The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (17 page)

Kubu was looking forward to the visit, not only for the
socializing, but also for the opportunity to quiz Wilmon more about
Goodluck.

On the drive to Mochudi, Kubu was preoccupied with the recent
events at Jackalberry, and Joy knew that conversation would be
futile. Normally, she and Kubu used this time to catch up, but
today Kubu’s mind was far away, so she resorted to the Sunday
newspaper. Even Ilia had curled up on the backseat. Typically, she
spent the entire forty- or fifty-minute trip with her nose out of
the slightly open rear window, her stub of a tail wagging nonstop.
However, as they turned into the road where Kubu’s parents lived,
she jumped up, yipping with excitement. She knew from experience
that Wilmon and Amantle would spoil her.

After he and Joy had carried the various containers of lunch
into the house, Kubu greeted Wilmon.

“Father,” he said. “You are looking well.” He extended his right
hand, touching his right arm with his left hand.

“David, you are welcome at my house.”

Kubu turned to Amantle and kissed her on the cheek. “Mother,
you, too, look well.”

The duties of the son discharged, Joy greeted both Amantle and
Wilmon in the modern way – with warm hugs. Kubu always wished he
could photograph Wilmon’s face as Joy wrapped her arms around him.
The usually impassive face managed to register happiness and
reserve simultaneously.

Normally, Kubu would not be able to raise the subject of
Goodluck until after lunch, when the ladies went inside to clean
the dishes and put the leftovers into little packets for freezing
or refrigerating. Until that time, Amantle and Joy gossiped, while
Wilmon and Kubu listened. However, this time, since much of
Amantle’s gossip surrounded Goodluck’s tragic death in any case,
Kubu had an early opening.

“Father,” he said, “when I was here on Wednesday, you couldn’t
understand why anyone would kill Goodluck Tinubu. Have you had any
more thoughts about that? Or heard any from your friends?”

“When you asked me,” Wilmon said quietly, “I thought you had
made a mistake. I thought you had not identified him properly. I do
not understand it.”

Kubu interrupted. “The police were also worried about that
because when we sent the fingerprints to Zimbabwe, they told us
he’d died in the war. So we thought we’d better make sure that it
was the same man as the headmaster of the Raserura School. We
showed a photo of him taken at the camp to the teachers, and they
identified him.”

Wilmon shook his head. “I know it is important to help the
police, so I spoke to the wife of a friend of mine. She works as a
cleaner at Raserura School. She says nobody can understand it. He
worked the whole time for the children.” He sat quietly for a few
seconds.

“Do you know if he had a girlfriend?”

“I thought about that and asked her,” Wilmon replied with a
glimmer of pride at anticipating his son’s question. “She told me
that no one had ever seen him with a woman.”

“What about Rra Madi?” Kubu asked.

Wilmon did not respond immediately. “Rra Madi is also well
respected in Mochudi. He was the assistant of Goodluck. He too is a
good man. He will become headmaster, I think.”

“There’s nothing you’ve heard that may help me? It doesn’t make
sense – a man with a good heart and no enemies brutally murdered
and disfigured.”

Amantle stood up to clear the table. “A man like Goodluck, who
does not have a wife, must have something to hide. Otherwise he
could have been married a hundred times. Every single mother in
town wanted to marry him. Maybe he did things or saw things during
the war in Rhodesia that were always in his head. Maybe the
children were his
muti
– his medicine for the mind.” When
Amantle used this tone of voice, no disagreement was possible,
because she was certain what she said was the truth. As she picked
up the tray, she continued, “Maybe he met someone at the camp who
was an enemy from the war. I am sure that must be it!”

“But, Mother, that was thirty years ago! How would he
remember?”

“Your birth caused me much pain,” Amantle said softly. “And I
remember every moment of it.”

♦

“That was a strange visit,” Joy remarked as they were driving
home. “Normally it is warm and cozy. This time there was a chill, a
sadness, I couldn’t understand.”

