At the same time Wilmon’s funeral was taking place in Mochudi, another gathering was convening a three-hour drive north in the village of Shoshong. Constable Polanka hadn’t seen anything like it before. Dust rose into the air from the hundreds of feet moving along the sandy roads, and the air was full of babble as arguments flared up between different groups. It seemed as though every person in Shoshong was headed for the kgotla. He wondered what the chief would decide.
Polanka didn’t know what to think. He’d heard all the arguments, and whatever position someone took, he found himself agreeing with it. When he’d asked the station commander his opinion, the man growled, “It’s trouble either way. Don’t get involved. Don’t give people your opinion.”
If what they said was true, he thought, Shoshong would benefit from many more jobs. That would be good for a village where many men spent their days sitting in shebeens drinking Shake Shake beer. But what if it wasn’t true? What if the promises were empty? Then so many people would have to move for nothing. The only people to benefit would be the people who owned the mine.
He shook his head. He was pleased he wasn’t the chief, who had to make the decision.
He was about to head for the kgotla himself when a well-dressed white man wearing dark glasses walked up.
“Dumela, rra,” the man said with a broad smile.
“Dumela,” Polanka replied, wondering who the stranger was. He didn’t recognize the accent.
“Are these people all going to the cottler?”
“Cottler? You mean the kgotla?”
“Yes, the meeting.”
Polanka frowned, wondering why white people had such difficulty pronouncing simple words like kgotla. “Just follow the people,” he said.
“Thank you.” The man turned and joined the crowd.
Must be from the newspapers, Polanka thought. Or maybe from television, since he was good-looking. Then he, too, headed for the meeting.
* * *
THE GRAYING CHIEF, leaning on his carved staff, walked slowly through the throng to the low platform that had been set up at the front of the kgotla. He was followed by his son and the four elders who comprised his advisory council. They climbed the two steps and sat down, thankful for the canvas tarpaulin that provided shade from the broiling sun.
A young man lifted a microphone onto the platform and set it up in front of the chief. He tapped it and, hearing nothing, spoke into it. “One, two three, four.” Still nothing.
“We do not need that thing,” the chief said. “I can just speak.”
“Kgosi, only the people in the front will hear you. That’s fine for most meetings, but this is different. The whole village is here, and everyone wants to hear what you have to say.”
“We have never needed it before.”
“Kgosi, let me make sure it’s working. Then I’ll turn it off. You can start speaking without it.” He jumped off the side of the platform and fiddled with some knobs. He stepped back up and tapped the microphone again. Dull thumps reverberated from the speakers he’d tied to the trees.
“It’s ready, Kgosi. If you need it, I’ll turn it on.”
* * *
THE CHIEF WAITED for another ten minutes before he decided to start. He lifted his staff and brought it down sharply onto the platform. He repeated this three times. Slowly, the hubbub subsided as the people in the front turned and shushed those behind.
“Dumela,” the chief said. The first couple of rows responded.
The chief looked at the crowd. “Thank you for attending this important kgotla. I have an important and difficult decision to make. I need to listen to what you think.”
“We can’t hear you!”
“Talk louder!”
“Use the microphone!”
The shouts came from the younger members of the crowd, who were standing at the back.
The young man next to the stage looked at the chief expectantly. Eventually, the chief frowned and nodded at the man, who turned on the microphone. Then he jumped up and set the microphone just in front of the chief’s face.
“Please. You must talk into the microphone, Kgosi. Otherwise, people won’t hear.”
The chief didn’t look pleased with this intrusion of modern technology into the traditional kgotla. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for attending this important kgotla. I have an important and difficult decision to make. I need to listen to what you think.” He looked around and saw people throughout the crowd nodding in agreement.
“As you know, the mine to the east of Shoshong wants to expand. The director of mines for Botswana, Rra Mopati, has told me that the mine expects to hire another two hundred men and twenty-five women if the expansion takes place. That would be very good for Shoshong, because there are many people here without work, and families are suffering.”
A number of young men at the back of the crowd cheered.
The chief, not used to being interrupted, lost his train of thought and glared at them. He banged his staff into the platform.
“For the mine to expand,” he continued, “it will need to take land between the existing mine and the village. There are about eighty homes where the mine wants to go. The mine has told the director that it will provide better land for the people who live there and build better homes for every family that is displaced.”
There were more cheers from the back.
“And it will also give each family ten thousand pula to help make the move.”
“Let’s do it!”
“Why are we waiting?”
The chief looked angrily at the back of the crowd. “Please, please. Let me finish.” He leaned forward toward the microphone again. “The offer appears to be a fair one, and the director says that the government is supporting the application by the mine because it will help the people of Shoshong, and it will bring many millions of pula into the country, which can be used to benefit everyone.”
He pulled out a dirty handkerchief and coughed into it—a deep, rattling cough that lingered for some time.
“On the other hand, some of the elders on my council are not in favor of the proposal…”
That brought a chorus of jeers from the back.
“This is the last time I will say this,” the chief said angrily. “If you cannot behave in a manner befitting a kgotla, I will have to ask Constable Polanka to remove you.” He pointed at the policeman, who was standing at the side of the stage. Polanka stuck out his chest and tried to look official. The chief tried to locate where the sniggers were coming from, but his eyesight wasn’t good enough to make out individual faces at the back of the crowd.
“I will ask Rra Maedze to speak to you.”
The young man jumped onto the stage again and moved the microphone in front of one of the elderly men, who remained seated.
“Speak into the microphone please, rra.”
The old man cleared his throat.
