Kutlwano Magazine

Inside the mind of Maun ‘beast’

Source : BOPA

Author : Mothusi Soloko

Location : MAUN

Event : Interview

Inside the mind of Maun ‘beast`

Article: Mothusi Soloko

Photos: Ogopoleng Kgomoethata

I have been there, seen that and done that but never in my somewhat fervent pursuit of debunking myths of Satanism in Botswana have I come across anything similar to what I witnessed in Maun.

Those who have been following my writings on Satanism may remember Motlhokakgang in Kanye, that when it was finally time for me to leave, following a prolonged interrogation on Satanism, the boy rushed to an empty church and wept bitterly for salvation.

Too bad there was not much I could do! The months that followed I received a call from him asking if he could sell copies of Kutlwano for a living. Ever since then, I made a vow to stop my research on the subject. However, the recent spectre of “satanic” acts in Maun once again rekindled my desire and quest for a face to face encounter with the so called Satanists.

So this day in Maun, it is around 10pm and we are headed for the infamous cave on the banks of Thamalakane River known to be home to Satanists. The moon is glowing brightly from the sky above us, reflecting its own image on the vast still waters of the river. Sounds of frogs and other species of creatures resident in the river punctuate the still night.

I am the “torch bearer” and my crew follows behind guided by the light from my torch as we take a tiny path that leads to the cave. It is not long that human like murmurings come floating in the air forcing us to an abrupt stop. We listen attentively but stir back into motion thereafter until we come to a cabin-like cave where we find a small empty pot on some ashes.

A cold shiver triggered by fear suddenly engulfs us, almost paralysing my thoughts and for a moment rendering us motionless. “Greater is the one inside you than the one outside you,” I assure my colleagues as we hurriedly retrace our steps and retire back to our hotel to wait for the following day with feverish impatience.

Our next task is an early morning visit to Batawana kgotla where we find Kgosi Kealetile Moremi in the same state of fear as everybody else in the village. She tingles with sensitivity as soon as she learns that we are in pursuit of Satanists. There is pity written all over her face. “I don`t want to talk about those people, I have heard of their dreadful acts and to be honest I am scared of them,” she charges.

At the kgotla we are told about a missing school boy. Everyone blames these Satanists. We find the boy`s mother weeping bitterly in front of her two roomed house. She too is convinced her son is in the hands of these Satanists. “Ga ke itse gore a ngwanake wa tshela kgotsa o sule. Fela fa nka itse gore wa tshela go tla bo go siame. Ngwanake o tshwenngwa ke di Satanists di kile tsa mo tsaya ke belaela ba mo tsere gape,” she says amid sobs.

I am overwhelmed by her misery and for the first time in my career I find myself emotionally attached to my source. However, the emotion soon succumbs to my ethics of journalism. Instead, I unleash a series of questions that seem to bring back the woman`s bitter memories while simultaneously increasing her depth of sorrow.

From her, I learn about the leader of the cult simply known as Zakes and his “horrific” acts. “That guy has magical powers. My son always wakes up in the middle of the night claiming Zakes is calling him. If he points at you, you fall down. I have seen it with my eyes, please help me find my child,” she pleads with rivulets of tears running down her cheeks.

A tale that hangs on the lips of many a resident of Maun is that Zakes once made two women engage in an unprovoked fight by just staring at them. The myth has it that upon taking his gaze away from the women they immediately stopped fighting and proceeded with their journey as if nothing had happened. The story is further shared by Maun District Commissioner, Benedett Malala, but premised on just a rumour.

There are just too many stories about Zakes. Some have it that all those who drive vehicles to his house either end up involved in accidents or something mysterious just happens to them. And we were warned by many not to go anywhere near him. As for me I was in the mood to come face to face with Zakes and accord him the good humour expected from a good guest. I was not there to condemn. I was there to learn the secret of those who worship the devil.

Soon we reach his place and after a prolonged knock on his door he appears on the doorstep. We exchange greetings and he introduces himself as the beast. “I have long seen you coming, there were six of you and two decided not to come,” he claims. Matter of fact is, we were never six. It is just the four of us. “So his powers have misfired,” I thought to myself.

