Everything is not Enough

By Miranda B. Joubert

The mansion was deathly quiet. Elijah’s wife and children were away on vacation in Namibia. He sat next to his longtime friend, personal traditional doctor and diviner, Tshiamo. Tshiamo held an ice pack to his pulsating face.

Elijah had just punched him and wasn’t going to apologise. He probably felt justified.

Tshiamo broke the silence. “Elijah, this is a suicide mission.”

Silence.

For the better part of two hours, Elijah had tried to persuade Tshiamo to accompany him to the Kobokwe Cave. Tshiamo had vehemently refused, calling his friend a “greedy buffoon.” Elijah had been the member of parliament for the Molepolole North constituency in the Kweneng region for thirty years. He wanted to run for another term and insisted that a visit to Legaga la ga Kobokwe would gain him winning powers.

Elijah was an unpopular man. Three decades in the legislature, yet Molepolole still struggled with water and electricity connections. Six consecutive terms in parliament, including a term as the Minister of Rural Development, yet the largest urban village in Botswana still had only one battered road and one ramshackle police station. Laughable development. Molepolole was not far from Botswana’s capital, Gaborone. Why was it so…poor? Because Elijah Modimo was a parliamentarian representing his pocket and his pot belly. A conceited man. He acted like a modimo. His constituents served him. He wasn’t accountable to them. Everyone resented him.

This Legaga la ga Kobokwe that he so craved was hallowed ground, home to both malevolent and benevolent supernatural forces. Tshiamo couldn’t believe how flippant Elijah was about his intended expedition. He knew that the greenery that carpeted Kobokwe’s hills was a bewitching cover for the unpleasant exiles that many women who were accused of sorcery were compelled to undertake. Fellow diviners who made it into the cave brought not only knowledge back with them. Tshiamo swore he oftentimes felt the spirits that were abandoned and left to die in the legaga clinging to them. They said that the paramount spirit was an instructor. A moody instructor. They described it as this menacing serpent with a godly wealth of knowledge. If the snake was disinterested, the natural pools would bubble violently. Hisses and snaps would rise from the water like steam. Violent winds and rain would make everyone flee. That is how Kgwanyape came to mean destructive winds.

The Cave itself was a gaping hole on the side of a sheer cliff face. People avoided that side of town, especially at night. The hisses and howls of the ghosts of the alleged sorcerers could be heard by those who dared to wander too close. Permission to visit the site had to be sought from the highest traditional authorities, including the Kgosi himself. And your reason for visiting had better be bloody good.

“What more do you want, Elijah? Look around you! You have the huge house, the expensive cars, the successful businesses. You have won the elections without contest many times in a row. You have a beautiful wife and smart kids. You have it all. You need to stop, man. You have everything!”

“Everything is not enough!” Elijah screamed into Tshiamo’s face, landing spittle on his friend’s cheeks. He pushed up from the mocha linen sofa and kicked the air.

Tshiamo held his head in his hands.

***

Nature is omniscient and omnipotent. I, Kgwanyape, the protector of Legaga la ga Kobokwe le lekadiba la kwa Ntsweng, the storm serpent, the rider of wild winds, the healer of healers, am Nature.

Back when I was a mortal, around two centuries ago, my name was Kebokwe. I was a farmer whose evergreen fields were close to the perennial lekadiba, a natural pool. I grew medicinal plants and morogo. Whenever my fellow villagers battled drought and illness, they visited me. Although I was a simple healer who could fix only aches and pains, they hailed me as a hero, much to the Kgosi’s chagrin. The hunt began. That jealous man and his sanctimonious missionaries and their bible labelled me a witch. Household after household was compelled to produce the name of someone they suspected of consorting with evil spirits. Many women were shoved into the Cave and abandoned there as punishment. My name was never mentioned, but that didn’t stop the Kgosi. They came for me.

