The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (19 page)

He liked the videotape simile. It sounded serious and genuine.
“I have recalled something that could be significant.” Or perhaps,
“By freezing frames I came across an important item.” That sounded
a bit contrived. “Over the last few days some frozen memory frames
have changed my view of what I saw quite dramatically.” Maybe leave
out, “quite dramatically.” He was already feeling better, the start
of a smile.

He found himself at the door of his bungalow. It was near the
end of a row of identical thatched, one-bedroom units, efficiently
but unattractively arranged. All the surrounding cottages were in
darkness, and only an outdoor light at knee level gave a pinkish
low-energy illumination. He had to check his key and squint at the
number to check he was at the correct cottage.

He was still fumbling with the key in the lock when he felt a
knife at his throat and a hand over his mouth. He jerked with
reflexive fright and felt the knife blade break the skin, warm
blood trickling. Then he didn’t move.

“Quiet! You don’t get hurt. Understand?” He tried to answer but
the hand was too tight over his mouth. He nodded as hard as he
could against the restraining hand. He felt the door open, and he
was shoved through. He almost fell, but recovered, and turned to
face his attacker. The bedside light he had left on revealed a man
– all black. Black track suit, black boots, black ski mask
revealing only dark pupils. The only contrast was the whites of his
eyes in the mask slits.

The man kicked the door closed behind him.

“We talk,” he said. “Just talk.”

Boardman recognized the assailant’s voice. Surprise burst out of
him when silence would have been more prudent. “I know you, damn
you! What the hell do you think you’re up to?”

The man in black hit him with both fists clenched together. The
blow was supposed to knock him down, to prepare him for what was to
follow. But being recognized so easily was a shock, and the blow
was not well judged. Boardman collapsed to an unnatural position on
the floor, eyes staring at the ceiling.

“Shit!” The attacker hesitated, breathing harder than the
exercise justified. “Wake up, shithead! Or you get hurt!”

When there was no response, he aimed some powerful kicks and
felt a rib snap. Then, he broke the nose with his heel. It was only
when his boot smashed into the groin and still there was no
response that he accepted that William Boardman was dead. He cursed
his bad luck, and did what needed to be done.

Ten minutes later he slipped from the cottage, slunk through the
darkness to the road, and disappeared.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

E
noch’s first stop in
Kasane was at a spare parts shop. He greeted the mechanic in
Setswana and explained that he needed a set of wheel bearings for a
Venter off-road trailer. The man shook his head. “We’ll have to
order them from Johannesburg. We don’t keep specialized parts like
that. No call for them. Maybe I can patch it up in the
meanwhile?”

“Dupie decided to tow it back to Jackalberry Camp,” Enoch told
him. “We got it rolling, and he thinks he can fix it himself. Save
a few pula.” Enoch sounded sarcastic. The mechanic took the details
and promised to let them know the price and how long it would take
to get the parts from South Africa.

Enoch shrugged. “I’m starved,” he said. “I only had a snack for
the road and had to spend the night out in the bush. Nothing for
supper. I’m off for some breakfast at the Old House. Can I use your
bathroom to clean up?” His shirt was streaked with grease and dust,
and his hands needed scrubbing. His pants looked as though he’d
slept in them.

He emerged looking more respectable, thanked the mechanic, and
headed for the casual and friendly restaurant. He explained his
grubby, rumpled state to the owner – a Chinese woman whose eclectic
menu included the best spring rolls north of Gaborone – and ordered
a hearty English breakfast, which would have been a hit in London
at three times the price. Enoch worked his way through multiple
fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, and lashings of toast. It
was a special treat. He felt he deserved it.

Satisfied, he toyed with the idea of visiting Lena, his local
girlfriend. She lived on the southern outskirts of the town, and
would be pleased to see him – unless she had another engagement. He
decided against the possible embarrassment. He still had to do the
shopping and endure the four-hour drive back to the camp.

His second stop was the liquor store, where he loaded cases of
wine, beer, and harder stuff. It was around eleven by the time he
got to the supermarket, not yet busy. He worked through his list,
reducing cases to single bottles, skipping bulky items, which would
normally go in the trailer. After he had paid, one of the shop
assistants helped him to pack the Double Cab. It was a tight fit.
Again he had to explain the absence of the trailer.

