Sophie Moremi was buried early on a Sunday morning in late winter. I counted about three hundred mourners. The winters in Botswana are very cold at night, but the temperature increases to the high 20s during the day. There were two other funerals taking place in the small graveyard of Molodi village.
My name is David Moremi. Sophie was my younger sister and like most of those in the graveyard I knew how she died, and of what. Unlike those people I also knew who was responsible.
In the evening I walked with my father to the graveyard, to bid a final farewell to Sophie without the crowds. We paused by the grave for a few minutes of silent prayer.
There was an old wooden bench near to the gate and we sat.
“She was the best of us, Dad.” I said.
“Perhaps so, but we always treated you equally, and you have never been a disappointment to me son; neither was your sister. Your mother and I have always been proud of you both.”
We sat in silent contemplation for a few minutes.
“Most of our forebears are buried here” said Dad, “as I will be one day. You know your grandfather and grandmother’s grave, on the left there.”
To the left were the older graves. Nearest to us, and typical, was that of Johannes Mooketsi. Born 1910, died 2004. Most of the men and women in this area of the graveyard had died in their 70s, 80s or 90s. Times were tough in those days, but so were the people. To the right were the newer graves. “Mpho Molefi. Born 1985, died 2004.” There were more than fifty graves of young people killed under the age of 25 by the deadly AIDS virus.
Things have changed over the last few years. Although denial was still strong, the priests and many of the people are now coming into the open and speaking about the killer disease. Unfortunately many of the victims, fearing stigma and prejudice, prefer to keep silent about their status until it was too late for the anti-viral therapy to be effective.
“Dad, we’re a pretty progressive family aren’t we? And we’ve always shared our burdens and most of our secrets with each other. So why did Sophie keep quiet until it was too late?”
“I don’t think we’ll every know David. But from what I’ve heard, there’s a lot of prejudice in schools about the virus. I’ve even heard of cases of teachers being forced to resign, on the grounds that they spent too much time off sick, even when in fact it was only a few days. I was watching that programme “Third Degree” on E-TV last week, and there was a programme about teachers in South Africa who’d been forced out of school after revealing their status. Eventually about fifty of them got together to form a support group, but they didn’t have much success in changing attitudes, or getting their jobs back.”
*
The Night Shift is perhaps not the most respectable of Gaborone’s night clubs, but it is certainly the most disciplined. There are three beefy bouncers who ensure that any troublemakers are quickly ejected. There is also an old, and highly illegal, shotgun, under the bar. It is loaded with rock salt and propellant cartridges and has never been needed yet, but with the increasing number of knife carrying youths, that day might well come. The Night Shift takes up the whole of the floor above Choppies Supermarket in Gaborone East. The owner is Benny Alexander who claims Scots ancestry, although he looks pretty much like the rest of us. He is in his late fifties and a contemporary of my father, both having been born in Molodi. They had little time for each other however. Benny after a chequered and somewhat dubious career in “promotion” eventually started the night club. My father studied accountancy, and rose to become the Finance Manager for the Water Utilities Corporation.
One of the reasons for the popularity of the Night Shift, was the music. On weekdays it was top DJs like Robby Rob, but at the weekends one could enjoy live music from Oracle, Vee, and even some South African bands like Squatter Camp. There were also jazz nights, featuring the top trumpeter Socca Moruakgomo, who also ran a gym and was a Black Belt in karate.
As an added attraction, the Night Shift has the best prostitutes in town, although it would not be evident to a casual visitor. Take, for example, Grace and Florence sitting at the bar and drinking white wine. Dressed exquisitely in the latest fashion, but also in very good taste. No mini-skirts or scooping necklines. They are both very beautiful, and also speak the excellent English of well educated people. They generally focus on foreign visitors or expatriates.
Benny’s son, Johnny , was the same age as myself, twenty-four.. We went back a long way. We attended Thornhill Primary School together, and then went on to Magae Secondary School. We parted ways in Form Five. I went on to get an excellent pass. Johnny, who had a hot temper, was frequently in trouble for fighting with other students, and in one case beating a girl. Eventually he was expelled for selling
motokwane – marijuana. The final insult to the school management was that he had grown it at the back of the school garden.
I went on to get a degree in economics from the University of Botswana, and job with the Ministry of Finance and Development Planning. Johnny eventually got a place at teachers training college, and became a secondary school teacher in Molepolole. There he impregnated a fifteen year old school girl, but apparently his dad paid off the parents of the girl, and Johnny just moved to another school at Moshupa.
Sophie completed the programme at the Tlokweng Teachers’ Training College, and was posted to Moshupa. Sophie was beautiful and intelligent, and could have had her choice of men, but to my disquiet, she fell in love with Johnny. After about a year Sophie was transferred to Gaborone Secondary School. Johnny wangled a transfer to Ledumang Secondary School, so that they could be together. Most Friday and Saturday nights they would be at the Night Shift. They seemed like a loving couple, and I became less worried.
I was in there for a drink after work one Tuesday evening. It was quiet except for the music. Florence joined me at the bar, and I bought her a drink.
“David, I know how you love that sister of yours, and I guess we all do too. I think I have to tell you that Johnnie’s got two other girl friends, and I know for a fact that he sleeps with one or the other on most weekday evenings.” I thanked her, but I was shocked, and without finishing my drink I drove home.
I didn’t have a chance to see Sophie until the weekend, when we both visited our parents at Molodi. I told Sophie what I had learned from Florence, but to my disappointment she dismissed it as “prostitute’s gossip.” The more I argued, the more determined she was to remain with Johnny.
That was just over three years ago. She must have been already infected with the virus, but apparently she never went for counseling and testing, although it is free and confidential. I would not have been surprised if Johnny had told her it was unnecessary.