An ambitious young man made a promise to the people of Molepolole. He’d bring water, tarred roads and streetlights to every corner of the village. He’d bring jobs to the jobless youth, build homes for the elderly, build parks for the kids and the pets to frolic in. Bakwena, the people of Molepolole, believed him. They voted him into power and inadvertently ushered in an era of the exact opposite.

Meanwhile, this lad was having a ball. He built his house and bought his first car. While his constituents battled malnutrition and thirst, he mulled over what colour paint to use on the walls. Seeing him for what he was, Bakwena vowed to vote him out in the following elections. He took their threats seriously. Instead of delivering on his promises, he decided to befriend a young traditional doctor. Together, with the help of unsavoury spirits, they would cook the results to win the elections.

However, it wasn’t that easy. These spirits wanted something in exchange for their service. They wanted blood. A lot of blood. The young politician and his friend slaughtered several heads of cattle and held ceremonies. It worked. They won. But then after having had a taste of relatively easy-gotten success, they wanted more. Much, much more. That is when the killings began.

A six-year-old’s pancreas paid for the expansion and lavish decoration of his house. A seven-year-old’s heart purchased several farms and boreholes. An eight-year-old’s feet bought him his three SUVs. A nine-year-old’s kidneys and fingertips helped him cruise to the position of Member of Parliament again. The growth of his ego, affluence and belly was proportional to the amount of missing children. Tshiamo, his traditional doctor friend, facilitated these heinous acts and shared in the spoils. The villagers caught on to his tricks. But what could they do? The man was untouchable.

Until, one calm September night, when an elderly priest visited my home. I observed him from just below the water’s surface. He knelt by the pools and lit thick purple candles. Each one represented a child that had been murdered for money. Fifteen flames danced before me.

“Kgwanyape, hear my plea. Rid us of this terror so that we may breathe.”

As I watched the weeping man, my mind jumped back to my last day as a human. It was one of unexpected emancipation. I had silently trudged up the green hillside. My hands were bound behind my back with thick rope. Missionaries prodded me forward with a walking cane and read out a few condemning verses. They claimed that I was too powerful to be thrown into the Cave. They concluded that I deserved to fall to my death, so I was forced towards the other edge of the hill above the lekadiba. After they untied me, they kicked me off. Fearful and out of breath, I passed out before I hit the ground.

When I woke up, I writhed in agonising pain and used the last of my strength to slither to the lekadiba. The cool water welcomed me and I accepted death. It felt like being a foetus in a womb. My rebirth as a formidable being is inexplicable, but I vowed to use my strength for good.

The priest’s nephew had been Elijah’s victim. He prayed for hours. It was time I intervened. With the power of the rain and the wind, I’d restore order to Molepolole.

***

The Kgwanyape’s offspring was well known in the world of traditional medicine and folklore as a powerful charm. When a destructive wind swept through the village, villagers would congregate and pray. They believed that the wind was actually the snake seeking its stolen young. Iron roofs would be ripped off, trees would be uprooted and the creature would only stop when the thief gave its child back.

 “All I have to do is touch Kgwanyape’s baby and I’ll never need to sacrifice anything else to the spirits again,” Elijah said.

Tshiamo shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Elijah. The danger far outweighs the reward.”

Tshiamo already felt guilty for the things he’d done. He’d enabled Elijah’s behaviour and helped him amass his fortunes. He owed his own wealth to Elijah’s ambitions. The opulence was not lost on him but his friend was blind to it. What Elijah had asked of him would kill them both. How Elijah had casually mentioned the feared landmark was beyond him. Not even he, a traditional doctor, had dared to talk about or visit the Cave. Had Tshiamo ruined his friend by never denying his requests?

“Do you want to keep hurting children? Because I sure don’t.”

“If you touch the Kgwanyape’s baby, you’ll destroy the entire village.”

“It’s not like I’d be stealing it.”

“You’d still be a threat!”

“You’ll pray for us when we get there, ask the spirits to help with access.”

