Excerpts from
Botswana Blues
By Lars Bonnevie
"Iīve got a problem," Amos finally got around to saying, after we were on the second pot of tea and had eaten all of my biscuits.
"One of my students is dead," he continued. "It was a girl in the sixth form. We are all very sad about it."
So was I, even though I had no idea who she was. It is a sad thing to die before you have had a taste of life yet, and in my area, many children die of diseases that could easily have been cured, if the health service functioned better and if parents took better care of them.
"What did she die of?"
Amos began to give a lengthy account, as if it was important to him that I had all the details.
"She complained about a sore throat for a long time and was sent to the clinic, where she was treated. Then, she returned to school, but she was still sick. It became worse and worse. The clinic tried to help her but couldnīt. Yesterday, she died of asphyxiation."
"What did they give her at the clinic?"
All Amos knew was they had given her some pills, but he did not know what kind.
"Did they figure out what was wrong with her?" I knew the answer would be negative. And it was. They had thought she had a cold and had not even bothered to check her throat, had simply given her pills.
"Then, they took her body to Jubilee Hospital in Francistown," Amos continued. "The doctors cut her open. They discovered tswana poison in her system." He sipped his tea. I lit a cigarette.
The girl had no enemies. She was neither one of the prettiest nor one of the cleverest in the class. So, there was no ground to be envious and murder her for that reason. Which happens sometimes.
"But her parents, who are very poor, do have an enemy, according to what people say."
It was not Amos himself suggesting this, for he was very cautious in his choice of words. Hence, his use of the phrase "tswana poison" instead of witchcraft or sejeso, which poisoning through a witch doctor is called. I had gradually come to know a few words from having heard them so often.
"Somebody wanted their land, but they wouldnīt sell. So, he went to a witch doctor," he concluded.
It had not been a good day at school. All the teachers had cried. The children, too. And as Amos was relating what happened, he, too, began to cry.
"What do you think I should do?" he snuffled.
"Have you talked with her parents?"
"Yes. They are afraid and dare not do anything."
"Why donīt they go to the police?" It was one of the stupidest questions I felt obliged to ask.
"The police are just as afraid as everyone else. They will never find out who it was."
I took a deep breath and said, "There is nothing to do. Weīll just cause a lot of trouble, and nothing will come of it."
For I knew there was a story behind the story, and it was about power. If Amos thought I would use my position in a case nobody else would touch, he was crazy. At any rate, the girl would remain unavenged. It was a fact that filled me with as much sorrow as the girlīs death. Unavenged.
"Letīs try to forget about it," I said. "That is the best thing we can do."
"And pray," Amos added. "We must also pray."
"Right. We must pray."
"Will you come to the funeral?"
"Of course. Iīll come to the funeral."
And maybe I would.
Translated by Russell Dees
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