Alex looked around the table at the serious black faces. They had listened courteously as he outlined his plan. Timon Setgoma particularly had paid attention, nodding approval at several points. Alex was glad of that. Timon was attached to the newly formed Ministry of Local Government and Lands and, as such, was very close to the Minister, the Hon. Lemmie Makgekgenene.
This meeting, the culmination of eighteen months’ work, would see the make-or-break decision on his proposals. He had worked long and hard, learning as he went. When he started he believed it would be easy—working to help his San friends would be fulfilling and enjoyable. He did not anticipate the frustrating delays, the hurdles which had to be jumped one by one or, in one instance, disapproval of his scheme so intense and from such an influential individual that the scheme nearly failed in its infancy. There were times along the way he nearly gave up but Chrissy had encouraged him to continue.
Immediately after Marv and Pru’s wedding, Alex and Chrissy, at his suggestion, moved into a three bedroomed house in The Village. With independence around the corner, expansion of Gaberones sprawled in every direction in anticipation of the flood of expatriates and the migration of rural Batswana to the country’s new-look capital city. The original village of Gaberones was immediately, though unofficially, called ‘the village’ to set it apart from the brash new developments scarring the surrounding bushland. Alex found a lovely old double brick building with large rooms, high ceilings and an established garden. Chrissy agreed to the move, claiming she had never been happier. Alex gave her the space she obviously needed and rarely mentioned marriage but, in his heart, desperately hoped that by living together she would change her mind about marrying him.
He set up an office in one of the bedrooms and went to work. Britain had still not accepted the new constitution which had been put together by Seretse Khama and Quett Masire, but the entire country was buzzing with excitement that an acceptance was just around the corner and that it would lead, in time, to full independence. Until Britain did accept the constitution, however, policy decisions simply were not being made. Bechuanaland, despite feverish expansion activity, was in limbo.
He went into the desert and found !Ka. It was important to Alex that !Ka understood the principles of the project and accepted them. !Ka’s reaction had been typical.
‘When the clever old man jackal wakes from sleeping he looks to the sky. When he sees the vulture he follows it for he knows it will lead him to food.’
Alex had nodded.
‘The vulture is a hunter, like the jackal.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘The vulture does not always wait for death to come before he feeds. He has nothing in his heart and very often hunger in his belly.’
Alex nodded again.
‘The jackal has a plan in his heart which fills his belly.’
Alex could see where !Ka was leading him but he said nothing. To ruin !Ka’s punchline would have been unforgivably rude.
‘Am I a vulture or a jackal?’ !Ka asked, smiling.
That was !Ka’s approval. In his own roundabout way he had compared the San with the clever old man jackal who filled his belly by using the skills of others, rather than the vulture who cared not for the suffering of others and sometimes went hungry. It was not a definite yes but Alex knew that !Ka, like most of the San, would at least give his scheme a try.
Convinced it was only a matter of time before Bechuanaland gained independence, and wanting to be ready with a full feasibility study when that happened, Alex returned to Gaberones and got to work, using his own funds to finance the scheme. Finding a starting point was easy. The San were limited in skills which could be used commercially so any project had to revolve around existing talents, at least in the early stages. Artifacts could be made by the clans as they went about their daily existence and would not affect their way of life dramatically. They made all manner of things as part of their gift-giving culture. Up until now, however, they used only those materials which came to them in the course of their day-to-day struggle to stay alive. When a buck was killed, the meat filled San bellies, the skin was used for clothing and the bones and horns made into utensils. The Bushmen never took more than they required and this trait had to be preserved at all costs.
The first problem, therefore, was how to provide the San with materials in general, and animal skins in particular, so that their respect for the balance of nature was not altered in any way. Not only would this have disastrous effects on nature itself, but by encouraging them to take more than they needed for their own survival, it would eventually destroy the clans’ unique culture as well. The second problem was how to remunerate them. The wandering people of the Kalahari had no use for money. Introducing cash into their lives would also destroy their way of life as they came to learn how a money economy worked. Their gift-giving and bartering systems were deeply entrenched into their culture. If it were undermined by capitalism, Alex knew other values would quickly fall. So his scheme not only had to put forward viable suggestions as to how best to supply the clans with materials to make curios, but how best to pay them as well.
Initially the problem of supplying skins led him up a couple of blind alleys. When he first started work on the project he intended that the clans use traditional materials to make their artifacts. Game Department, keen to assist, agreed to give him first refusal on any animals culled in the newly formed Chobe and Moremi Game Reserves. This guaranteed a steady supply of skins certainly, but skinning, cleaning, salting and drying them before transporting them vast distances to the Kalahari was a major problem. He was attempting to address this difficulty when he discovered that, in any event, the importation of curios made from skins prepared roughly in the bush would be refused by most other countries.
Realising he had a lot to learn and still keen on using skin from game animals, he investigated the possibility of farming impala, springbok and duiker near Lobatse. The abattoir in Lobatse would buy the animals, sell the meat, send the skins to South Africa for professional tanning and these could then be imported back into Bechuanaland and used by the clans. No go! The Bechuanaland Protectorate Abattoirs, together with the Livestock Producers Trust, were negotiating with the European Economic Community for a ninety per cent levy abatement on beef exports. The EEC, with its strict requirements in health and hygiene for exported meat, would not allow the abattoir to be used for anything other than cattle.