“Dumela.” He looked around and was gratified that he heard a few dumelas in return.
“Last summer, my granddaughter was to be married. Several weeks before the ceremony, the father of her betrothed brought the agreed-upon lobola.” He smiled. “It was a good amount of cattle. Some he had to buy because his family did not have enough.
“I was with my son when the cattle arrived, so we inspected them together. Of course, we could have just sat down and enjoyed many beers, but it was our responsibility to make sure that the lobola contract had been satisfied.” He looked around but didn’t notice that the men at the back were getting fidgety at the story that appeared to have nothing to do with the purpose of the meeting.
“When we looked carefully, three of the cattle were not well. It was quite embarrassing for everyone. When we pointed this out, the father said they were among the ones he bought, but he had been in a rush to get them to us and had not looked at them carefully enough. He was an honorable man and took the cattle away. When he returned the next day with healthy cattle, he told us that he was able to make the man he bought them from give him healthy ones. So all ended well.”
Once again, he looked around.
“I know some of you wonder why I tell this story. Mainly you young men at the back.” He waved his hand dismissively. “As we consider the proposal from the mine, we must think of it like a marriage. What the mine is offering us is lobola for the village of Shoshong and for those who will have to move. We must make sure that the number of cattle offered is enough, and we must check that all the cattle are healthy.”
He shuffled in his chair trying to get comfortable.
“Let me tell you a story,” the old man continued, to a chorus of groans from the back. “Before some of you were born, there was no mine here. And officials from the government and from a mining company approached us because they needed land for the mine. Land where many people lived. Just like today. They made a promise to the chief that the people who moved would have better land and better houses. And they would receive some pula for their trouble. It was just like today. The chief—Kgosi’s father—agreed. So did the elders. And the village was excited.
“The mine took the land, knocked down the houses before new ones were ready, and then took a year to build the new houses. And they were poor in quality—no better than shacks—on land that could not be used for cattle, only for a few goats. And this happened even after the government spoke to the owners of the mine.” He cleared his throat.
“My family was one of those moved. Where we lived before was a fine house with good grazing around it. The new house was bad. So bad, we left the house and had to stay with relatives. And we had no money.
“So what I say is this: we must make sure that all the lobola cattle are healthy. If we agree to this move, it is we who must select the land that will be used for the new houses, and it is we who must approve the quality of the houses before the old houses are knocked down. And it is we who must be given the money right away. If we wait until the mine expands, I fear what happened before will happen again. Thank you.”
Constable Polanka noticed that many of the people who applauded were elderly and seated at the front.
A young man at the back put up his hand. “Kgosi, I would like to speak.”
The chief nodded, and the man came onto the platform. For several minutes he urged the chief to accept the offer. “I want to work,” he said, “but there is nothing here in Shoshong for me. And many of my friends feel the same. We need jobs and money.”
Shouts of approval and clapping erupted from the back of the crowd.
Another young man ran down from the back.
He grabbed the microphone. “We’re wasting our time,” he shouted. “There are more young people than old in Shoshong. We need the mine. We shouldn’t listen to these old men who have nothing better to do than to dream of the past. We need jobs. I say we tell the mine to go ahead.” The young people roared their approval.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” they shouted.
The chief struggled to his feet and went to the microphone.
“I am the chief of Shoshong,” he spluttered. “It is I who makes the decisions with my council. The government will not listen to you. You—”
“Jobs! Jobs! Jobs!” The chief’s voice was drowned out.
Constable Polanka realized that things were getting out of control. He walked in front of the stage and held up his hands. Nobody paid attention. He waved his arms, but the crowd ignored him.
“Please,” he shouted. “Let Kgosi speak.” He waved his arms more vigorously. Eventually, the hubbub diminished until the chief could be heard.
“We have had kgotlas for many hundreds of years. They have served us well.”
A chorus of boos came from the back.
The chief banged his staff on the platform.
“Does anyone else want to speak?”
A hand shot up, and a woman with a baby strapped to her back with a blanket walked forward. Everyone was suddenly quiet. It was unusual for a woman to speak at a kgotla that was discussing land and jobs. Those were matters for men.
She clambered onto the platform, grabbed the microphone, and glared at the elders. “You speak of lobola and history and tradition. Your children are grown up. What about my children? This is only one of them!”
The crowd laughed, enjoying the feisty woman and the discomfort of the council.
“Look there!” She pointed at a man nearby in the crowd. “That’s my husband. He’s not a bad man, but he can’t find a proper job, a job to support our family. He spends his days with his friends. He does odd jobs, and the money he gets he drinks!”
The crowd laughed again, and the men muttered jokes to each other about this man needing some lessons about showing his wife who was boss. But many of the women clapped. When the crowd was quiet again, she said, “Kgosi, you must get us these jobs. Otherwise, stand aside and let someone else find them for us.” Then she climbed down from the platform and returned to her husband’s side.
The chief was speechless with anger at her insolence, but there was little he could do as another man had already taken the microphone and had started talking. And so it went on for another hour, some people for the proposal and some against. In general, younger people supported the offer enthusiastically, but older people, while not rejecting it out of hand, were much more cautious.
Eventually, the chief put up his hands.
“That is enough! We have heard fine arguments for and against the offer. My council and I will take everything into consideration. We will meet here next week at the same time for my decision. Thank you for attending the kgotla.” He looked toward the back of the crowd. “We would like the young men—and women—of the village to attend all our meetings, not just the ones that may affect them.”
He, his son, and the other elders stood up, descended the stairs, and shuffled through the crowd.