“Weren’t you scared sleeping out alone in the bush?” asked the
assistant.

Enoch shook his head. “Nothing happened.”

His next visit was to Mario’s Meat Market on the outskirts of
town, where cooler boxes awaited him, crammed with frozen
vacuum-packed meat. He checked his list to make sure he had
everything. Dupie wouldn’t be pleased if some item was left off,
and Moremi was very particular. With no room in the back, the
cooler boxes made a tower on the passenger seat and threatened to
collapse on him if he cornered too quickly.

Finally he stopped in at the Mowana Safari Lodge to collect an
item left behind there by one of Jackalberry’s current guests. As
he waited for it, he noticed a man sitting under the thatch
overlooking the river. He looked familiar. Enoch walked to a window
in the lounge area to get a better view. It was Boy Gomwe. Gomwe
glanced up and quickly turned away to face the river. Enoch was
puzzled. Gomwe had returned to South Africa as soon as he had left
Jackalberry. What was he doing in Kasane a week later? He shrugged.
That was Gomwe’s business.

Thoughtful, he collected his package, walked back to the Double
Cab and headed for the camp, taking the tarred road through Chobe
toward Ngoma.

It would be four hours of hard bush driving before he got back
to Jackalberry.

♦

Gomwe was shocked. When he had turned to beckon a waiter for
another gin and tonic, he had seen Enoch Kokorwe standing in the
lounge. Was that coincidence? Or was Enoch checking up on him? If
so, why? What did he know? Could the Jackalberry people be onto
him? Gomwe turned quickly to face the river. Perhaps Enoch hadn’t
seen him, but the sooner he tied up his business and got out of
Kasane the better.

He had checked into the Mowana Safari Lodge that morning, tired
after the drive. He would have liked to relax, but he was waiting
for a man whom he knew only as Mandla. He thought back to his
meeting in Johannesburg a few days earlier. He had shown that
money-man Jarvis who was important. He had been furious that Jarvis
didn’t want to help after what had happened at the Jackalberry
Camp. Jarvis had told him that there was a great opportunity there.
That a steady supply of money was headed there. Probably for
heroin. That it should be easy to make a killing. Follow the money,
he’d said. And Gomwe had.

“Bullshit!” The couple at the next table were startled by the
outburst from the man sitting alone. They stood up and moved to the
far end of the bar.

Easy to make a killing, he thought. What a load of crap. He
wondered whether Jarvis had tried to set him up. He was lucky to
get out of Jackalberry without suspicion. If, indeed, he had. He
was worried about being spied on by Enoch.

He took off his dark glasses and polished them on his floral
shirt. He looked around for the man he was to meet. Mandla who? he
wondered. Still, it’s good to be cautious. After all he had been
very careful to check that he hadn’t been followed.

Jarvis, he thought. Poor Jarvis, who thinks he’s a big shit just
because his bosses are big money-laundering shits. Thinks he can
choose whether to help me. He wanted to back out after Jackalberry.
I showed him. Threatened to beat the shit out of him. Fucking
coward had sniveled that Mandla was big up here. Speak to him.
He’ll point you in the right direction. Gomwe put his dark glasses
back on. He’d fucking well better!

Gomwe was on his fourth drink when a short, stocky man sat down
at his table. “I’m Mandla,” he said quietly. Gomwe turned to look
at him. The man looked around nervously. Another arsehole, Gomwe
thought. He’ll be just like Jarvis.

“Little late, aren’t you?”

“Just being careful. Wanted to be sure you weren’t
followed.”

“Not a chance,” Gomwe said louder than necessary. “After the
Jackalberry screwup, I check my back the whole time. I’m
clean.”

“So what can I do to help a friend of Jarvis?” His lips smiled,
but not his eyes.

Gomwe leaned forward. “I know shit comes through the border
around here. I want to expand my business. Into wholesale. I need a
contact from the other side, from Zimbabwe or Zambia.”

Mandla didn’t respond, but stared impassively at Gomwe.

After a few seconds, Gomwe couldn’t bear the silence.

“I’ve got good contacts all over,” he said, bravado creeping
into his voice. “And my business is growing.”