Next, he investigated the possibility of having a small abattoir built which would process meat from farmed game animals. He visited a similar enterprise in South Africa, only to discover that while an abattoir’s needs are modest, an abundance of water is essential. The Lobatse abattoir was already stretching that town’s water supply to the limit. A second abattoir there was out of the question. To site an abattoir anywhere else in the country was impossible. Water to handle the anticipated population explosion was already causing the town planners headaches. He looked briefly at the Okavango Delta as a possibility but quickly rejected the idea. It had the water certainly but it was just too far from anywhere and the road system was rustic to say the least. While he was still tackling this problem he also learned that, in any case, so far, no-one was successfully farming game animals with the possible exception of gemsbok. In a farm environment, the animals refused to breed.
Reluctantly, he came to the conclusion that the only economically viable supply of skins would have to be cowhide, of which there were considerable quantities. The Lobatse abattoir shipped all wet skins to a South African tannery. He investigated the idea of buying wet skins and setting up a tannery within Bechuanaland. The idea had potential and he drafted a proposal giving facts and figures which he might include with his feasibility study but if not, could be an addendum to the main project and earmarked for inclusion once the scheme was up and running.
Then he hit an unexpected snag which almost halted the entire project.
The tannery, he decided, should be sited in Molepolole. Nicely situated between the desert where his craftsmen lived, the abattoir which would supply wet skins, and rail links with South Africa where the finished products would be sent, Molepolole was perfect.
The Chief of Molepolole had other ideas. He was still angry that Alex had lied about his reason for requesting the use of land in the desert. He didn’t trust Alex and didn’t care who knew it.
For centuries, the eight chiefs and five sub-chiefs within Bechuanaland enjoyed ultimate authority, recognising no-one above them. They were rulers, judges, makers and guardians of the law, holders of wealth, dispensers of gifts, leaders in war, priests and magicians. Such was their power that even the zealous, and often misguided missionaries who arrived in the nineteenth century realised the way to convert the masses was to first convert the Chiefs.
The Molepolole Chief, using his considerable influence, vetoed the plan, spread rumours about Alex and, before long, had several other Chiefs on side. Their argument was valid. The new Botswana should direct its energies and aid money to the bulk of the population, not to a handful of nomadic little Bushmen who probably didn’t want help anyway.
In desperation, Alex went to see Her Majesty’s Commissioner, Sir Peter Fawcus. He was a very busy man and Alex had to wait ten days before an appointment could be made.
‘I’ve heard about your scheme,’ Sir Peter said briskly before Alex was even seated. ‘Like to discuss it fully with you some time.’
Alex opened his mouth to speak.
‘Not today,’ Sir Peter went on. ‘Too much to do.’
‘The Chief . . .’
‘Don’t worry about him. You go ahead. Things are changing.’
‘But . . .’
‘The world has only just become aware of the San. Mark my words, young man, you’ll get your aid money.’
‘But . . .’
‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’ Sir Peter rose, smiling slightly. ‘I have another appointment.’ He pressed a button on his desk, held out his hand and, as his secretary came through the door said, ‘Show Mr Theron out, there’s a good girl.’
Alex shook his hand. ‘The Chiefs . . .’ he tried again.
Sir Peter frowned at him.
‘Please come with me, Mr Theron.’
He was out of the door two minutes after entering the room.
‘I got six bloody words out,’ he exploded to Chrissy that night. ‘He thought I was worried about aid money.’
‘He said things were changing didn’t he?’
‘That’s supposed to make me feel better?’
She patted his arm. ‘He probably couldn’t say too much but I’ve heard the Chiefs will lose a lot of their power. Keep the faith, darling, you’re getting there.’
If it hadn’t been for Chrissy he’d have dropped the project there and then.
Marketing formed another major part of his study. African curios were gaining popularity around the world but no-one had ever heard of Bushmen artifacts. He spent months collecting as many San items as he could. Reed mats and baskets, clay pots and vessels, decorated ostrich eggs, bows, arrows and spears, drums, thumb pianos, beaded and woven bracelets and anklets, necklaces, animal skin products of all types, and items made from the bark of trees filled his office. ‘What are you planning to do with all this?’ Chrissy asked.
‘I’ll need a catalogue. It will have to be professionally done. Paul knows someone in Johannesburg who specialises in catalogues and who will, for a small fee of course, come up with a layout. I’ve arranged to meet him.’
‘It’ll cost a bomb.’
‘I know. But I have to have it.’
Before he could commission the production of a catalogue he needed to work out prices and before he did that, he had to negotiate with the clans some method of paying them without corrupting their ways with actual money.
‘Clinics,’ he said to Chrissy. ‘I know there’s venereal disease among the San. It was brought back to this country by men working in the South African mines. It’s almost an epidemic in the adults.’
‘I’m surprised they haven’t figured out a way to get rid of it. They’re pretty cluey about most things.’
‘This is different. They don’t understand how it came to them. It’s an introduced disease and therefore alien. !Ka believes it is yet another way the white man has tricked them, and in a way he’s right. As well as that, because it’s a foreign thing he says the desert cannot provide something which can help them. That’s the way he thinks.’
‘Would they go to a clinic?’
‘It won’t be easy to convince them at first but, once they see how they can be helped I think they’d go.’
