of them with much affection.

Wilmon gave the two children permission to explore his vegetable garden, and the adults sat down to enjoy a cup of tea and catch up on the previous two weeks' news.

“And how is Pleasant?” Amantle asked Joy. “Is she pregnant yet? Bongani takes so much time to make decisions that soon she'll be too old to have children. I've never met a man who is so slow.”

Joy smiled. “I'm hoping that there will be good news soon. Pleasant told me that they had decided it was time to have a child soon.”

“
Aaii
. I don't understand ­people anymore.” Amantle shook her head. “When you get married, you should have children right away. ­People think too much now. They should just do what God intended them to do.”

“You are right, my mother,” Joy said. “But Bongani wants to be a good father and have the time to spend with his child.”

“I hope Pleasant will stop working. She's lucky to have found someone who would marry a woman who worked. A woman's place is at home.”

“I'm sure she'll be a wonderful mother.”

While this exchange was taking place, Kubu watched his father. The old man looked the same as ever, quietly watching the others talking.

“Father, let us leave the women and take a walk before lunch. I always like seeing your friends.”

Wilmon struggled to his feet, and the two men walked down the steps to the sandy road.

P
REPARING THE COLD MEAT
and salads was an excellent time for the two women to talk about topics they would not discuss in front of the men.

“Joy dear, how are things with Nono? What are you going to do about her?”

Joy stopped what she was doing. “I don't know. She is such a lovely girl when you break through her shyness.”

“Do you want to adopt her?” Amantle cut to the core of the matter.

“At first we thought we'd look after her until we found a good home. We never thought we'd start to love her as though she were our own.”

“What does Kubu think about the idea?”

“Well, we haven't actually talked about it directly, but I can see how much he enjoys having her around. And Tumi would be very upset if Nono left. She's like a sister now. I'll have to speak to Kubu soon about it all.”

“And what about her AIDS?”

Joy controlled herself. “She doesn't have AIDS, my mother. She has the HIV virus, but it is under control with retrovirals.”

“I think you should speak—­”

“Wilmon can't help her, nor can any of his healer friends.”

“But . . .”

“I always listen to you, my mother, but this is one thing you are wrong about. I work with kids the whole time, and I know all about it.”

Amantle took another tack. “Has she seen a doctor?”

“Yes. We've taken her to see Dr. Patel—­he's our doctor—­and she also sees the doctor who comes each week to where I work. They both say she's fine and quite safe to be with Tumi.”

“Do they know what they are doing?”

“Yes, my mother. They both work at a lot of schools and know all about HIV.”

“Well, my dear, I can see you want to adopt Nono. Even though I am afraid for Tumi and you, I will treat her as my own granddaughter. She is very quiet, but I like her.”

Joy gave Amantle a huge smile, relieved that she'd come round. It would be easy to persuade Kubu with Amantle on her side.

“Thank you, my mother. Thank you.”

W
ILMON AND
K
UBU WALK
ED
down the street and were greeted by numerous passersby. Wilmon smiled and proudly told everyone that his son was an important man in the police—­a comment he'd made for at least ten years on their frequent walks around the neighborhood. After walking around the block, they were nearly home when Wilmon's neighbor Edwin came up to them.

“Hello, Wilmon. Hello, Kubu,” he said jovially.

Wilmon took his extended hand and shook it, respectfully touching his right arm with his left hand. “How did you know my name?” he asked.

Edwin burst out laughing. “Your father is becoming a joker in his old age,” he said to Kubu.

“Who are you, rra?” Wilmon was quite serious. Kubu and Edwin exchanged glances.

“Father,” Kubu said. “This is your neighbor, Edwin Ngombe. You've known him for many years.”

Wilmon frowned, staring at Edwin. Then he smiled. “I know you, but I can't remember your name.”

“It's Edwin Ngombe, Wilmon. I live next door.”

“I am pleased to meet you, rra. Please come and visit my wife, Amantle, and me for tea. I will ask Amantle to make arrangements with your wife.”

“Okay, Wilmon. I will do that.” Edwin looked at Kubu and shrugged.

“Come on, Father. It's lunchtime. We must go. Goodbye, Edwin.” As he turned to leave, he continued in a whisper. “Have you noticed this before?”

Edwin nodded. “It's so sad to see this happening to such a wonderful old man.”

“
M
Y MOTHER, THE
RE IS
one other thing I want to talk to you about.”

Amantle frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“You mentioned on the phone that Wilmon behaved strangely last Sunday at the retreat. We've also noticed some changes in his behavior. Is it getting bad?”

Amantle leaned against the counter. “My dear, I am so scared. He cannot remember things I tell him just a few minutes before. He sometimes does not remember ­people he has known for many years.”

“I think you should take him to a doctor.”

“I can't do that, my dear. He won't go.”

“Have you tried?”

“Joy, when you have known Wilmon for as long as I have, you will know that you can't force him to do anything.”

Joy sighed. “But he must see someone,” she said.

Amantle just shook her head.

“I have an idea,” Joy said. “Let me speak to Kubu.”

“My dear, please don't force him to do anything. I have to live with him.”

“I promise, my mother. We won't do anything without talking to you.”

O
N THE WAY H
OME,
Joy broached her idea with Kubu.

“Your mother's also worried about Wilmon. She says he's deteriorating quickly. Mentally, that is.”

“I know. He didn't even remember Edwin Ngombe. He's only known him for thirty years.”

“He needs to see a doctor but refuses to go.”

“Can we sing some more?” Tumi shouted from the backseat.

“Your mother and I are talking. We'll sing in a few minutes,” Kubu said.

“Next Sunday, let's have them to our house for lunch. We can ask Dr. Patel if he'll come to the house when they're there.”

“That's a good idea. I'll speak to him tomorrow.”

Kubu and Joy sat in silence, each wondering about the implications for the family if Wilmon continued to deteriorate so quickly.

“Can we sing now, Daddy?” Tumi asked.

Although not in the mood, Kubu nodded.

“It's Sunday. Let's sing a hymn,” he suggested, hoping to avoid the hippo song.

“ ‘Jingle Bells.' I want ‘Jingle Bells'!” Nono called out.

Kubu glanced at Joy and smiled.