Mandla continued to gaze at him, without saying a word.

“Come on, man,” Gomwe spluttered. “If you get me the contact,
I’ll make it worth your while.”

“And what about the people who are already in the business? They
won’t like it.”

“No, tell them I’m not going to take any of their business. I
have my own customers. Good, serious customers. I won’t touch
theirs. I don’t need them.”

Mandla stared at Gomwe for a few minutes.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “There’s going to be a trade in
two days at a place called Elephant Valley Lodge, just outside
Kazangula. I’ve made a reservation for you there in the name of Boy
Biko. The travel agent in the lobby has it. Pay them in cash.”

Gomwe had no problem with that. He was always keen to move the
cash he had received from his clients. “When do I go?”

“Tomorrow. Settle in. Something will happen in the next
week.”

“Week! You’re mad! You think I have nothing better to do than
sit around at a game lodge for a week?”

“Do you good to relax.”

“Why can’t I meet these people here? Or if it must be at this
other place, why can’t you set up a meeting for tomorrow?”

“You think this works on a timetable? The principals aren’t here
now. They’ll be here for a trade. In the next few days. Check in at
Elephant Valley Lodge. Someone will contact you. Then it’s up to
you. Everyone will be nervous about you – even with my
introduction.” A glimmer of a smile crossed his lips. Mandla stood
up. “I’d like my money now. The amount Jarvis told you to
bring.”

Gomwe pulled an envelope out of his pocket and shoved it to
Mandla.

“I’m paying a lot for fucking little. No names, no arrangement.
Just cool my heels and wait for something to happen. This better
work out or you’ll be hearing from me again.”

“Don’t worry. It will work out. Just the way we’ve planned.”
Mandla pocketed the money and left without further word.

If everyone in the trade is such an idiot, Gomwe thought, I’ll
make a fortune. They couldn’t organize themselves out of a paper
bag. He looked around and caught the attention of a waiter. “Bring
me another gin and tonic. A double.”

♦

As Mandla sat down in his car, he pulled out his mobile phone
and dialed a South African number. He got voicemail. “Jarvis, it’s
Mandla. I met your friend. He drinks too much. He’ll be at Elephant
Valley Lodge tomorrow. You wanted a favor; you owe me.” Then he cut
the connection and drove off. He had other business to handle,
important business.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

A
s Kubu walked to
Mabaku’s office, Edison passed on the message from deputy
headmaster Madi. One of the journalists from England had phoned and
asked for Mr. Tinubu. She had expressed condolences when she heard
the news of his murder, but hadn’t seemed particularly shocked.
Perhaps it was because she hadn’t known the late headmaster, Madi
had suggested. Or perhaps she already knew he was dead, Kubu
thought. He was greatly looking forward to his next meeting with
the Munro sisters.

Once again Mabaku was in a foul mood. He glared at Kubu who, to
the best of his recollection, had done nothing to annoy his boss.
Mabaku immediately disabused him.

“Your friend William Boardman got himself killed in Maun.”

Kubu wanted to respond that Boardman was certainly not his
friend, but the shock of the news erased that. “Killed? What
happened?”

Mabaku growled. “Beaten up. Tortured. Murdered.”

Kubu collapsed into a chair without invitation. “Do we know why?
Any suspects?”

Mabaku glared at him. “Probably the mob that attacked
Jackal-berry Camp. They want something and aren’t particular about
how they get it.” He paused, recalling Monday’s phone call. “You
haven’t heard anything from so-called Smith, have you? No bribes of
French champagne delivered to your house?”

Kubu was disturbed by the concern below the sarcasm. “No,
nothing, Director. I suppose he saw through my ploy. I’m not a
great actor. But why go after Boardman? He didn’t have the
briefcase, or anything else, as far as we know. Was his wife in
Maun with him?”

Mabaku shook his head. “He was there alone. He was found this
morning in a bungalow at the Maun Toro Lodge. Beaten up, with
cigarette burns on the face and chest. Room trashed. Eventually
they killed him and left with, or without, what they wanted.” Worry
crept into his voice again. “That idiot Notu is in charge of the
case. He thinks it’s a break-in that went wrong. Moron!” He stood
up and paced to the window, taking comfort in Kgale Hill.