‘What if our modern medicine takes away their natural resistance to other things. I mean, there’s virtually no heart disease or cancer among them. Antibiotics would surely upset the natural balance.’
‘I know.’ He scratched his head, worried. ‘But where do I draw the line, Chrissy? Today they’re dying of gonorrhoea, tuberculosis, rheumatic fever and leprosy. Trachoma is a huge problem. Their teeth are generally bad and God help their children if measles ever catches up with them. The kids have no resistance at all to measles.’
‘Okay. But I think you should get advice. If you start fiddling with nature anything could happen.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Why don’t you go to the University of the Witwatersrand. They have an Institute for the Study of Man in Africa which is headed by the same man who is Chairman of the Kalahari Research Committee. Someone told me about him the other day. If he can’t help you he can probably put you in touch with someone who can.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know but I can find out tomorrow.’ She frowned. He noticed she did that whenever she was deep in thought. It made her look sort of serious yet like a little girl at the same time. She stopped frowning suddenly and looked at him. ‘How about water? That’s a constant problem for the San. You told me there’s subterranean water all through the Kalahari. Couldn’t bore holes be put down or water pumped to them in some way? Then they might even be able to plant their own crops.’
He shook his head. ‘Water’s a good idea but it brings about the same problem. They’re hunters and gatherers. If they start planting their own crops they’d stop wandering.’
‘I’ll get that name for you tomorrow. I think you’d better get yourself down to Pretoria and talk to this man as soon as possible.’
He was not able to see Professor Tobias as he was on a lecture tour in Canada and the United States and not expected back for four months. But he made an appointment to see an Associate Professor in the same medical school at the university who told him, ‘The Bushmen need protection. Some disruption, and some influence from outside is inevitable. You’ve virtually said it yourself. Death by any means is nothing more or less than death. But death by starvation because a man has gone blind when his sight might have been saved is downright neglectful. And as for water changing their way of life, we have found that the nomadic Bushmen prefer their hunting, gathering ways. There’s nothing wrong with giving them an option for when times are hard. I’m sorry Professor Tobias is not here. He would be more helpful. But I know he would tell you that any scheme which enables the Bushmen to integrate with others yet retain their own cultural coherence should be encouraged.’
She smiled at him. ‘In that feasibility study of yours, you might like to include some suggestions as to how the Bushmen can govern their own affairs. No-one else should be allowed to interfere. They’re extremely moral people and quite capable of developing a governing system which can straddle their own culture as well as the laws of Bechuanaland. Inflicting our rules on them will not only confuse and anger them, but will ultimately bastardise their own codes. Then you’ve got a real problem.’
Alex chewed on the inside of his lip. ‘Are you sure about this? I mean, is it a good thing? It seems to me that every action has a counteraction. I want to help them, not go down in history as the man who destroyed their ways.’
‘They have to change, young man, just as everyone else has had to change. They can’t be preserved in a time warp. Just remember to keep any changes in line with their ethos. In my experience, they’ll be quick to reject anything they have a problem with anyway.’
‘They are like that aren’t they? They have a sense of who they are and it gives them self-respect.’
She smiled again. ‘A public relations exercise wouldn’t go astray. People need to understand them. Your study should provide for that.’
‘Thank you,’ Alex said, rising. ‘I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.’
She rose as well. ‘What are you proposing to do for the farm Bushmen?’
Alex grinned at her. ‘Give me a break, lady. I’m not qualified at all for this. All I want to do is help my friends.’
She stared at him seriously. ‘Young man, you are probably more qualified than anyone else I know. You think like them. Take your scheme and go for it. Formally trained you may not be, but at least you are doing something. And that, young man, is more than anyone else has done.’
‘She may have a point,’ he thought, as he left the building. ‘I just hope I’m doing the right thing.’
His time with the clan showed him they were content. In their own eyes, they didn’t need help. But Alex could see what they couldn’t. They were losing more and more of their traditional hunting and gathering lands to game reserves and dry land farming. Cattle breeders, experimenting and testing, were coming up with hardy beasts able to survive in the desert. In an ever-changing world, the inevitable losers would be the San unless something could be done.
Payment, in the form of medical clinics and water wells, was only the beginning. Alex knew that, ultimately, the San would probably develop a cash economy, the same as everyone else. As soon as that happened, the old ways would start to change. It saddened him to think that in order to help them, he was also helping to destroy their unique culture. But he could not sit back and wait for progress to destroy it. The San had to be ready.
In June 1964, just a month after Alex started work on his project, Britain accepted the new constitution. Four months later, considerably out of pocket having paid for preliminary work to a catalogue which included the taking of hundreds of colour photographs, and having purchased a mailing list of all the major craft and curio shops in South Africa, Britain, America and Europe, Alex went back to see Sir Peter Fawcus.
‘Awfully busy today, young man. Tell you what, go and talk to the Social and Economic Development Committee, they’ll put your mind at rest about aid.’
This time Alex was ready for him. ‘It’s not the bloody aid money, sir, it’s . . .’
‘Yes, yes, you’d like some reimbursement I’m sure. Can’t say I blame you.’ He pressed the button, rose and put out his hand, ‘Show Mr Theron out, there’s a good girl.’