Tshiamo flung his ice pack at the wall across from them. He leaned forward, held his head in his hands, shaking it. He whimpered. “We’re going to die.”

Tshiamo wanted Elijah to quit politics entirely. They had gotten on in age. There was no need to keep at it. A decade ago, he may have been tempted by this challenge. Now, all he wanted was to live. Had Elijah forgotten the chaos of the previous election cycle? He’d had to get bodyguards because a group of seething constituents had cornered him after hours and threatened him while brandishing hoes and shovels.

“Elijah, do not run for re-election. You’re set.”

“Tshiamo, it’s one more time. This is the last time. Come on, buddy, support me. All those kids we buried, all the medicines we used. All our hard work ends with this. After this, we’re set.”

As much as he wished to abandon his friend, he knew that he couldn’t. Elijah was his brethren, his comrade, his ride-or-die. They’d risen together, and if need be, they’d fall together. Thick-bellied and thief-minded together. Knowing that it would be the last time he visited Elijah’s house, Tshiamo rose slowly from the sofa and took in the ugly beauty one last time. The open plan kitchen and living area resembled that of an ostentatious safari lodge. Four brocade armchairs sat around the living room, trapping a large red Persian carpet at its corners. The sofa he and his foolish friend had sat on was flanked by two chairs. The giraffe and eland heads mounted on the drab umber lounge walls offended the modern kitchen that boasted pale green walls and golden fixtures. The ice pack that Tshiamo had vaulted across the room slowly melted at the feet of a taxidermy hyena in the far right corner.

“Monna, let’s go,” Elijah said as he picked up Tshiamo’s car keys and leather jacket for him. He held them out while exaggeratedly tapping his foot.

Tshiamo grabbed them and glared at his friend’s oblivious face. “Aren’t you gonna wear something warm first?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. Let’s go. It’ll be quick. In and out. Fast.”

Tshiamo frowned at Elijah’s outfit that screamed “middle-aged man.” A black long-sleeved vest under a white golf t-shirt, brown chinos, and white dress shoes. He shook his head and led them out.

Elijah locked up and did a jolly skip all the way to Tshiamo’s agate black Ford Ranger Raptor. It sat in the carport near his own expensive vehicle. Tshiamo tossed Elijah the key. He couldn’t bring himself to drive them to their death. As Elijah unlocked the beast, Tshiamo took one final glance at the sandy gamazine exterior of Elijah’s impressive double-storey house. He looked up at the lavender evening sky and inhaled the cool air. A few grey clouds floated in the south. He shook his head for the thousandth time and climbed in next to his determined friend.

Elijah turned the key in the ignition and got the vehicle going. Tshiamo clicked in his seatbelt and gazed into space. The motorised gate slid out of their way and they sped off towards their eternal fortune.

“The Kgwanyape…” Tshiamo began. “That thing is…a massive dragon-like creature that moves with the rainy season storm winds. A couple of my friends have gone there and they just aren’t the same anymore. Their auras are dark, they are morose, aloof. Going there is a gamble, and our intentions spell doom. Certain death awaits us, my brother, but you made me who I am and I owe you. I love you too much to abandon you.”

He gazed at the snaking A12 road that would deliver them to their doom. His heart leapt into his throat when they turned onto the B111 road. The Cave was five minutes away. He began to pray.

The sun had just set when the pair stepped out of the vehicle. It was getting dark quite quickly. Rain clouds had gathered and they loomed over the cave. Angry flashes of lightning that resembled the fiery eyebrows of a dragon occasionally lit up the sky. They’d parked a distance away from the Cave. The wind had picked up speed, smacking sand in their faces.

“We’re being warned to go back,” Tshiamo shouted over the wind.

“Stop being such a baby! It’s just a little breeze. You better start praying for that easy access that we need.”

