In Loving Memory of Moumakwa Calistus Mokobi

The recent shooting of Cecil, the 13 year old lion from Hwange National Park in Zimbabwe has brought the perennial debate on sport hunting versus eco-tourism into sharp focus. Cecil named after British imperialist, businessman and mining magnate, Cecil John Rhodes, was shot by an American recreational big-game hunter, Walter Palmer for approximately US$50,000 in July this year.

Cecil the lion was a major attraction at the park and was being studied and tracked by the Wildlife Conservation Research Unit at the University of Oxford. The killing of the big cat for its trophy drew international media attention and sparked outrage and condemnation among animal conservationists and politicians who viewed it as the senseless killing of an endangered species.

For the Mokobi family in Serowe, the furore over the demise of Cecil has been a painful reminder of the death of their son, Moumakwa Calistus Mokobi. Moumakwa was in the prime of his life when he was shot and killed while on a trophy hunting expedition. He was barely out of his teens when a lead-based bullet, propelled from a high calibre hunting rifle raptured his fragile body, snuffing his life and shuttering the dreams and aspirations of a young man who embodied so much vitality and promise. Trophy hunting robbed the family of a son, a brother, a cousin, an uncle and a friend. One can only hope that he died instantly and did not suffer from his wounds.  

Moumakwa was born in 1950, he was the last born son of the late Rev. Hamilton Mokobi and Keitheng Mokobi of Mhashwa ward in Serowe. Moumakwa joined the Department of Wildlife and National Parks as a game scout upon completion of his secondary school education at St. Joseph’s Collage in 1970. He was immediately stationed at Molepolole where he stayed with his civil servant brother, my father Charles Mokobi.

Moumakwa met his untimely death while on duty escorting a German trophy hunter to a hunting concession in the vicinity of Kutse Game Reserve in the Kweneng District. Two scenarios are presented for how Moumakwa met his death. One version is that Moumakwa was fatally struck by a bullet from a loaded rifle that was triggered off accidentally on the rough and ragged road leading up to the concession.

The other is that, spurred on by the sight of teeming rare animal species, the unscrupulous German trophy hunter could not resist the urge to add to his growing collection of trophies by killing an animal that was not on his hunting permit. A man of refined moral and ethical principles, it is said Moumakwa would have none of it and in the heat of the fierce argument that ensued, the hunter shot and killed him.

The political climate that prevailed at the time of the incident gives context to how events unfolded on that fateful day. This was the era of the soured global race relations which evidently played a hand in the argument and subsequent shooting of Moumakwa. The incident happened at the height of the Cold War and the volatile race relations that gave birth to the Civil Rights Movement in the US and the apartheid political regime in South Africa. With liberation wars raging all around Botswana, in South Africa, German South-West Africa (Namibia), Rhodesia (Zimbabwe), Angola and Mozambique, the killing of a young native African man by a Caucasian recreational big-game hunter was set to ruffle diplomatic feathers and course consternation for the government of Botswana which was still in the infancy of independent rule from the British colonial masters.

From early childhood, Moumakwa displayed an innate love for nature. As a young boy he revelled in the time he spent at the family ploughing fields in Itsokwane and the cattle post in Leetselente during school holidays. He particularly loved animals and was at home in the savannah rangeland pastures where he herded his father’s cattle and distinguished himself as an avid helping hand in the overall running of the family beef cattle farming enterprise. Charles recalls that Moumakwa was a gifted craftsman whose love for animals was also reflected in the exquisite clay cattle he moulded out of mud.

Raised by disciplinarian parents, the preacher’s son grew up to become a tall, handsome and athletic heartthrob who was hardworking, studious, respectful, loved nature and feared God. Later in life Moumakwa’s love for the unspoiled fauna, flora and timeless beauty of his beloved country drew him to seek temporary employment with the Department of Wildlife and National Parks while he awaited to enrol for tertiary education abroad.

With solid grounding on hard work and ethics, Moumakwa was poised to excel academically and reach dizzy heights in the career of his choice. He took to his job with zeal, a strong sense of duty and commitment of one with a calling to the conservation of the country’s wildlife resources and their habitats. He was undeterred by the inherent danger of death faced every day by Game Park rangers and scouts from the wild animals they protect and the ever-growing band of armed and dangerous poachers and wayward hunters.