Jesus! He’d done it again. This time he’d only lasted thirty seconds. But as he left the building he realised that Sir Peter Fawcus, for all his briskness, had once again hit the nail right on the head.
Expecting another frustrating delay, he telephoned the Social and Economic Development Committee for an appointment and was amazed when they not only agreed to see him the next day but also mentioned that Sir Peter Fawcus had been in touch with them about his plans and had recommended they hear him out.
Up till that point, Alex had not discussed his project fully with anyone other than Chrissy. He had mentioned it in passing to many but, in the feverish activity affecting everyone in the lead up to independence, no-one had the time to stop and listen. Therefore, he had no real yardstick by which to judge the validity of his proposals, he simply had an urge to help the San. So it came as some surprise to him when the Social and Economic Development Committee not only listened carefully to his plans, but agreed to refund most of the money he had spent to date and urged him to proceed with the production of a catalogue, mail it out and come back to them with the responses. Encouraged, Alex decided to include the tannery suggestion in his feasibility study despite the Chiefs’ lack of support.
Suddenly Bechuanaland was flush with money and brimming with projects. Britain was embarrassed by the impoverished land they had administered, halfheartedly tried to improve, failed with, and then gladly handed back. Doubtful as to how a country with a Gross National Product of less than fifteen million pounds could survive, the British government found they had all sorts of aid money available for all sorts of projects.
It wasn’t only Britain’s money either. The World Health Organisation, whose mandate was to improve the health of all countries and control disease by the collection of information, training, and guidance of all kinds, chipped in to the tune of five million pounds of general aid money, and quite coincidentally specified that special clinics be set up for the San. The Museum of Primitive Art in New York was good for 80,000 American dollars, no strings attached. They had their sights set on the Bushmen rock paintings but carefully didn’t mention it. The National Assembly continued to contribute and the United Nations, with a nod and a wink, or in some cases, a vigorous shove in the back, directed dozens of organisations’ aid packages to Africa’s newest, about-to-be independent country. Alex’s project, the Social and Economic Development Committee told him, was high on the list for special funding. Not, as he was quick to realise, because anyone gave a damn about the San people, but because they wanted to be perceived as giving a damn.
A month after he had been given official approval for his scheme a row blew up between the Chiefs and the new administration. The Chiefs were losing power and they didn’t like it. Any attempt Alex made to have land allocated to his tannery failed. Alex tried again to find land in Molepolole. Angrily, the Chief told him the land was no longer his to give and referred him to the District Council. The District Council did not think it was theirs to give either and sent him to the Land Board. The Land Board had not been set up long enough for them to know if it was theirs to give and suggested he try someone in Central Government. And Central Government, with its mind on other things, claimed never to have heard of his scheme.
Finally a House of Chiefs was formed, legislation relating to tribal land falling under their mandate. Or so Alex thought. After several months someone was considerate enough to inform him that, while the House of Chiefs would examine his request for land, they could only make recommendations which Parliament was not obliged to act on.
And so the wheels of impending independence ground on, delaying him at nearly every turn.
Independence had not been a matter of going to bed one night in Bechuanaland and waking the next day in Botswana. From June 1964, when the proposed constitution was accepted by Britain, events behind the scenes worked towards full independence but progress was slow. The first house-to-house census was conducted and, by the end of 1964, voters had been registered in thirty-one separately defined constituencies. Shadow ministries were created and, in February 1965, the seat of government was transferred from Mafeking to the new capital Gaborone, changed from Gaberones, the colonial administration’s incorrect name for Chief Gaborone’s village. The following month full internal self-government became reality and in the first ever elections, Seretse Khama and his Bechuanaland Democratic Party won a sweeping victory, taking twenty-eight of thirty-one seats.
On 30 September 1966, the independent Republic of Botswana’s flag was raised for the first time. Three weeks earlier, as he worked late at night in his office, South Africa’s Prime Minister, Hendrick Frensch Verwoerd was stabbed to death by a white parliamentary messenger, sparing him the pain of seeing the emergence of yet another independent black country, this one rather closer to South Africa than he would have liked. The murder barely raised a ripple in a Bechuanaland gearing itself for the most important day ever.
After eighteen months of thinking, planning, setting up markets, working out distribution details, talking to the clans and producing an eighty-page document in support of his proposals, Alex’s cock, as Marv would say, was on the chopping block. The external funding had stopped. Now it was down to the Botswana government to accept or reject the project. And it was down to him to get them to back it.
‘. . . so you see, if this plan is implemented the San have a place in the new Botswana which does not jeopardise their lifestyle. They want to be involved. They want better conditions. And they’re happy to contribute their skills in exchange for this. We could open a Bushmen curio shop here in Gaborone to sell their craft.’
‘I see you have put a great deal of work and thought into this scheme.’ Timon Setgoma flipped his hand towards the eighty-page feasibility study. ‘What’s the bottom line?’
Alex passed him a single sheet of paper. Timon adjusted his glasses and read it thoroughly before passing it across the table to the head of the Kweneng District Council. He in turn read it before passing it to the man next to him who was in charge of the Kgalagadi District Council. Alex held his breath. Their support was vital. Although their responsibilities lay mainly in providing schools, health facilities, water supplies and in maintaining roads, the activities he was proposing would affect many people in a fairly large proportion of their territory. Both men gave the sheet of figures a cursory glance before passing it back to Timon. Alex realised neither of them would voice an opinion until they learned what Timon thought.
