yelled with pleasure from the backseat.
When the excitement died down, it was quiet for a few minutes while Kubu negotiated the traffic. Joy checked her watch. “I hope we’re not late for the funeral.”
Tumi piped up. “What’s a funeral, Daddy?”
“Where we go to say goodbye to people who’ve left us. Like Seloi.”
“Where has she gone?”
Joy said nothing. She’d had this all day; it was Kubu’s turn.
“She’s died, Tumi. Gone to another place.”
“Mummy says she’s with Jesus.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s right.”
“Can we go, too? To Jesus?”
Kubu glanced at Joy imploringly, but she just smiled.
“One day, darling. Not yet. We’ve a lot of fun to have together first.”
“Why must we wait?”
Joy took pity on Kubu. “We have to wait till we are called, darling. Now let Daddy drive. The traffic’s bad.”
THE CEMETERY WAS SEVERAL acres of grassless sand, with mounds in straight lines like soldiers on parade. The graves of the more affluent had an awning supported by a metal frame. A few had elaborate gravestones, but most were inexpensive wooden crosses. The area where the burial was to take place had many small mounds—a sad reminder of the scourge of AIDS.
There was quite a crowd of mourners at the graveside, many of whom had made the traditional walk from the girl’s home. Kubu and Joy greeted the few people they knew and took the opportunity to socialize. Tumi was somber, clinging shyly to Joy’s dress. She kept staring at the open grave with the large pile of sandy soil next to it.
After about half an hour the undertaker arrived, driving a black pickup truck with the coffin, covered by a black cloth, strapped down on the back. The undertaker parked as close to the grave as possible—still about a hundred yards away—and climbed out of the cab. His white shirt was sweat-stained, and he mopped his face with a handkerchief. While he straightened his tie and struggled to put on his jacket, he shouted for some strong men to come to help him.
At the sight of the coffin, the women gathered around the grave and started to cry out and ululate. Some wept.
Kubu watched as four fit-looking men headed for the truck. The undertaker untied the coffin, carefully folded the black shroud, and slid the cheap pinewood box toward the volunteers. The men struggled to lift the coffin to their shoulders and carried it along the sandy path to the graveside. By the time they rested it on the waiting ropes slung across the hole, they were breathing hard. The wailing rose to a crescendo as they braced the ropes and lowered the box into the ground. Kubu glanced at Tumi, but she seemed intrigued, rather than frightened. He could just imagine the questions ahead.
Most of the mourners threw a handful of soil into the grave, and then they all waited while the men filled the grave and topped it with stones. The wailing died down, and people started to talk again. Joy went off with Tumi to comfort Nono.
Kubu found himself standing next to the undertaker, who was watching the final stage of the burial with proprietary interest.
Kubu said, “I suppose you have a lot of funerals for young people these days.”
The man nodded. “I’m sorry to say we do. It’s the plague. AIDS. The government should do something to stop it.”
Kubu was irritated. Why was it always the government that had to take action? Why couldn’t people help themselves and each other? But he just nodded.
The undertaker introduced himself. “I am Kopano Rampa, rra. Professional undertaker and director of Funerals of Distinction.”
Kubu turned to the pompous little man and replied with the same formality, “I am Assistant Superintendent David Bengu of the Criminal Investigation Department.”
Rampa took a step backward. “The police? Is there a problem?”
Kubu relented. “Not at all. My wife is a friend of the deceased. The funeral went quite well, I thought.”
“Yes, thank you, rra.” But Rampa seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “Well, I’d better finish things up here. Please excuse me. It was good to meet you.” He moved off and started loading the truck.
Kubu shrugged, then went to find Joy. It was time to take Tumi and Nono home.
FIVE
DETECTIVE SAMANTHA KHAMA CLIMBED the steps to the third floor of the Social Sciences building at the University of Botswana. The staff offices were on the upper floors, but she wasn’t sure she was in the right place. Spotting a receptionist, she asked for help.
“I’m looking for Professor van der Meer. He’s an anthropologist.