Moumakwa was a wildlife conservation foot soldier who died with his boots on. He laid down his life for this country’s natural resources and abundant wildlife. His sacrifice and that of many other Batswana has since seen the country earn high natural resource rankings and the acclaim of being counted among the continents tourism destination of choice.

Botswana has done exceptionally well in the conservation of its natural resources. Today the Department of Wildlife and National Parks has assumed a paramilitary role to combat poaching and the Botswana Defence Force (BDF) has established an anti-poaching unit and has been roped in to assist. These efforts have yielded a biodiversity that supports a vibrant tourism industry which is a vital alternative source of economic growth and diversification. Demand for the country’s tourism products and services has since increased substantially and seen the country play a major role in the growth of the Southern Africa tourism circuit.

Botswana’s international tourism arrivals have grown considerably from 1 million in 2005 to nearly 2.4 million in 2013. As a result travel and tourism plays an increasing role in the country’s economy. According to the World Travel and Tourism Council (WTTC), Botswana’s travel and tourism activities contributed P5.48 billion to the GDP (3.2%) in 2013, while supporting 31,000 jobs.

Looking ahead, the WTTC projects that in the next 10 years, Botswana’s travel and tourism sector will grow 5.8% annually and contribute P10.3 billion by 2024. In the same year, the council expects the sector to account for 41,000 jobs directly, while tourist arrivals will reach 3.9 million.

However, despite tourism’s impressive economic potential and its huge emotional appeal to the growing global market, tourism is under increasing threat of species and habitat loss. Pouching and trophy hunting have been cited as huge setbacks to wildlife conservation and inevitably tourism with those advocating for a ban on hunting suggesting that ecotourism can earn local communities as much as 15 times the amount of money earned by hunting. They contend that ecotourism increases the number of jobs and lengthens the time wildlife exists as an economic resource.

“If the opportunity to kill critically endangered species by trophy hunters as has happened with Cecil the lion proved anything, it is that trophy-seekers will pay an exorbitant amount of money for bragging rights and a head to hang on the wall, instead of using that wealth to preserve and protect wildlife,” observes an irate social media commentator.

Proponents of trophy hunting however argue that a well-managed hunting operation generates economic benefits for the broader community, creates jobs and contributes significantly to conservation. They claim that it, "provides an economic incentive" for ranchers to continue to breed endangered species, and that this reduces the threat of the species' extinction.

Academic Melville Saayman states that hunting, and especially trophy hunting, generates millions - particularly in rural areas where there are high levels of unemployment and poverty. “These hunters are big spenders, investing on average more than US$10 000 per trip, which is considerably higher than the average spending by any other type of tourist,” he states.

The International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) recognizes that trophy hunting, when well-managed, can be sustainable and generate significant economic incentives for conservation but warns that when poorly managed, trophy hunting can cause negative ecological impacts for the target species such as altered age and sex structures, social disruption, deleterious genetic effects, and even population declines in the event of excessive off-takes, as well as threaten the conservation and influence the behaviour of non-target species.

The organisation argues that the conservation role of the industry is also hindered by governments and hunting operators that fail to devolve adequate benefits to local communities, reducing incentives for them to protect wildlife, and by unethical activities, such as shooting from vehicles and canned hunting, conducted by some operators which attract negative press and foster support for hunting bans.

As the debate continues, it is clear that most conservation groups, wildlife management experts and African governments support hunting as a way to maintain wildlife. Botswana however is contemplating a ban on hunting. The country continues to be recognised for its conservation efforts and as the President Lt. Gen. Seretse Khama Ian Khama continues to receive accolades for championing conservation of the country’s wildlife resources and their habitat, the Mokobi family remembers Moumakwa and the many others who sacrificed their lives for this fine resource. 

To honour and celebrate his life, Moumakwas nephews and nieces are putting together a documentary on his life. The family has engaged the Department of Wildlife and National Parks, Botswana Police Services, the German Embassy and St. Josephs Collage to help put together the documentary that honours this conservation stalwart. 45 years after his death the debate on hunting for the pot, recreation, or trade rages on. May his soul rest in peace.

The Legend of The Serpent

Sitting around the camp fire listening to the herdsmen regale about the giant snake that lives in a lair nearby had become legendary on Gumaa Gabee beef cattle ranch in the Western Sand Veldt. The serpent is described as a giant monster, a sleek, vicious and deadly creature that had bitten and killed several cows, ventured into the base camp compound and grabbed numerous chickens, and it scared the living daylights out of those who crossed its path.

