NINE
THE HOSPITALS HAD NO news for Witness, nor had the morgue. Witness didn’t know which way to turn, what to do. So he sat in his house and did nothing.
Late on Saturday afternoon, there was a knock at the door. Witness flung it open, hoping. But it was a police constable.
“I have come about the report of your missing daughter.”
Witness waved him to a chair and sat down opposite.
“Rra,” the constable began, “please start at the beginning.”
For the next twenty minutes, the constable asked questions and made notes.
“Thank you, rra. We’ll send your daughter’s photo to all police stations and ask them to keep a lookout for her. And on Monday morning, we’ll send some men to search the area around the school.”
“We’ve already searched there!” Witness snapped. “We found nothing. You’re too late. You should have been here this morning.”
“The station commander had no one available this morning. And may not have anyone tomorrow, either. That’s why we may have to wait until Monday.”
“The police are useless,” Witness growled as he showed the policeman to the door. “I’ll phone the station tomorrow to see what you’ve done. And it better be something.”
THAT EVENING, AFTER WAITING well past suppertime in some vague hope that Tombi would return, Witness walked to the BIG MAMA KNOWS ALL shebeen, a favorite of his friends. This local bar was named after its proprietor, accurately reflecting her size, her knowledge of local gossip, and her willingness to dispense advice. It was in a small house in the middle of a residential area of sandy streets and few trees. The front rooms had been converted into a single large one, with a few cheap tables and a counter that groaned every time someone leaned on it. On the wall was a pinup, undressed to within a hair of Botswana’s laws, and a few faded posters featuring St. Louis beer. The fluorescent lights weren’t designed for romance.
None of the neighbors had ever complained about the shebeen—there were rumors that Big Mama was a witch doctor. In fact, she was a traditional healer, whose potions were sought after from near and far.
As he walked through the door, Witness was grabbed by Big Mama and lost his breath to a huge hug. “Have courage, my friend,” she whispered in his ear. Then, almost deafening him, she yelled out, “Get Witness a beer! Right away! On the house!”
As the evening passed, Witness’s friends plied him with several more cartons of Chibuku Shake Shake beer, the cheap local favorite, to cheer him up. But it only made him maudlin.
“What will I do if Tombi doesn’t come back? I’ll be all alone. There won’t be anything to live for.”
His friends slapped him on the back and told him to be optimistic—that the police were probably right, and she’d be back on Sunday evening, embarrassed because she’d fallen in love or some such thing and had forgotten to let him know.
“What have I done to anger the spirits?” he wailed. “First my wife, and now my daughter.”
“Have another beer,” they said. And he did.
Witness had been drinking for several hours when a group of young men and women marched through the door chanting “Vote for Jacob Pitso. Vote for freedom!” They spread out and put pamphlets on every table. Witness grabbed one, angry at the smiles and happiness. He didn’t recognize the one face, but where had he seen the other? He’d seen it recently. He grimaced, trying to squeeze the memory into the open. Who was it? Who was it? Then the fog of alcohol lifted for a moment. It was the man outside the school with the girl who had pretended to be Tombi! This was that man, the smiling man. Witness stood up, a little precariously, and pointed to the photo.
“He’s evil!” he shouted. “I saw him with a girl this afternoon. He was in her arms. She was just a baby. Like my Tombi!”
One of the young men walked over. “Oh, shut up. You’re drunk. Rra Marumo was in Lobatse today, and he’ll only be back tomorrow.”
“No, he wasn’t! I saw him at the school this afternoon. With a girl. He was smiling as though they’d just made love. Then I saw him on the street—still smiling. He should be flogged at the kgotla.”
“Go home,” a young woman said. “Go and sleep it off.” She pushed him, and he staggered against the wall and fell to the floor.
Witness pushed himself to his knees and screamed, “He’s the Devil! You are all evil!”
Two of his friends lifted him to his feet, dragged him to his car, and threw him on the backseat. One friend drove Witness’s car home; another followed. When they reached the house, they lifted Witness, found his keys, and dropped him on the sofa in his living room.
“He’ll be okay,” the one said.
“He’s not going to feel good when he wakes up,” said the other. “I hope Tombi doesn’t come home and find him like this.”