After her death I was very angry, and even thought of killing Johnny. But he too had a younger sister of whom I was fond, and what would it really achieve except misery for the family? I decided that anyway AIDS would do the job before long, but I determined to have it out with him nonetheless.
My Uncle Henry had had no children, and when he died he left me a small house at Metsemothlabe. It was in a nice location on a hillside overlooking the river, and I used it as an occasional weekend getaway. Unfortunately the roof had developed a serious leak, and as Johnny was a bit of a carpenter, I invited him along one weekend for repair work and “a chat.”
Metsemothlabe is only a twenty minute drive, and I arranged to pick Johnny up at 11 on the Saturday morning. As we drove along the Molepolole road in my elderly Camry, we talked of various things –football, and music, but mainly about the recent spate of “passion killings.” In 2005 there had been more than seventy of these “passion killings,” actually murder of one partner by another. In most cases the man killed the girl-friend after she told him that she wanted to leave the relationship. It was argued that traditional structures which used to provide counseling and support have collapsed, and jealous lovers, having no one to turn to, resorted to violence.
We arrived at around 11.30, and after unpacking I suggested that we sit on the verandah and have a couple of beers. I had brought some Hansas in the cool box.
“Before we talk about the leak” I said, “I want to talk about Sophie.”
“I thought you might” said Johnny, “are you sure there really is a leak?”
“Oh, there’s a leak alright, but we’ll worry about that later.”
“So what’s your story, Johnny?” I asked. “Sophie loved you, and you seemed to love her, but meanwhile you had two other girls on the string. Frankly, after Sophie’s death I seriously thought about killing you, but that would have just created more misery for both our families.”
“Well, I’m deeply sorry for what happened David, but you always were rather a straight guy. – Wouldn’t you say these days that multiple partners are the norm, rather than the exception, in Gaborone?”
He had a point; multiple partners, adultery, and divorce are all part of “modern life” in urban Botswana, as well as one of the main causes for the spread of the virus.
“At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll go the same way as Sophie” I said.
“Au contraire, old friend, I went for testing and I’m on ARVs – I should live as long as you do or longer. I’m also using condoms and sticking more-or-less to one partner.”
“Why the hell didn’t you take Sophie for testing” I shouted.
“Well, I only started to get worried after she died” said Johnny. “It was too late for her I’m afraid.”
I had to restrain myself from hitting out at him.
“I think we’ll forget the leak. Let’s go” I said.
We drove in silence back go Gaborone, and I dropped him off. After parking the Camry I went for a long walk up footpath by the airport road, my thoughts in a turmoil. I slept poorly that night, but eventually resolved to forget all about Johnny, and concentrate on my own life. I felt sure that this was what Sophie would have wanted.
Despite my resolve to avoid Johnny, I occasionally saw him at the Night Shift, usually with a beautiful girl called Maria in tow. I hoped for her sake that he’d finally settled down with “one partner.” He seemed quite jealous when any male talked to Maria, and I thought perhaps that this was his way of showing love.
I myself was in the midst of a love affair with Amanda, who worked for Barclays Bank. She did not like the clubbing scene, so we spent most of our time at restaurants, the cinema, or at home.
About six months after I had last seen Johnny, I was woken very early on a Saturday morning. When I looked at the display, it showed a little after 1.30 a.m. When I picked up the phone it was Benny, sounding hysterical.
“David, Johnny’s been killed. Please come at once to the club, the police are here.” It did not seem that he was in the mood for further questions, so I prepared to leave. I told Amanda that I had to go and why, and got out the Camry, my thoughts running on a car accident or a knifing at the club.
The Night Shift was in chaos. Johnny lay dead on the floor, the police photographer taking pictures. Next to him were the remains of a shotgun. The butt of the gun was buried deep in his chest, the twisted barrels on the floor.
“You a friend sir” said a Sergeant.
“Yes, Sergeant, I was. What happened?”
“We’re not sure of the exact circumstances, but it seems that he tried to fire the gun, and it exploded. He would have been lucky just to lose a hand, but unfortunately the butt blew back into his chest.”
I turned away. Benny sat alone at a table, his head in his hands. Maria was lying on a bench, and Florence was trying to get some brandy between her lips.
“Leave that Florence” I said. “Go and make some strong tea with a lot of sugar, and give her that. Leave the brandy bottle on the table.” I took two glasses from the bar, and sat down with Benny.
“The police will want your statement in a few minutes” I said, pouring him a stiff drink.
“While we’re waiting, tell me what the hell happened.” I found I was shaking as I poured my own drink.
“It’s awful David. We were planning to go to Maria’s parents next weekend to negotiate the marriage contract. Johnny came here with Maria a little after one o’clock, looking as if he’d already had quite a few. Then there was shouting. Apparently Maria told Johnny that she’d got a scholarship to go to England, she didn’t want to get married, and she was leaving him. Johnny went berserk. He ran behind the bar, knocking me out of the way, and grabbed the gun. He pointed it at Maria, pushed off the safety, and pulled the trigger. The gun blew up.”
I phoned Amanda to explain what had happened, and said I wouldn’t be back for some time. I phone Benny’s wife and daughter and broke the news, and then drove him home. I told them that I would make all the arrangements with the undertakers, and arrange for an announcement in the papers. Sadly, I couldn’t think of any friends of Johnny who I should call. I think over the last few years, he had run out of friends.
*
Johnnie Alexander was buried early on a Sunday morning in late winter. There were only about twenty mourners. His grave lies less than twenty metres from that of Sophie.
For those who believe, perhaps they meet again.
2,458 words
David Inger
P.O. Box 40757,
Gaborone
Tel: 3923118
Cell: 72401414
Email: trust@botsnet.bw
(2500 Words)
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