“Ke noga e tona, e ntsho, e e nang le ditsebe tse ditona,” they said. Meaning that it was a large, black snake with huge neck-flaps.

I had been told that numerous hunting expeditions had been taken with shot-guns, dogs and magic potions to eliminate this imposing threat to human and livestock but the sleek and slithery creature had eluded all attempts to kill it. My father, brothers and I had never seen the much talked about serpent and we were beginning to think that the story of the elusive snake was perhaps the only plausible tale the herdsmen could advance for their insatiable appetite for beef and the plentiful biltong from the meat of animals killed by the reptile.

Tales of the snake heightened late last year, 2014 when one of the neighbouring farmhands died of venomous snakebite while he slept outdoor next to an open fire. It is said that by the time the old man yelled out in excruciating pain, the reptile had disappeared into the darkness and he died within an hour after being bitten. The story tellers left no doubt which snake they believed was responsible for this tragic loss of human life.

And so it happened that on my latest trip to the farm, I was accompanied by our Zimbabwean farmhand Reason Muchemwa, as usual we arrived fatigued, in the wee hours of the morning after a long and hard drive from Gaborone. We were still in the middle of summer and true to character, the Kalahari Desert night was savagely cold. Unfortunately the base camp compound fire was out by the time we arrived and there was no firewood. We therefore hobbled into the house, slipped into our sleeping bags and attempted to sleep.
 
We barely slept a wink and were up at the crack of dawn. Smarting from the nights bitter cold, I left with one of the lads, Dichauto (DC) Monanga and Reason to collect firewood in the adjacent paddock. Reason hoped into the passenger seat and DC jumped in the back of the Toyota Land Cruiser pickup van. We did not have much time as we still had to take stock of the herd and inoculate against botulism. By the time we had collected half a load of firewood we decided to head back to camp to commence the huge task we had been assigned.

We had veered off the main track to collect the firewood and as I drove back onto the track that leads back to base camp I accelerated the vehicle and out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of what I perceived to be a ‘black plastic bag’ lying by the side of the track some hundred meters ahead. I did not recall seeing the ‘bag’ earlier when we passed but thought this could have been because it was still dark when we first passed the spot where the ‘bag’ was.

I immediately thought this was one of the black Liquorama store plastic bags discarded by one of my brothers who is notorious for throwing empty green bottles of his favourite alcoholic beverage and the plastic packaging indiscriminately out the window of moving vehicles. Over time I have noticed a trail of green bottles and black plastic bags littering the route from our father’s house in Serowe where his trip to the farm often begins in earnest, right up to the farm gate.

On this day, as my crew and I approached the ‘black plastic bag’ I noticed it glitter in the rays of the rising sun. We were now a few meters away from it when the now profound sparkles of the ‘black plastic bag’ began to move and caught my full attention. The ‘black plastic bag’ was in fact not black, but the dark grey hue of the most dangerous and feared snake on the continent, the highly toxic venomous, black mamba. The massive serpent had been coiled and was basking in the morning sun when the noise from the vehicle disturbed it.

Fearing that I was going to run over the snake, I instinctively slammed the brakes on, sending a squirt of jets of sand and dust to the uncoiling reptile. The vehicles noise and the sand must have incensed the snake as within a blink of an eye, before the vehicle could come to a stop, the reptile known for its speed and lethal bite had sprung to life. With its head raised, it thrust its body with lightening speed so that about half a meter of its three meter body length was hovering aggressively and hissing menacingly above the hood of the vehicle, revealing the full spread of its neck-flap, fierce yellow eyes, pitch black mouth, flicking tongue and deadly white fangs.

As the vehicle came to a complete stop, the agitated snake swiftly moved towards the passenger window which was, by Gods grace, rolled all the way up on account of the mornings cold weather. Brushing against the passenger window, the snake revealed its pale brownish underbelly and quickly disappeared under the vehicle. Given its aggression and speed as it brushed its head against the passenger window I am certain I would not be telling this story had it made its way into the cabin and given us both its rapid kiss of death. The species is known for its lethal, rapid, successive strikes.

By this time DC, who had been standing at the back of the vehicle and seen the entire incident unfolding, had jumped off and sprinted to safety faster than Usain Bolt in a hundred meter sprint. With the vehicle now stationary and my heart pounding profusely, beads of cold sweat trickling down my brow, I cautiously disembarked and with a tremble in my gait, I went round to see the massive trail the snake had left behind. The entire incident had happened in a flash and the reptile was nowhere to be found. It had disappeared into the savannah grasslands.