‘The San are not commercially orientated,’ Timon said.
‘Only because they’ve never had the chance.’
‘Money will ruin their culture.’
‘They already sell spears and things to buy tobacco. They won’t expect much money. They’ve indicated to me that clinics and a better water supply will be more than enough payment.’
Timon stabbed his finger at an item on the sheet. ‘Why do you need so much money to set up a tannery?’
The bargaining had begun.
Three hours later he emerged from the meeting dazed, elated and charged with excitement. It had gone better than he’d hoped. Financial support for his scheme would be forthcoming but not without some concessions.
The head of the Kgalagadi District Council wanted the tannery in Ghanzi where, it seemed, half his extended family were out of work. Timon Setgoma overruled his demand and Alex got a tannery site in Molepolole but, to appease the head of the Kgalagadi Council, Timon promised that distribution of skins to predetermined pick-up points throughout the desert would be the responsibility of a small cartage company in Ghanzi which just happened to belong to the councillor’s half-brother.
To assist the San, and to ensure that money did not have to change hands, the government would buy skins from the abattoir and finance the tannery. The Bushmen therefore did not have to purchase leather. Instead, skins would be labelled and recorded in a register. Anybody participating in the scheme would be allotted three skins at any one time. The finished products had to equal in bulk, the equivalent of these three skins, with a reasonable adjustment made for waste. Artifacts sold had to cover the cost of the subsidised leather and contribute to the running of the tannery. Anything left over would go into a special fund and be used, alongside a small amount of aid money, for clinics and water supplies.
The rest of the curios, those made from anything other than skins, were, for the moment, the responsibility of the Bushmen. ‘One thing at a time,’ Timon said, when Alex argued. ‘We’re prepared to subsidise skins. If this scheme works, we’ll look at beads and paints and all the rest you have in your recommendations.’
‘What about the other side of it?’ Alex asked. ‘The self-administration aspect and the public relations campaign?’
Timon removed his glasses and looked at him. ‘Mr Theron,’ he said patiently. ‘We are an emerging country. We’ve only just got our independence. Do you, in all faith, imagine we’re likely to hand the smallest shred of control to anyone else?’
Alex was frustrated and looked it.
‘We take your point, Mr Theron,’ Timon continued. ‘You’ve got some good recommendations in here. But for now the Bushmen will have to accept that, like the rest of Botswana, they are at the receiving end of . . . well . . . let’s just call it an experiment.’
As for the proposed Bushman curio shop in Gaborone, he was advised to wait until market acceptance and demand had been established through existing outlets outside Botswana.
‘Besides,’ Timon said, smiling slightly, ‘Botswana at this stage is hardly a tourist mecca. I think the curio shop is a little before its time.’
Alex thought that was fair enough.
He was put in overall charge of the project and given an office in a building occupied by the Town Council. It was cramped and dark but it gave him access to a secretary, photocopying, telephones and a mail box. He still had a lot of work to do before the project was actually operating.
Chrissy and Alex saw Marv and Pru occasionally, either visiting them at their farm or, more often, when they came down to Gaborone. Marv had taken to farming as though he were born for it. With his practical nature and mechanical aptitude, there was nothing he wasn’t prepared to tackle. The house had been extended twice already in anticipation of starting a family which, while everything else was working well for Marv and Pru, was something which seemed to be causing some difficulties.
‘It’s not as if we’re not trying,’ Marv confided to Alex.
Marv had quickly learned the jargon of the cattle world and had a canny knack of buying the right beasts at the right prices. His life, as Alex observed with no rancour, was happiness from the moment he woke in the morning to the moment he fell asleep at night. He loved his cattle, his farm and his wife, not necessarily in that order. All he needed to make his life complete was a child.
Paul, freshly graduated from university in Basutoland, had returned to Gaborone and was immediately taken on as an economist by the Ministry of Finance. The Minister, Quett Masire, was also the country’s Vice President.
Alex and Chrissy saw quite a lot of Paul. With his economist training, it was Paul who worked out the figures for Alex’s feasibility study. Paul believed the scheme had a great deal of potential.
‘I’d put in a good word for you at work but it would look a little obvious,’ he said.
Kel and his Uncle Ben had tried to get finance for their diamond project from the Ministry of Finance. ‘Dr Masire had them thrown out,’ Paul told Alex gleefully. ‘I think they’re running into financial trouble.’ Alex, very involved in his own scheme, was pleased to discover that the only emotion Paul’s news evoked was indifference.
Chrissy’s work had taken longer than anticipated but she was almost finished. The museum had a special room for her photographic display of the Tsodilo Hills rock paintings. The brief description, explanation as to materials used, cultural significance and dating of the paintings which were displayed under the photographs did not do justice to the months of patient research she had undertaken for each. She had been asked to stay on and help in the museum and art gallery. So far she had declined to accept. Alex did not push her. He knew her well enough by now to know she would make up her own mind in her own time.
He had ceased all attempts to get her to marry him. Her promise, that one day he would know the reason why she would not, had so far not been fulfilled. They lived together as man and wife, they laughed and fought together as man and wife—it seemed to be enough for Chrissy. So Alex told himself it would have to be enough for him as well.
The last time he broached the subject was after Marv had telephoned bubbling with excitement with the news that, finally, Pru was pregnant.