Tshiamo looked up at the black hole in the distance. Apprehension set itself in his bones. He twitched in fear and muttered a prayer. Keep me alive, keep me alive, keep me alive.

The area was a dense bush. The umbrella thorn acacias were still bare, a usual sight during early October. They turned on their phone torches and weaved their way through the dry vegetation. There was a clear path that led to the Cave. They passed several sign boards warning them to turn back. To their left, they could see the clear pools near the Cave. Magnificent. They reached the foot of the hill. An eerily grassy path stretched upward towards the black opening they sought. With all the naked trees surrounding them, the lush carpet of grass leading to their demise was chilling. The green gentle slope beckoned.

“Here we are. I might not get the chance to say this, so here goes. You were a good friend. Thank you for our time together,” Tshiamo said, stretching his hand out.

Elijah scoffed and slapped his hand away. “We’ll be alright.”

The two men began their ascent with Tshiamo leading the way. Ten metres into their climb, the air stilled. Then, a powerful gust blew into them. It slammed Tshiamo into Elijah, knocking him off his feet. The pair tumbled all the way down and smacked into a tree. A ginormous dust devil came dancing out of the black hole of the Cave. It came straight at them, down the path they had tried to take.

Is that—?

Before Tshiamo could finish his thought, he was airborne and upside down. His phone flew out of his hand. He screamed as he spun several metres into the air, choking on sand. It was not how he’d imagined he’d be swept off his feet. He could hear Elijah screaming his name and yelling expletives. He tried to open his eyes and look for his friend. When that failed, he tried to scream something back. All of a sudden the wind that had been carrying him was gone and he slammed onto the ground. He felt bones crack everywhere in his body. The world went dark.

***

When Tshiamo came to, he was slumped against a tree. Petrichor hung in the air. The howling wind thrashed the trees about. He could neither feel nor wiggle his digits. Swallowing saliva hurt. Blood bloomed from the gums holding his loose teeth. A dome of dust had formed around the hills. It looked like a giant trap. He sat there paralysed, blinking a few times to clear his eyes of the dust. He could feel the grit moving from left to right under his lids. Sand occupied his every orifice. Dammit, Elijah!, he thought. He slowly moved his eyes from left to right, scanning his surroundings for his friend. Nothing but bush. Elijah had disappeared. Not even an item of clothing was left behind. Tshiamo closed his eyes and gently rolled his neck. It cracked. How would he grieve his friend? Tshiamo hung his throbbing head and cried.

The roar of a thousand stampeding wildebeest brought his crying to an abrupt halt. Tshiamo looked up. Brown and red crocodile scutes and scales, two white large horns on the sides of its head, a green forked tongue, and massive coils loomed. The creature’s shimmering scales writhed and it appeared to be menacingly moving back and forth. It hovered above the ground, riding an air current. Its long body rose seven metres into the air. Two big beady red eyes stared back at Tshiamo. The legendary storm snake. Kgwanyape.

He willed his eyes closed. He itched to flee but those red orbs held him in place. Just then, a flash of lightning blinded him. A thunderous, unearthly deep voice boomed.

“You have wronged me.”

Tshiamo couldn’t reply. His mouth was arid, and his body was home to aches and pains.

“You will never see your friend again.”

Tshiamo didn’t dare speak. Please, let me go home. I didn’t even want to be here! he thought.

“I will spare your life.”

Huh!? Can Kgwanyape…can you hear—?

Purple lightning streaked the heavens. Rain drizzled. The storm snake hissed. “You will not avenge Elijah and I will never see you here again.”

But what do I say to his wife and children?

Kgwanyape did not react to his question.

Dust rose as the hovering serpent crashed to the ground. Tremors rippled through the earth as it slithered toward Tshiamo. He shut his eyes, turned away, and reached out a hand. He rested it on the surprisingly warm scales. Tshiamo’s muscles stretched and contorted before joining back together. His broken bones snapped back into place. He screamed emptily. His gums ceased their bleeding. The throbbing in his temple faded away and his eyes ceased their itching. Every sand grain in his ears and mouth and nose seemed to dissipate.

