Constable Polanka was worried. There were just as many people headed toward the kgotla as the previous time, but now many of the young men had cartons of Shake Shake beer and were brandishing heavy sticks. The talk was aggressive.
“The chief had better say yes to the mine!”
“We need the jobs.”
“We’ll throw him out if he says no!”
“And the other old men also.”
“I’ll beat some sense into them!”
Constable Polanka was scared. He could never stop this crowd if it got out of control, so he pulled out his cell phone and called the station chief.
“Rra. I think there’s going to be trouble at the kgotla. The young people are angry and are carrying big sticks. If the chief says no to the mine, I don’t know what they will do. Please send some more men up here. Quickly.”
* * *
THE STAGE WAS set as before. The chief’s son and the elders were sitting under a canopy, and the people from the village thronged around it. However, this time much of the space close to the stage was occupied by young men, restless as they waited for the chief. The older men had been pushed to the back and were muttering at the disrespect. There were women scattered here and there, but the mood was quite different to the previous meeting; children and babies had been left at home. And Constable Polanka had been reinforced with the arrival of five other constables.
Eventually, there was a buzz as the crowd parted, and the chief walked slowly toward the stage and climbed the steps. He went straight to the microphone and waited for the crowd to quiet down.
“Thank you for your patience. I have consulted with the elders and have now made my decision.” The chief looked around at the audience. If he saw the sticks, he didn’t show it.
“As we heard last time, there is great opportunity in the offer the mine has made…” A growl of approval came from the young men. “But we also have had a bad experience in dealing with the mine—promises were broken and a number of families were thrown out of their homes with nowhere to go.”
The elders onstage nodded.
“I have listened to many opinions from young and old and have considered the issue from all sides. This has been a very difficult situation because whatever decision I make will pit young versus old, the past against the future. So it will be impossible for all to be satisfied. So I ask everyone to accept what I have decided and to move forward without looking back.” The young men leaned forward expectantly.
The chief cleared his throat. “This is what I have decided.”
Constable Polanka was startled by the silence. How can so many people be so quiet? he wondered.
“Shoshong is a town with a great history,” the chief continued. “It was the center of all of this part of what is now Botswana. It was the home of the great Khama the Third before the droughts forced him to leave. There is no doubt that expanding the mine will bring jobs.” He paused to clear his throat. “But it will also destroy our heritage.” He looked at the crowd. “I believe that a heritage is more important than jobs. So I will tell the mine we do not want it to expand. I have—”
The young men jumped up, bellowing in anger, and started to move forward.
Constable Polanka jumped in front of the stage, waving his arms, and shouted for the mob to stop. It did not. He pulled out his handgun and fired it into the air. “Stop,” he cried. “Go back!” It had no effect. One of the other constables also fired into the air and, when the crowd continued to move, pointed at it and fired. A man fell, howling in pain. The constable fired another shot. Another man fell. There was pandemonium. People ran in all directions, and the screams of women could be heard over the din.
Some of the young men turned and charged toward the shooter. He panicked, fired again into the crowd, then turned tail and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. The rest of the mob rushed the stage and knocked Constable Polanka to the ground.
“Help!” he screamed, as he was trampled and kicked. Then he gave a second but weaker shout for help. But it was to no avail. No one heard him over the angry roar.
The men poured onto the stage. One of the elders was smashed to the ground and kicked and beaten with sticks. He writhed, knees to his chest, arms covering his head. But soon his arms were broken. And then his head. Blood oozed over the stage.
A second elder was dead before the crowd reached him—his heart stopping in terror at the wave of anger headed his way.
The third elder stood up and started to run, but his spindly legs were no match for angry young ones. He died from a single blow to the head from a hardwood knobkierie.
The incensed men then turned to the chief, who had jumped off the back of the stage and was running away as fast as his ancient legs would carry him. Julius turned and followed his father. Several of the screaming men sprinted after them. A shot rang out. The mob closed on the chief. There was another shot, barely heard above the din, just before the first man reached the old man. The chief stumbled and fell. Nothing could stop the rampage. In seconds, he was nothing more than a bloodied, broken body facedown in the sand.
Like a flock of queleas, the crowd changed direction and surged toward the remaining constables, who were trying to get away. One turned and stood his ground, taking careful aim. The crowd didn’t break its stride and ran screaming at the man. His courage evaporated, and he fled, firing over his shoulder until the magazine ran out. He knew he was running for his life, but it was not fast enough.