When he told Chrissy, she simply shrugged and said, ‘That’s nice.’
‘Nice! It’s terrific news. Marv’s over the moon. They’ve been trying for a year.’
‘Well good for him.’
‘What’s the matter with you? You almost sound as though you’re jealous.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re jealous. For Christ’s sake, Chrissy, we could have a kid too.’
They had the usual argument about getting married. She cried the usual tears. He felt the usual fear that she didn’t love him. They made up as usual. He never mentioned it again. He didn’t understand her; he’d seen her with other children and knew she liked them. On infrequent visits by Pru and Marv he had listened to her sharing Pru’s excitement about the baby, but he sensed that if he pushed her she might leave him. She never said she would, it was just a feeling he had. He never wanted her to leave, he loved her too much. But her refusal to discuss it made him scared.
He never ceased to marvel at his good fortune for having met her. Together, they were a complete unit of loyalty and love, tenderness and happiness, laughter and agreement. Sometimes he would glance up and she would be watching him, a small smile on her face, and he would blow her a kiss and go back to whatever he had been doing, secure in the knowledge his Chrissy was with him.
He learned to read her face. He knew, for example, when she was tired and wanted to go home. He knew when she wanted to make love by a softness which crept into her eyes, and when she didn’t by the way she held her shoulders. He could tell whether she liked someone or not by the tilt of her head. The tip of her nose going white was a sure sign he was in trouble, a smile in her eyes when he was forgiven. She was his friend, lover, confidante, sounding board, loyal and staunch supporter and constant companion.
She liked to read in the bath and would shut the door and lock it. ‘I need to be on my own,’ she would say. When she did that he would be unable to settle to anything until she came out. At parties he was continually aware of where she was and to whom she was talking. It wasn’t jealousy; he trusted her and respected her need to speak to others. He just needed to know where she was for, if he lost a sense of that he experienced a nameless panic. Sometimes his sixth sense about her let him down and, when he thought she was on the other side of the room, she would suddenly appear beside him and take his hand. He did not understand the fear in him. It was not, he conceded, like him at all.
But he stayed scared. There was something about her that seemed transitory. Once or twice, when she was unaware he was watching her, he could see that whatever thoughts she was having caused a look of deep sorrow on her face. He never asked what she was thinking. He was too scared of her answer. They were close but there was a barrier she had erected. And this barrier caused his uncertainty which in turn made him vulnerable. He was never completely sure of her.
They were sitting together on their verandah, looking over the lilac carpet of fallen jacaranda flowers in their garden. ‘I’ve decided to accept that job at the museum.’
‘Great. I was beginning to think you might leave.’ His words did not reveal the relief he felt.
She put out her hand and stroked his arm. ‘I never want to leave you,’ she said softly. Tears slid down her face. She often did that. At first it worried him but now he was used to them. She always explained them away as sentimental foolishness, an explanation he accepted since she cried nearly every time they spoke about their relationship.
‘Don’t cry, Chrissy love.’ He said it automatically.
The tears stopped as quickly as they started. ‘Will you have to travel as much now the study has been accepted?’
‘At first I suppose I’ll have to get out there and talk to the clans again. That will take time, you know how the San are. Half of them have probably forgotten all about the project by now. After all, in some cases it’s been a year and a half since I first mentioned it to them. I’ll try to talk !Ka into coming with me, the others will listen if I have him there. And then there’s the problem with the tannery. I’ve been shown five sites and the bloody District Council are arguing over which one is best. I have to make a final decision on that this trip. Once everything’s up and running I guess I’ll be away a couple of times a year, that’s all.’
She nodded. ‘It’s suddenly happening so fast. You go away the day after tomorrow. I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too.’
Again the tears. ‘Don’t miss me too much, darling. Concentrate on what you have to do.’
He had a government Land Rover at his disposal. He set off two days later. Chrissy waved him goodbye. ‘See you when I see you. Stay well.’ Her smile did not reach her eyes.
Alex was busy for the next four weeks. He went to Molepolole and selected a site for the tannery, staying on there for five days to hold discussions with the District Council, a lengthy process where the ramifications of every stage of its construction had to be talked about fully, from who would lay the concrete floor to who would paint the walls to who would supply the light fittings. Council members tended to push relatives forward, irrespective of their skills. To head them off when clearly a cousin or nephew was unqualified required a great deal of tact and arguments flared quickly if a council member felt he was getting less than his fair share of the spoils. Alex knew that if he appointed a building contractor who was an unpopular choice with the majority of council members, he could expect sabotage at the very least.
The Chief, still smarting from losing most of his authority and still angry with Alex, went out of his way to make progress as difficult as he could. By and large, however, his constant sniping and whining was ignored or overruled. All he achieved was unnecessary delay at every turn.
Alex stayed with Marthe and Jacob during this time. Jacob was as outspoken as ever. ‘Why are you wasting your time with this, jong? Them plurry Bushmen won’t thank you.’
‘This attitude,’ he thought sadly, ‘prevails everywhere. The Bushmen are vilified by white and black alike. Perhaps it’s their small stature and childlike features which make people think of them as being of no consequence, or maybe it’s because they were hunted and forced out of traditional homelands. People write them off as cowards but they went in peace, rather than stay and fight. That’s their way. They have to be the most misunderstood people on earth.’