I narrate to him, with a bit of exaggeration though, stories of Satanists that I have encountered before. And I realise the more horrific stories I narrate the more he wants to lay bare his claims. I make him feel inferior to Satanists in Kanye and Gaborone and thereby leaving the burden of proof resting entirely on his shoulders.

“Do you really want to see what we see in the dark,” he asks me five times with an intimidating tone and my response is in the affirmative. “Close your eyes.” I oblige. “Close them harder.” I do. “Do you see that red dot,” he asks. Yes there is a red dot in front of me. “That is the eye of the devil,” he tells me. I am not convinced that the red dot is due to his powers.

Then we talk about his tattoos that seem to stick out of his skin. There is a 666 number (pronounced tripple six), a head of a beast, snake and all kinds of creatures littering his left arm. Throughout our conversation he avoids eye contact. An opportunity immediately presents itself and I search for anything that can convince me that indeed he is the “beast”.

There is none except that he appears to be a man battling with many contradictions, a man searching for identity, a man battling with ghosts he inherited from his troubled past. Yet when he talks, he comes across as extremely brilliant that his knowledge on spirituality, like Sir Isaac Newton, makes me feel like a child picking up shells beside a great and unexplored ocean.

Back to the cave, we traverse the bush around that night after he invited us for a prayer session where he also promised to reveal to me secrets of the devil. We find Zakes and his colleagues draped in black overcoats emblazoned with the so called mark of a beast, 666, in front and on the back. While they crawl in the cave like lizards through cracks, I enter with great diligence and my colleagues follow with a certain measures of uneasiness. It is a long dark cave with a stream. I cannot see anything except a glimmer of their eyes darting from corner to corner in front of me.

I switch on my torch but Zakes immediately pounces on my hands. “We don`t want light in this place.” I beg him to allow me to use the light and he obliges. Then a prayer that lasted for close to two or three hours punctuated with gulps of air that forced them to breathe heavily thereby producing a roaring sound, begins.

“We see a lot of things. We see a head of a beast, its nails and teeth. Come here and pray with me if you want to see,” he asks me. I step forward and he orders me to close my eyes while he caresses my wrist. “Do you see those nails?” There are no nails in sight. “Do you see the teeth?” I do not see any teeth. When all seems not to work, he accuses me of spiritual inadequacy. “You are spiritually inadequate, that`s why you can`t see anything,” he chrges.

Then we jump into the back of a van while the rest ride in front. “You see when I look at you I see a lawyer, a future president. I don`t see the beast you claim to be,” I tell him and he responds with a hearty laughter that curles into a benevolent smile. “But I am the beast, you don`t understand now,” he replies. He denies connection with satanic acts that had been taking place in Maun. He denies that they suck or drink human blood. “There is nothing like that,” he claims.

However, he confides in me that he has powers to cause chaos. I do not believe him. As we approach his house I realise that he wants to reveal something to me but the moment he tries to speak, the words conceal themselves in his lips. “What do you want me to do for you,” I ask. The question opens floodgates of his sorrows so much that he reveals to me his innermost insecurities.

“I want a place where I can live in peace. Maun has no love for me. I can`t a take taxi or buy from the tuck shop because they fear me,” he tells me. It appears as if he had long been waiting for an opportunity to pour out his feelings. What was once a beast that strode majestically inside a cave like an actor in a busy movie scene instantly crumbled into a vulnerable child.

I learn the dark side of his upbringing, about how some pastors had used him for their own gain and he mentions with disgust that Christianity is nothing but a sham. “I want to change my name and live somewhere else. I can`t take it anymore,” he pleads with an agitated voice. I feel empathetic to him and wished I could console him.

Then I realise from his tales that what started as juvenile delights detached him and his crew from the community, compelling them to an unbearable isolation. It is too late the damage has already been done and they can only wish they can turn back the hands of time. I give him a hug and leave him in the care of the district commissioner and Kgosi Kealetile to put him on a rehabilitation and healing process. As time came for me to leave, he held on to my hand firmly and when he let go, he spread both of his arms out and shouted, “I am now relieved!” ENDS