That evening around the camp fire, perhaps out of lingering fear and renewed believe in African taboo, there was no mention of the word snake or the near death incident and despite the bitter cold and discomfort, I chose to sleep in the cramped cabin of the vehicle that night.

The following morning Reason and I drove back to Gaborone via Serowe. Once I got home I dug up information on the black mamba and learnt that the snake is one of the fastest moving snakes in the world. The adult snake’s length ranges from two meters to four and half meters long. The snake is able to raise its head well off the ground and in striking may be able to throw as much as 40% of its body upwards allowing for considerable striking range of up to the chest of a fully grown man. Its venom is highly toxic and can cause death within 45 minutes or less.

Knowing how lucky we had been in our encounter with the lethal snake, I said a quiet prayer thanking God for his mercy and watching over us. I had lived to tell this story.

Meanwhile back on the ranch, the legend of the monstrous serpent lives on.

Thinking Aloud

There is a new decree by the vanguard of the Mokobi clan in Serowe that we all meet once a year outside the hustle and bustle of weddings, funerals, family hearings and social media networks such as Face Book, WhatsApp and Instagram. The one day meeting is set aside for nothing but a bonding session for a fast growing family and the venue is decidedly our ancestral home in Mhashwa, Serowe. Mhashwa is however,  the corrupted name given to the Ba-Kalanga ward during the well documented tumultuous reign of Bangwato Regent, Kgosi Tshekedi Khama. The proper name of the ward is Nswazwi, but that is a story for another day.

At our maiden get-together on Boxing Day last year, it was decided that rather than the occasion being a purely family pilgrimage, some other social good should be factored into the reunion. On this occasion the clan decided to clean up the graves of departed family members. Most of the descendants of the family patriarch, Rev. Hamilton, Lekgowe, Mokobi are buried at the Goo Rra Seretse cemetery outside Serowe where he was also laid to rest in 1980.

One of the striking features of the Goo Rra Seretse cemetery is its sorry state. The place is unkempt, with tall trees, bushes and grass predominant following the earlier rains. While there are graves covered with marble or granite slabs and elaborate headstones engraved with the names, dates of birth and death, and biographical data of the deceased, the majority of graves are marked with metal frames covered in shading nets. The shade nets are in most instances, old, sunburned and rain washed, tattered and an eyesore.

Discussions at the cemetery inevitably centred on the upkeep of this final resting place for the dead. The thrust of the discussion was establishing who between the families and local authorities was responsible for the maintenance of cemeteries. In the end it was concluded that while local authorities are to some extent responsible for the upkeep of communal parks and cemeteries, graves have been left to families and as in all aspects of human endeavour, there are those families that make an effort to maintain the graves of their fallen members and those that, quite frankly, do not care.

 Apart from the unsightly state of the cemetery, the shreds of shade netting and scraps of weather beaten plastic flowers, there is no order in the arrangement of graves at this cemetery. Graves are dug haphazardly as families clamour to bury their loved ones around the grave of a favoured forebear and livestock roams the cemetery grazing on the tall grass and budding shoots of the lush bushes.  How families continue to find space for new deposits at this cemetery eludes me.

“You wouldn’t sleep in filth would you!? So how then do you expect our dearly departed to rest in such?” asks one of my concerned cousins.      

The blight of neglected graves is however, not confined to this cemetery. I have observed this sorry state of affairs across the country whenever I have had the misfortune of attending the burial of family members, friends, colleagues and acquaintances. One finds hideous shreds of shading nets, pieces of sun-baked plastic flowers and other cultural and religious artefacts lying all over the graves. Cattle, goats and donkey’s graze here and the village juveniles smoke weed under the shades of trees in the cemetery while lovers have brazenly turned the place into their rendezvous.   

Being in the midst of the dead got me thinking. Assuming that when I die, my family will get the opportunity to bury me, we all know that this final rite of passage is not always possible, I have discussed this matter with my wife, Tshego’ and my aunt, Rakgadi Mma Tjabo, (Margaret Balule) and made it clear that when the time ultimately comes and I exit this world, if I’m not getting a headstone, I will not mind a metal frame to mark my grave but I do not want tacky shading nets or plastic flowers on my grave.