“Thank you,” he croaked in appreciation, opening his eyes. He stood up slowly.

The serpent seemed to smirk before it turned around and shook the ground as it glided away. The heavens opened and rain poured.

Tshiamo dragged himself back to his vehicle, his eyes wide in disbelief. For a moment, he felt neither cold nor warm. Just empty. He had only two thoughts circulating in his mind. Had he just escaped? How had he attracted Kebokwe’s pity? He patted his dirty pockets, searching for his keys. Elijah had had them. Tshiamo bowed his head. He would have to go back and search for them in the dark. Tshiamo groaned. Kgwanyapewould definitely end him if he went back there. The cold rain made him shiver. He looked down at his clothes. Muddy and torn. His threadbare jeans did little to hide his dusty legs. His black sneakers were torn wide open at the toes and his pink polo shirt had transformed into a sleeveless crop top. Only a bloody sash of what had been his favourite jacket remained draped over his left shoulder. He stuck his torn hands in his pockets and leaned against the car.

Suddenly, Tshiamo felt his keys in his right pocket. He wasn’t about to question how they got there. He fished them out, unlocked the vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat. His filthy state was not a concern. He locked the doors and blew out a shaky breath. He had to get away. Tshiamo caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked raggedy. Dusty hair and face, and busted lips. A crazed smile took over his lips. He started the car and turned on the lamps. His filthy fingers fiddled with the air conditioning settings to invite hot air into the car. He pulled on his seatbelt and revved the engine. As he wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and tore off, he vowed never to go near Kweneng again.

***

The storm that I unleashed upon Molepolole confined the villagers in their homes. Encased in a dome of howling winds, the village transformed into an unstable dust bowl. The winds that I conjured were so strong that electricity lines swung like skipping ropes in the sky. Any unstable structure was blown away. Tin roofs were yanked off buildings and did high fives with each other in the sky. Trees flew into houses and cars. Not a soul set foot outside. I implored heaven to release a downpour that would baptise Molepolole. Any unlucky person who got caught in the torrent dived into the nearest house. The thrashing winds screeched throughout the night and kept many awake. Some chose to spend their evening praying for their safety. Others had something to celebrate.

I was awash with gratification when the jubilations of an old man in a modest house near Scottish Livingstone Hospital reached my ears. The air was thick with reverence. He who had prayed to me sang my praises in a duet with the full moon he felt but couldn’t see. Together, they danced the night away.

With my ritual complete, the crickets’ fervent chirping welcomed the sun, inviting Bakwena to venture out. I watched Elijah’s house helpers wander outside from their servants quarters. Their weary eyes widened as they yelped in shock at the sight of their employer’s mangled SUV that was smashed into the side of his house. They debated whether or not to ransack the gaudy mansion to make up for the wages they knew they deserved, before they reported him missing.

Elijah’s wife and children arrived in Molepolole at sundown. The aftermath of my cleansing stunned them. Her driver slowed down to dodge uprooted trees and detritus that dotted the road. They crept up the hillside leading to their home, past leaning electricity poles and a matshelonyana truck with a familiar couch in its loading bay. Two jolly women clutched several handbags and clung to the couch as the truck swung down the hill. Realisation dawned on Elijah’s wife.

Tshiamo? He had been driving north since we last talked. Further and further away from Molepolole. Closer and closer to his fate.

And as for what I get up to, those who know will never live to tell the tale.

---

Miranda B. Joubert (b. 2002) is a Motswana author, social sciences graduate and a voracious reader. She has been featured in Tlhakakgolo Literary Journal and The Kalahari Review with an essay on suicide sensitisation and a climate fiction short story respectively. Her favoured genres to write are crime and folklore short stories, but she enjoys creating genre-bending work. She tweets @MirandaJoubert3.

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