On an overcast morning, the small-time farmers in Paje look to the skies with anticipation. Hope and patience is what they have in abundance. They have learnt the art of biding their time when things don’t go their way.
This hamlet is rich in symbolism. Atop a small hill to the east is the army’s training camp. On the outskirts of the village to the west is the Khama Rhino Sanctuary. These two entities are prominent strokes in the caricature of the man these people call “Kgosi ya rona” ÔÇô our king.
Their king is no ordinary man. He is the country’s president. The military base where a group of NCOs in fading fatigues walk leisurely was constructed under his watch when he was chief of the armed forces. It is also known that the man is a conservationist with business interests up to his neck in the tourism sector. So in Paje, President Ian Khama’s two lovesÔÇô the military and conservation ÔÇô sleep side by side. From conspicuous sentry buildings, the soldiers from the military base keep 24-hour guard over the rhino and other species in the game reserve.
A sharp flare of lightening cuts through the dark clouds in the distance, followed by the roaring sound of thunder that heralds the arrival of what all pray for in this hinterland ÔÇô rain.
“It’s raining in Tshimoyapula,” the man who sits with elbows planted on the bar counter pronounces confidently, looking outside the window before turning to the small group around the stable, as if daring someone to offer a counter view. Tshimoyapula is another small village not far from here. I can’t tell if the statement is made in envy, or expectation that here too it shall soon rain.
Both Paje and Tshimoyapula fall within the parliamentary constituency called Serowe North. A local acquaintance, from my days in the National Service, has invited the small group to share tales from the recent episode of the ruling party’s primary elections in the constituency. I want to make sense of all that has been happening ÔÇô I tell them.
“Sometimes even us who are on the ground can’t make sense of it either,” says the young man to my left who would assume the role of the group’s chief spokesperson.
I later learn that his statement is a potshot at the leadership ÔÇô that it at times seems far removed from its followers and so out of step that they cannot comprehend the decisions taken on their behalf. The haste with which a rerun of the Serowe North primaries was ordered, ahead of all protests in other constituencies, is held as a case in point.
At 36, the man who been making this observation was in mid-primary school when I finished my tour of National Service at Malatswai some 25 years back. He is part of a constituency-wide network that outwitted and frustrated the political ambitions of a retired one-star general. Just like the president, Ndelu Seretse is no ordinary guy. He is the minister of Justice, Defence and Security, and only a few months back was mentioned as one of the key contenders for the vice presidency after next year’s general elections, and thus paving his path to the State House. But the villagers had other ideas. They returned a verdict of no confidence on him as their MP. They are a broad church that defies any stereotyping by age, economic status, gender, favourite radio station ÔÇô or any other classification.
They are bold, as seen by how they carried a commoner, not once but twice, high above royalty and set him almost on course to be the area’s next Member of Parliament.
“It’s not defiance,” insists the young activist who tells how the ruling party runs deep in his family’s blood. (His grandfather was an early party organizer when the BDP was formed). “It’s choice; it’s what democracy is all about. This is what the Democratic Party stands for.”
I had asked why they had defied “the king”. It had been loudly whispered that his preferred candidate was Seretse ÔÇô his cousin, former legal adviser in the army, and currently a senior member in his cabinet.
“Le gone kana Kgosi ya rona ke kgosi ko kgotleng, eseng mo phathing,” edges in the woman who has been nodding her head furiously.
Overlooking the village of Serowe on the west side of what is symbolically named Serowe High, past some of the district’s most important administrative offices, is the Tshwaragano Hotel. It’s a novelty of sorts. Largely built in stone, it has been around since the 1960s. Many important figures from Botswana’s political past have watched magnificent sunsets from here, while knocking down sundowners. The loquacious bar attendant says the best view of the village is from this spot.
I am here to meet the cattle barons, royal uncles and some village observers to understand what appears to be the rise of one man’s political career, and the sunset of yet another ÔÇô two sons of the village whose homesteads are not far from each other.
One man, certainly a person of some standing in this community, judging by the many important positions he has held, declares the outcome of the Serowe North primary election a “loud message” to President Khama. His analysis finds currency in this group.
“There is a perception that all the president cares about is his family,” he says. “That he is imposing his family on the people.”
There is something else that comes out of this discussion; and it is that even in Serowe, the traditional home of BDP, the ordinary members are concerned about what they see as the stifling of inner party democracy, and the emergence of one-man rule. A former diplomat who worked for Botswana’s first two presidents, and is a contemporary of the third, likens what is happening within the ruling party to France under Louis XIV who infamously declared, “I am the state”, and took the country down the path of absolute power.
To Autlwetse’s backers, he is part of the salvation of the BDP’s soul. They are disdainful of the current members of the Central Committee, and believe a new crop of leaders must emerge to restore the party’s democratic values.
If you ask what sets Autlwetse apart, his associates point to his experience in local administration as a public servant and a political leader ÔÇô a former Deputy Treasurer at North East District Council, and a past chairman of the Central District Council.
“He is well-grounded on local government issues,” states his former colleague in local government administration, now turned a farmer.
This is a village rich in legends. One is that Botswana’s second Vice President, Lenyeletse Seretse, used to drink here, and that he spurned political office choosing to remain in the village, only joining the fray rather late in 1974. The irony is so glaring that it is the people of Serowe who have denied Lenyeletse Seretse’s son a good shot at the job his father once held.
