An ode to QKJ
Galebolae Ngakane | Friday August 5, 2016 12:27
Every time there is mention of Sir Ketumile Masire, I swell with pride that suddenly invades my whole being.
That’s how I felt about this indefatigable son of Africa, when the Botswana Netball Association president, Tebogo Lebotse-Sebego reported that the former president had paid a courtesy call on them last weekend to express his admiration at their efforts to develop sports in Botswana.
I first met Rra Gaone when I was doing my Standard Seven at Tsienyane Primary School in Rakops. Firstly, teachers had made us memorise the cabinet, that is, from President to ordinary Members of Parliament.
Sir Ketumile’s names always appeared in the first three lines when he was still known as Quett Ketumile Jonny Masire or QKJ. It would be President Sir Seretse Khama followed by Lenyeletse Seretse and then the Minister of Finance and Development Planning, QKJ Masire himself. Had I had the ability to take pictures, my recollections of those days could have rivalled those of pictorial historians such as Sandy Grant et al.
One day, when I was in secondary school at Shashe River School in Tonota, our teachers took us to the kgotla to meet the President of the Republic of Botswana.
We were all so excited and as we arrived at the kgotla in our uniform of blue shirts/blouses, grey slacks or (pinafores for the girls) and maroon jackets, we stood listening to his speech. Sir Ketumile was, as usual, in his element, making his audience laugh throughout his address and receiving deep adulation for his impeccable Setswana.
One of the things that made people laugh was when he spoke of ‘phologolo e go tweng tswii, e e bonwang mo dinokeng tsa Okavango’ (an animal called tswii, which can be found in the Okavango rivers. He said Batswana should breed such animals in order to improve their own welfare through selling them.
I think someone must have alerted him to the fact that tswii was not an animal, but a water plant, but he was spot on about ‘breeding’ the plant as its roots are highly nutritious and could help improve our diets nowadays. Fast forward to 1989, when as a cub reporter I was assigned by my editor at the Botswana Gazette, the late Horace Somanje, to cover the First Lady Gala Dinner Dance at Gaborone. Being a greenhorn in news-gathering, I happily obliged when a woman who shared offices with The Gazette, Idah Ngope, offered to give me a lift to the venue in her white BMW.
It was a high-powered gathering that also included members of the diplomatic corps and our table, fortuitously, was opposite Sir Ketumile and his entourage. Despite being in an animated conversation with the diplomats, he still lifted his hand and signalled his greeting to my table and we obliged him enthusiastically.
At the end of the dinner, which we washed down with wine, we formed two lines, which left a passage to the exit door so that the eminent personage amongst us could shake our hands on their way out. As Sir Ketumile reached a group of journalists, most of whom had extended their hands in greeting, an old scribe very audibly said “Hi Buddy!” It was certainly the height of insubordination and serious lack of respect for the elders. Sir Ketumile left his security detail to confront and seriously remonstrate with the journalist. Clearly angered, he homed in on the now hapless journo, who must have instantly regretted his effrontery. Speaking in the vernacular Sir Ketumile bellowed: “Monna. O raa mang o re buddy? Ke molekane wa gago? Hee, ke molekane wa gago?”
Sir Ketumile then walked off, leaving the scribe trembling and us taken aback by the outburst. As he walked up to the journalist, I expected a hot clap to land on the man, but the president must have decided that using strong words would better drive the message. The highlight of it all was my face-to-face interview with Sir Ketumile at State House during the era of factionalism that had rocked the BDP.
I walked from the Gazette offices at African Mall to the State House where the presidential guard in their regalia welcomed me with guns pointed at my vital body parts. Just as I thought this was the height of hostility, the men became friendly as soon as I told them who I was.
“Oooh! If it’s Mr Ngakane it’s okay. Just wait a second,” the chap who was asking for my identity said. In a short time, I was ushered into a spacious reception area where three other men sat on sofas.