IT WAS SIX IN the morning when Witness woke up. It took him a few minutes to work out where he was. He was shivering from the cold, so typical of Gaborone nights at that time of year, and felt awful all over. A furry substance lined his mouth, and his head pulsed out a monotonous rhythm of pain. Surprisingly, he was not nauseous.
After several cups of strong tea and a couple of thick slices of bread, he showered, changed, and set off for church. He wanted to be early so he could ask the pastor to say a special prayer for Tombi.
As he waited, he was approached by a man he recognized but didn’t know.
“Rra Maleng? I’m Tumiso Mikopi. I live near the Motswedi school. I was in Molepolole yesterday and only heard about your daughter this morning. I’m very sorry to hear that she’s missing. You must be very worried.”
Witness nodded and shook the extended hand.
“Rra Maleng, I know Tombi, because she sometimes plays with my daughter, Alice. When I was driving home from work on Friday, I saw her walking—”
“Where was she?” Witness was almost shouting. “Where did you see her?”
“She was on the road next to the playing fields.”
“Did she look okay? Was everything normal?”
“She looked happy—as though she was dancing.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“Well, I parked my car and got my briefcase from the trunk. I looked up the road, but she wasn’t there. I thought she must’ve gone into one of the houses. But I did notice a white car along the road going away from the school. It was too far away to see what type it was, and I’ve no idea if Tombi was in it. I didn’t give it any thought. Then I packed a suitcase and drove to Molepolole to see my sister. Only got back late last night.”
“Could you see the driver? Surely you could tell the make of the car?”
Mikopi shook his head. “It was too far. I couldn’t see it very well. I didn’t recognize it. They all look much the same these days. A few seconds later, and I wouldn’t have seen it at all.”
“Can you remember what time it was?”
“It must have been around half past five. That’s usually when I get home.”
“And Tombi looked fine?”
“Yes. She was skipping along the road.”
WITNESS WAS VERY RESTLESS during the service. He wanted to race to the police station and give them this new information. He sat near the back and gazed at the dirty stained-glass window behind the altar. As the service dragged on, he fidgeted, wishing for it to end. Normally he enjoyed the hymns, but today there seemed to be more than usual. Not one. Not two. But four! And each with more verses than he remembered. He didn’t hear the resonant basses and soaring sopranos. His mind was elsewhere, thinking back on the good times he and Tombi had enjoyed, and the things he’d said that he wished he could take back.
Even though he was anxious to leave, he tried to pay attention and draw comfort from the sermon. Witness didn’t understand the prolonged and convoluted discussion of Exodus 21:22–25—“eye for eye, tooth for tooth”—and whether the pastor was for or against the concept. All he knew was that if he found the man who had taken Tombi, he’d chop him into little pieces.
After what seemed an eternity, the pastor ended the service by asking the Lord to give Witness strength and urging the congregation to pray for Tombi. However, it was nearly half an hour more before Witness was able to leave. Several of the parishioners wanted to talk to him, to console him, and, of course, to reassure him that Tombi would show up.
WHEN HE EVENTUALLY REACHED the police, a peeved duty constable raised his voice. “Rra Maleng, please! We’ll definitely start searching tomorrow morning. We don’t have the staff today. It is Sunday.”
“And my daughter is missing!” he yelled. “She may be dying! Don’t you care?”
“Rra Maleng—”
“She was fine after school. Rra Mikopi saw her. Then she disappeared in a white car! You’ve got to look for a white car . . .”
The constable came from behind the counter, took Witness’s arm firmly, and led him from the building. “Come back tomorrow at lunchtime, rra. We may have some information then.”
“You’re useless!” Witness shouted. “You do nothing while people are being murdered! Go to hell, all of you!”
WITNESS TOOK THE WEEK off supposedly to look for Tombi. In reality, he spent most of each day either walking up and down the road where she was last seen or moping at home, replaying memories of incidents where he could have been a better father. In the evenings, further depressed by a total lack of progress by the police, he visited BIG MAMA KNOWS ALL and drank increasing amounts of Shake Shake beer. Sometimes he would go outside with Gordon Thembe and they would surreptitiously share a joint. Big Mama wouldn’t tolerate that in her shebeen. On other occasions he would go on drinking until he ended up picking a fight with someone and being taken home by friends, who were now worried about his state of mind.