“I felt it too,” Kubu said. “It must be something to do with
Goodluck’s death. It raises difficult questions when someone
everyone knows and admires dies violently. Why a man like that? Why
did God let it happen? How can God be so callous? I am sure my
father prayed about it at church this morning. Perhaps the sermon
was about Goodluck. It affects a community like Mochudi
deeply.”

They both lapsed into silence, thinking about their own beliefs,
their own God.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

O
n Monday morning,
Kubu arrived at the office to find his inbox already beckoning with
new papers. He filled his cup with tea, and took a few Marie
biscuits from a packet in his bottom drawer. Reading Tatwa’s faxed
report of the latest problems at Jackalberry Camp, as well as
Dupie’s and Salome’s statements, his imagination re-created the
camp and played out the events of Friday night. It was this
introspective mood that was interrupted by the shrill ring of his
telephone.

“Hello, this is Assistant Superintendent Bengu.” He did not like
the voice on the line. It was cool, falsely pleasant, dangerous. A
white-male voice speaking English with an unfamiliar accent.

“Superintendent Bengu? My name is Smith. John Smith. I was told
you’re investigating the murder of a very dear friend of mine.
Goodluck Tinubu. Is that correct?” Kubu confirmed this. “Yes. Well,
you see, I’m interested in recovering something of mine that Mr.
Tinubu had with him when he died. Do you know what I’m talking
about?”

Kubu thought he did, but hesitated while he gestured to Edison
to trace the call. “His briefcase?”

“Yes, exactly. Very clever of you. I spoke to the police in
Kasane, but they don’t seem to have such an item. Perhaps you felt
it would be safer with you in Gaborone?”

“Look, Mr. Smith, I don’t know who you are or what you want. I
presume you can prove that you have a legitimate interest in this
item? I think it would be best if you came to my office tomorrow,
and we can discuss all this properly.”

“I’m nowhere near Gaborone, Mr. Bengu.” The trace would later
confirm that. “I don’t think it would be healthy for me to appear
at the Criminal Investigation Department anyway. Someone has
already been killed for that briefcase, you know. I think we should
meet privately. We can make a deal. A good deal for both of us. You
do have the briefcase, don’t you, Superintendent? Much safer with
you, I’m sure.”

Kubu hesitated. He was sure that he was close to the core of the
case. If he could get information out of Smith, he would understand
why Goodluck had died and who was responsible. But how to do that?
Smith seemed to think he was a corrupt cop with a valuable item to
fence. Perhaps if he played along, he could flush Smith out.

“I’m not saying I have it, but I’m not saying I don’t. I am
saying that we should meet and see what we can arrange. You know
the briefcase has interesting contents, so I’m not interested in
talking to any of your cronies either, Mr. Smith. Only you.” He
paused. “You may find you can push around overweight lodge
managers, but I promise you’ll be sorry if you try that with me.
Very sorry.”

There was a long silence. When Smith replied it was brief and
cold. “Very well. You’ll hear from us, Kubu.” Then the line went
dead.

Kubu wondered how Smith knew his nickname, and what else he
might know. He hoped he hadn’t overplayed his hand.

♦

Mabaku was apoplectic. “Kubu, for one of our smartest
detectives, how can you be so unutterably stupid? We don’t know who
these people are, or where we can find them. On the other hand,
they know exactly who you are and where to find you. You’ve made
yourself a target.” He gestured to the electronic inhabitants of
his office. “This is how we work nowadays. Computers, tracing phone
calls and e–mails, fingerprint databases, DNA tests. Not standing
in the street inviting potshots and trying to guess the direction
the bullet came from!”

“Director, they’re white foreigners. I’m sure they think I’m the
stereotype African policeman. They think they’re dealing with a
corrupt cop, but actually they are dealing with the might of the
whole Botswana Police Force!” Kubu tried to make it sound
impressive, but Mabaku was not buying it.

“The might of the Botswana Police Force has other things to do
with its time! Other cases to work on! It’s pretty clear now what
happened. They were using Tinubu to courier money – drug money,
whatever. The other side of the coin – Zondo – decided to keep the
money for himself. Open and shut. No attacks on innocent tourists.
No international intrigue. And Langa was on their trail and got in
the way. Exit Langa. Two and two. Four. Now you’ve complicated
everything! Do you think they’ll be happy if you give them an empty
briefcase?”