I felt so important. An important pedestrian.
After I had identified myself one more time, and still feeling a little jittery from the guns pointed at my stomach, one of the men disappeared behind an opaque curtain.
He soon came back to say the president had asked that I wait for a few minutes. After the man settled in his chair, he asked me what had brought me to the State House.
He asked what I was going to ask the president, to which I replied: “It’s between the president and I”. This was typical of me. I was being polite, but firm at the same time.
The man had started lunging at me to wrest my notebook from my hands, when Sir Ketumile interrupted and called me in. It was a non-incident in as far as we were all concerned.
As our interview centred on the factions, Sir Ketumile denied there were factions within his party.
He said talk of Mompati Merafhe and Daniel Kwelagobe being at loggerheads was news to him. I think I captured his words as precisely as possible, because, even the then editor, Alfred Mulenga and the co-owner of the Gazette, Peter Olsen were quite impressed. I remember Olsen calling the president’s number, which I proudly offered and the two chatted away. Perhaps, owing to my newness in the profession, Sir Ketumile had also wanted Olsen to confirm that I had not quoted him out of context. After all, during our conversation at the State House, we had unanimously agreed to speak ‘off the camera’.
Though ‘off the camera’ momentarily stumped me, being a phrase I was hearing for the first time from Rra Gaone, I soon went with the flow and started asking him questions about his presidency. I most certainly wanted him to tell me what being president means, and what his work entailed. Sir Ketumile was candid with me.
He said he had to travel a lot and work late into the night.
“There is no time for me. As you can see, it’s Sunday night and I am still here,” he said as we sipped our juices. From time to time his infectious laughter filled the room and I too joined in the laughing. One of the things he told me about was the power that is vested in him as the president of Botswana. As a president, I can do anything. But because I am a people’s person, I don’t want to abuse my powers. I temper it (power) with justice,” said Sir Ketumile.
He then asked me why children were now so insolent against their elders. “For instance, you will find a newspaper saying ‘President Masire lies’ and yet we know that in our culture, a child cannot say their parent is lying,” he said.
I assured him that because we are a mirror of the society, we simply reflect the mood of the people. He seemed content with my explanation though, because the subject was soon closed presidentially.As I bid him farewell, he asked how I was going home to which I said, by combi. He appeared unsettled by what I had said and immediately summoned the waiter who had brought us drinks.
“Can you please take this man home?” he said. The car was a ‘Rothmans’ (a white and blue striped like Rothmans cigarette packet) and as we boarded, and the man turned the key, neon lights started flashing, as does that sound it emits when they are escorting the president.
“Where are you going Sir?” asked the man.
“Broadhurst,” I responded smugly. At Tshweneng location where I was staying, there was a ‘sgoti’ next door and as the car slowed down outside the house, its arrival triggered a huge commotion inside. People ran helter skelter squirreling away dagga and illegal concoctions.
When the car drove off, and they realised it was me, they came rushing forward.
“Rra, a jaanong o re tlisetsa mapodisi?” the shebeen queen asked breathlessly.
They thuoght they had been caught red-handed with contrabands and ran around trying to hide the illicit stuff.
I had to sit down and explain that I had just held an interview with the humble President of Botswana.
The article would later be published and the only fly in the ointment in my interaction with Sir Ketumile was the fact that printers in South Africa juxtaposed his photograph with that of a street urchin.
While the headline read as ‘Masire Speaks Out’, under the heading was a street urchin rifling through a dustbin with the caption “Masire”.
The photo of Masire was captioned: “Street child”. I think Sir Ketumile must have simply laughed off the gaffe, though I was not amused.
When I reported for work, I found the paper with the ‘Masire Speaks Out’ headline already being taken around the outlets and street boys taking their shares to sell at the bus rank and other places in the central business district.
I immediately notified the editor who also swiftly called the distributors and ordered them to retrieve all newspapers that had been sent out.
Phew.