“He’ll drink himself to death,” one said as they dropped him off at home for the fourth time that week.
“If he doesn’t get killed by someone at the bar first,” replied a second.
ON THURSDAY WITNESS WAS walking toward the school when a pickup truck drove slowly by, posters pasted to its side, a loudspeaker blaring.
“The government is destroying the country. It’s corrupt and getting worse. What are you going to do about it? Now is the time to stand up to the government and its nepotism. Join us in the fight. Come to a rally on Saturday morning at Motswedi Junior Secondary School. Come and hear the Freedom Party candidate, Jacob Pitso, and the leader of the Freedom Party, Bill Marumo, tell you how they can make the country strong again. How you can prosper. Believe in yourselves, and we can change the world!”
Witness turned and shouted at the truck. “Marumo seduces young girls! He’s unfit for any office! He should be in jail!”
Some of the people on the truck made obscene gestures in reply.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, WITNESS woke up with a blinding headache. A week’s worth of Shake Shake and dagga was catching up to him. He struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily, then stumbled toward the kitchen to make tea.
As he sat drinking it, he was overcome by sadness. Now he was sure that Tombi was gone; gone forever. His prayers hadn’t been answered; the police hadn’t turned up anything, and hadn’t traced the white car. No one except Rra Mikopi had come forward with any information. As he drooped over his tea, he heard music outside, bright, cheerful music. Then he heard the loudspeaker again, encouraging people to the school where the rally was to start in twenty minutes.
Witness’s sadness turned to anger in a flash. It was people like Marumo who were responsible. Rich, famous, with big smiles, they could attract girls like the one who’d impersonated Tombi. Marumo and his friends were responsible for how bad Botswana had become, where nobody had morals anymore, where girls could disappear without a trace for God only knew what reason.
He threw his teacup onto the floor and rushed to get dressed. Then he ran down the road toward the school. A large group of people were headed toward the playing field, which had a small platform set up at one end, surrounded by Botswana flags, alternating with posters of Pitso and Marumo. VOTE FOR FREEDOM posters were everywhere.
“I’ll show him,” Witness muttered as he neared the school. As he panted into the parking lot, he saw the politicians walking toward the platform.
“Rapist!” Witness shouted and sprinted toward the group. “You’re the Devil!”
As he charged, several people tried to stop him, but he shoved them aside. Gordon and another of his drinking friends from Big Mama’s, who’d come to see the Freedom Party rally, spotted him and called out. When they saw Witness running toward the dignitaries, they shouted at him to stop, but he didn’t hear them. As he reached the front of the crowd, several young men pounced on him and brought him to the ground. He screamed and lashed out, catching one of the men with a glancing blow to the head. But they hung on, shouting for the police. At that moment, Witness’s two friends dashed up.
“Don’t call the police!” Gordon exclaimed. “We’ll take him home. His daughter has disappeared, and he’s not himself.” Each took an arm. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything silly.” Reluctantly, the men pinning Witness agreed, not wanting a scene. Witness’s friends hauled him away from the crowd to their car and drove him home.
They spent the next few hours inside Witness’s house drinking beer. The two men tried to persuade Witness that Marumo was just another politician, that his morals were no better and no worse than anyone else’s.
“Witness, my friend. You’re imagining things. Marumo wouldn’t pick up young girls in a public place. And he wasn’t even in town that day!”
“Get this nonsense out of your head,” Gordon said. “You’ll only get into trouble, and that won’t help matters.”
Witness listened, but he didn’t believe. He knew what he knew. Marumo was an evil man. A man without morals. A man who seduced young girls. But, as they spoke, he just nodded, wishing they’d leave him alone.
Eventually, when the men were sure that the rally had ended, they took their leave with a stern warning that Witness should behave. “Listen to us! Don’t do anything stupid!”
As they walked to their car, Gordon shook his head. “Poor Witness,” he said to his friend. “He lost his wife last year, then he lost Tombi last week. Now he’s lost himself.”