But all he said to Jacob was, ‘I don’t want them to thank me. I just want to help them.’ Someone had to. Before they disappeared forever.
Once the clans roamed the whole of southern Africa. In the thirteenth century, with Bantu tribes fleeing south to escape the slave traders, the peace-loving Bushmen had been hunted and herded out of their lands. They moved away to the south, finding places along the way where they could live. With the coming of the white man, however, the Bushmen found themselves, once again, hunted—this time with guns from horseback. With nowhere else to go, they headed west, into the sand and rock country of the Kalahari and Namib.
There they found the peace they so desperately desired. No-one else was interested in such arid places. ‘Until now,’ Alex thought. ‘Thanks to technology.’
Once the talks with the District Council were concluded he made his way across the Kalahari towards Ghanzi, stopping at each of the places selected as pick-up points for leather, giving each person a register for the skins, teaching them the system required by the government and checking, where possible, that the local clans were still keen to participate. He was not surprised to discover that some of the clans had either changed their minds or were indifferent. Their wandering, non-hierarchal lifestyle made them reluctant to make decisions which might affect anyone other than the individual concerned and they could not yet grasp the concept of reward. Polite to the nth degree, the clans listened and nodded, then went about their own lives as though Alex had never spoken to them. He was not overly concerned. He knew how these people networked and how they loved to talk. The word would spread eventually. Although he searched for !Ka along the way, he was unable to locate the clan but he believed he had !Ka’s approval of the project and that would help get the entire scheme off to a good start.
Reaching Ghanzi, Alex stayed at the Kalahari Arms, hoping to run into Pat. Some of Jeff Carter’s men came into the bar on Saturday evening and from them he learned that Pat, Willie, Artie and Bob had just left on an early cattle drive. ‘Jeff wants to do more drives than usual this year,’ the man told him. ‘He’s mad. He’s pushing us too hard.’
Alex didn’t want to talk about Jeff. ‘Who owns that land just west of town with the old shack on it?’ The cartage company he’d had forced on him was nothing more than a man with a truck. He needed a depot for the skins.
‘Jeff Carter.’
‘What about the fenced plot out along the Maun road? The one with the road sign just in front of it?’
‘Tribal.’
‘Where does the Chief hang out?’
‘You’ll find him in the pub most afternoons.’
Alex made contact with the Chief of Ghanzi who was more than a little drunk. ‘You want to build a depot! For them Bushmen? Thieving little bastards! The land’s not mine to give any more but, if it were, I’d not let them have it.’
In the end he found the perfect piece of land which had been earmarked for a new District Commissioner’s house in the days before independence. The project had been shelved and then the land forgotten about. In that it already belonged to the government, getting it for his depot was easy.
Negotiations with the ‘cartage company’ were nearly as complicated as they had been over the tannery. The man who owned the truck had been told that the depot would belong to him and became stubborn and uncooperative as soon as Alex advised him otherwise. Then he made unreasonable demands about his truck which, on inspection of the vehicle, did not look as if it could make the journey from one end of Ghanzi to the other, a distance of half a mile. Alex had to agree to a major mechanical overhaul before discussions could proceed. He had been away nearly a month when Paul telephoned him from Gaborone, on a radio phone. His voice sounded tinny and disconnected. ‘Can you come back. Chrissy isn’t well.’
They were cut off before he could get the full message.
There was no hesitation on his part. If Paul had taken the trouble to call him then he knew that whatever was wrong with Chrissy was more than a dose of flu. He dropped everything and made the long trip south, sleeping briefly in his vehicle. It was hot and cramped but better than running the gauntlet of lions who would have been attracted to the area by the cattle drive. He actually passed the drive as it was camped out for the night just before the deep sandy country, but he didn’t stop. It was midnight, the day after Paul’s call, when he pulled into the yard of their house. Lights burned inside. Paul’s vehicle was in the yard. Another car was there, one he did not recognise. He rushed up the steps and into the house.
Paul met him inside. ‘The doctor’s with her.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ There was the deepest fear in him.
Paul handed him a glass of scotch. ‘Sit down.’
He knew it was bad. The look on Paul’s face told him it was serious. But he wasn’t prepared for the kick in the guts when Paul told him how bad. ‘She’s got leukaemia, Alex. She’s known about it for some time. She didn’t want you to know.’
Alex felt the scotch burning his throat. He felt weariness in his arms from the long trip. He felt the grittiness of lack of sleep in his eyes. But he had no idea that tears were streaming down his cheeks. He just knew a lump had appeared in his throat that hurt, and a cold was creeping through his gut and down his legs, and a scalding rage was setting fire to his heart.
He turned his head slowly, seeing Paul through a red haze of anger. ‘No,’ he whispered. His Chrissy. His bright-haired, milk-skinned, warm, loving Chrissy. She who filled him with smiles of happiness. His gentle girl who cried so suddenly and so unexpectedly. ‘No.’
The doctor came from the room looking grim. He stopped Alex from going in. ‘She’s deeply asleep. I’ve given her something to help.’
‘How long has she known?’
The doctor looked at him sharply. Alex knew him slightly—a man born in Basutoland who had made his life in Botswana with a Motswana wife. He was a good doctor. ‘Several years. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ he whispered miserably, wondering why he hadn’t guessed. ‘I had no idea.’