Kubu tried to interrupt the tirade. “I don’t think Tinubu was a
drug smuggler. And this was the only thing I could think of to draw
them into the open.”

Mabaku glared at him. “Edison stays in contact with you at all
times. You don’t arrange any private meetings. I’m informed of
everything. Beforehand! We don’t know how this Smith is going to
react, and I don’t want any surprises. No more surprises!” He
thumped his fist to emphasize each of the last three words in
turn.

Kubu nodded acquiescence and left to find Edison. He was
beginning to wonder if he’d been as clever as he had thought. He
would be very careful to ensure that the director got no more
surprises. He was sure he could manage that.

But he was quite wrong.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

UNFORGIVING MINUTE

Fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth
of distance run.

—
RUDYARD KIPLING

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
he Munro sisters had
made their way through the Okavango Delta and now were back at the
comfortable Grand Palm Hotel in Gaborone. Trish wanted to rest, and
Judith decided to relax by the pool. The visit to Jackalberry Camp
had been upsetting and disconcerting, a confluence of events
impossible to understand. The unwanted extra days at the camp had
added to the stress, particularly as Salome – who had been friendly
before – appeared to regret telling them her story and seemed to
avoid them.

The Okavango sojourn had been a relief, yet there had been no
closure to what had happened at the camp. The answers were here in
Gaborone, not in the pristine waterlands of northern Botswana.
Judith lay in the sun feeling sweat form and evaporate, hoping that
an hour in the sun would help relieve her tension.

From the other side of the pool, a younger man checked her out
and smiled. She smiled back in thanks for the compliment, expecting
nothing more. He dove into the pool, swimming strongly while she
watched. After a while he pulled himself out of the pool and walked
over to her.

“Sit here?” he asked, looking down at her. She nodded, smiling
again, watching water drip from long black hair onto his tanned
shoulders.

“Sorry, English bad. Portuguese. Mozambique. Jose,” he said and
laughed.

She liked his accent and strong face, “Judith,” she said
smiling.

“Drink?” he asked, waving to a passing waiter.

She nodded.

“Gin with tonic?”

She nodded again.

Jose stretched out on the beach chair next to hers. “Here
often?” he asked.

Judith laughed. He laughed too, showing startlingly white teeth
in his dark face.

♦

Walking back to her room after an hour of flirting with Jose,
Judith thought about men and love. She and Trish had experienced
both – even marriage in her case – but it all seemed transitory.
Perhaps she and Trish were too close. Sharing their lives since
early childhood, their work, their interests. They were best
friends and always had been. Their men never got to play that role.
So what was left after the passion faded? Her mind turned to
Salome. For her there had been no passion, no romance, perhaps no
lovers at all. Just pain and violence that had now resurfaced.

She found Trish sitting on her bed reading the letter from
Shlongwane again. Her face was pale and strained. Perhaps she had
even been crying. Her eyes looked red. Judith bit her lip. She
didn’t want to revisit the horror and death. She wanted to tell
Trish about Jose, to have dinner with him, perhaps to play tennis
the next morning.

“I’m going to have a shower and get changed,” she said.

But Trish stopped her. “Shlongwane said he was supposedly killed
after an attack on a farm, Judith. An attack on a farm! You don’t
think…? Surely it’s not possible.”

Judith pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders. “I’m
getting cold,” she said.

“I can’t bear it. Will you phone the school? Please. I can’t
face it. I have the number. We have to know.”

Why? Judith wondered. Why do we always need to confirm our
fears? Why did we start this? Why must we finish it?

“Give me the number,” she said.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

M
oremi had dreamed of
far-off lands, of exotic dances, and colorful markets where women
compared saris and talked in strange tongues. When he awoke, he had
a hankering for a curry – not one that cauterized taste buds, but
seduced with hints of tantalizing flavors.