‘It was pretty far advanced when we discovered it. She’s refused most treatment. She went into remission for a while but it came back stronger than ever. She’s done well to last this long.’
‘How long. . .’ the words hurt his throat, ‘. . . how long has she . . .’ he could not bring himself to ask.
‘Not long. Just a few days.’
Oh God! Oh God, Chrissy! Why didn’t you tell me, darling? But she had. In a thousand different ways. He just hadn’t been listening.
The doctor was leaving, telling Paul he’d come back in the morning. Paul was walking the man to the door. Then he was coming back into the house, arms outstretched, sorrow on his face. Alex went into his brother’s arms and cried, broken and ashamed he had not guessed. Hating himself for pushing her to a marriage she would not live to fulfil and to children she had known she could never bear. Terrified of a life with no Chrissy. A large black hole of sorrow loomed in front of him, gaping and unknown, threatening and so very full of pain.
Paul led him to the sofa and sat with him, his arm around his shoulders, pulling his older brother close, trying to comfort the boy, and then the man he so idolised. ‘She didn’t want you to know. When she learned I had contacted you, weak as she was, she really chewed me out.’
Why didn’t I know? Was he so insensitive he could not see that which was right under his nose? ‘When Chrissy makes up her mind about a thing, nothing changes it. She would have been very cross.’ Sick and cross. My darling, my poor darling.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. You did the right thing. I have to be here.’
Paul rose and poured him another scotch.
‘How did you find out?’ He took the glass from Paul. ‘Thanks.’
‘She called me. She was frightened. When I got here I could see that something was obviously very wrong. She’s lost a lot of weight. She didn’t even want me to call the doctor but I had to. Her appearance scared me.’
Frightened! His girl was frightened and sick and cross and he was not here for her. It was all he could think of. ‘Oh God, Paulie!’
‘Do you want me to stay?’
‘No.’ He stirred himself, tried to take control of his emotions. ‘No, I need to be alone with her.’
Paul nodded that he understood.
After his brother left he went to the door of their bedroom. A lamp lit the room softly. He stopped at the door, looking at the bed. Her bright red hair was a flickering fire on the white pillow. Her face was as pale as the linen. Dark circles, like smudges of charcoal, under her eyes were the only things to break the whiteness of her face. Her cheekbones stood out, high and fine in a face which had grown terribly thin since he last saw her. Her lips were white.
Misery engulfed him. The soft rise and fall of her chest taunted him. Soon it would stop. Soon she would not breathe any more. Soon the gleam of mischief would leave her eyes. Soon the intelligence he had come to respect would be no more. Soon. Too soon.
He undressed quietly. Naked, he padded through to the bathroom, taking a scorching hot shower. There was a need in him to hold her but, before he did, he needed to be clean. Cleaner than he had ever been. So clean his body touching hers would do her no harm.
She stirred and mumbled as he got into bed next to her. Gently, so as not to disturb her precious sleep, he put his arm under her head. Slowly he pulled her into him, curling his body around hers, cradling her in his arms, gently kissing her hair, her forehead, her closed eyes. And as he held her he was shocked at the deterioration of her little body, and his tears fell on her hair and he tried to swallow around the terrible ache in his throat, as his heart broke with the loneliness yet to come, as he willed his own strength to help her, to enter her body and make her well again, Alex knew a pain so deep, so intense he trembled with it. Holding her, trembling with hurt, feeling her breath against his neck, he knew he was losing the one thing that meant more to him than his own life. And, oh God, how it hurt.
Chrissy never woke up. She died in his arms that night. The terrible pain which he had kept in check so as not to wake her burst from him in heartbroken, racking sobs as he held her lifeless body in his arms. He held her until dawn. As the sun broke over the rim of the earth and sent long fingers of light into their room he looked at her face and he understood, at last, that she had gone and would never be coming back. Her spirit had flown away, leaving the shell which had contained it.
He knew about death. !Ka taught him about the Hare and the Moon and the argument they had long ago about rebirth. He also taught him about the inevitability of death. His mother told him of life after death. Everyone had a story, a theory. But no-one prepared him for this. No-one warned him that when a vibrant young person dies their body looks like a wax figure. No-one told him how to cope with the knowledge that right here in his arms was the girl whose voice he could still hear but would never hear again, breath he could still feel but would never feel again, warm smile he could still see but would never see again.
She had gone. She had left him. She felt nothing. She saw nothing. He wanted to laugh at her, she looked so silly. He was angry with her. He felt like shaking her. His ears were ringing, loud bells which pealed through his head. He had no idea he was crying. A red mist rose. He thought he was laughing. Someone was, he could hear it.
Paul and the doctor prised Chrissy out of his arms. Paul helped him dress. Then he stood aghast while Alex rummaged through Chrissy’s clothes, stripped off her nightgown and dressed her, slowly, lovingly, talking to her as though she could hear. ‘What about this pair?’ he asked her, holding up some pink panties. ‘Yes. I like them too.’
‘Alex!’ Paul tried to lead him away.
‘No!’ It rang from him, an anguished cry of sorrow. ‘She needs my help can’t you see that? Here, Chrissy love, what do you think of this? It’s your favourite blouse. Come here, darling, I’ll help you.’
Alex Theron had lost his mind.