The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (22 page)

“Ladies, we have three people violently dead. What has this to
do with my murder cases?”

“When we met Chezi the second time, he explained the problems to
us. That Zimbabwe would not admit writers from an English
newspaper, that many people on both sides had emotional scars, some
of the scabs were still raw, and that people who’d left Africa
would be the ones for whom negativity would be a form of
self-justification. But he said we could try, and that he’d look at
what came out. No promises and no advance. But we decided to give
it a go.”

Trish took up the narrative. “We started in the UK, doing
research and interviewing people. But Chezi was right. Lots of
people were willing to talk to us. But most were Whenwes. Do you
know the term?
Whenwe
were in Rhodesia we did this and we
did that, and
whenwe
hunted and
whenwe
farmed and so
on. It was all reminiscence. And if the war came up, it was always
about how it would’ve been won if only Britain and South Africa
hadn’t betrayed the Smith government. Rather pathetic that this
perspective has survived thirty years. Nothing with heavy
caffeine.”

“Until Chezi put us on to Tito Ndlovu,” said Judith. “He was
different. He had fought for the Patriotic Front and became
something of a hero, but he was from the Nkomo faction and had
fallen out with the new government.”

“He was an awful man,” said Trish. “He wanted to tell us about
rape and murder as weapons of war. He wanted to tell us the
details.” She shuddered. “The way he looked at us. I think he was
sorry the war was over. He wanted to shake my hand when we left,
but I couldn’t. And he just laughed at me.”

Judith was matter-of-fact. “He didn’t want to be interviewed on
the record. Didn’t want people to be able to trace him, I think.
But he did tell us some horrific stories. One was about a terrorist
group that attacked a farm outside Bulawayo. Slaughtered the men
and raped the women. I asked what had happened, and he said the
army claimed they killed all the terrorists that night. But later
there were rumors about one man who had escaped. Deserted, sneaked
away, and fled the country. His name was George Tinubu. “You should
try to find Tinubu,” he told us and laughed. “He’s more your kind
of kaffir.” We would never use a word like that! I asked where this
man was, and he told us he thought there was a Tinubu nice and safe
across the border in Botswana. Maybe a brother or cousin or
something? He thought that was very funny. He didn’t know if any of
the settlers – as he called them – had survived the attack on the
farm, but said we weren’t much good as reporters if we couldn’t
find out.”

Mabaku was starting to see where this was going, and felt a
surge of anger. “You did find out, didn’t you? Her name was Salome
McGlashan. And you found Tinubu too. A refugee who had made a new
life for himself in a small town in Botswana. What right did you
think you had to hound these people thirty years after what had
happened? And how did you engineer the meeting at Jackalberry Camp?
Did Tinubu suddenly get a free offer of a week’s holiday?”

But now the sisters came to life, both talking at once and
denying anything to do with the meeting. “It’s supposed to be
another coincidence?” Mabaku asked incredulously. “I don’t believe
in coincidences.”

Judith waved her sister to silence and said firmly, “We went
there to meet Salome, of course, to talk to her about her
experiences. When a salesman called Goodluck Tinubu appeared, we
were surprised. We had discovered there was a Tinubu who was the
headmaster of a school in Mochudi, and we asked Goodluck if he knew
him. He said he did not, that Tinubu was a common name in Botswana
these days because many families had fled Zimbabwe during the
Rhodesian bush war. We were looking for a George Tinubu. We thought
Goodluck Tinubu must be a different person. Why would the
headmaster of a primary school go on holiday to a bush camp and
pretend to be something else?”

“We only realized he was the same Tinubu when we phoned the
school yesterday,” Trish concluded. “That’s when we decided to come
and see Superintendent Kubu.”

Mabaku calmed down. “How did Salome and Du Pisanie react to
Goodluck?”

It was a few seconds before Trish replied. “They seemed fine.
Treated him the same as the other guests. But we didn’t see much of
Salome that day. She said she didn’t feel well. Dupie was his usual
overbearing self.”

Mabaku stared across his desk at Judith. At last she dropped her
eyes.

“This brings a completely different set of possibilities to this
case. I have to insist that you stay in Gaborone for the time
being. I want you to go over everything again in much more detail
with Assistant Superintendent Bengu. He’ll be back tomorrow or the
next day. I must also ask you to stay in the Grand Palm complex and
not wander around the city. We don’t know why Boardman was
murdered. He seems to have no connection to Tinubu or Langa except
that he was present at the camp when they were killed. So were
you.” He saw that this statement had the desired effect.

The sisters left chagrined and depressed, but they looked
forward to the session with Kubu. They realized that the Goodluck
double espresso was forever lost to them. But a strong black, with
lots of sugar, based on the large and boisterous detective, was a
real possibility.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

A WOMAN’S GUESS

A woman’s guess is much more accurate than a man’s
certainty.

—
RUDYARD KIPLING, ‘THREE AND AN
EXTRA’

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

I
t was unusually hot
for April, and Joy had walked four blocks from the main road where
the minibus taxi had dropped her. Then there had been the
boisterous greeting from Ilia – a double greeting since Kubu was
not available to receive his share. The bed had to be made, dishes
put away, laundry loaded into the washer. At last she could relax
before she thought about supper with Pleasant.

Joy poured herself a glass of chilled orange juice, more
refreshing than anything alcoholic. Even a steelworks seemed
unattractive with Kubu stuck for another day in Maun. Suddenly Ilia
barked. From the window, Joy saw two smartly dressed men coming up
the driveway. Who was visiting at six in the evening? Probably from
the Zion Church, she thought with irritation. Why couldn’t they
leave you alone? After all, she had her own church, and she didn’t
try to convert them. She was tempted not to answer the door, and
let Ilia see them off. Not very charitable, she thought with a
sigh. Kubu would have dealt with them easily. They never thought it
worth annoying a policeman.

The doorbell rang, and Ilia barked even more furiously. Strange,
she was usually quite friendly. Joy hesitated, but then opened the
door halfway. “Yes?” she said. She made no attempt to call off
Ilia.

“Mrs. Bengu? I hope we’re not disturbing you. We just need a
couple of minutes of your time.” The man was smooth, polite, and
had an astringent-sweet aftershave. He spoke English, but his
accent marked him as foreign, probably Zimbabwean. Joy decided she
didn’t like him. Ilia had stopped barking, but was still
growling.

“I’m sorry, it’s not convenient. I’m busy making dinner for my
husband and two of his colleagues from the Criminal Investigation
Department.” That should do the trick, she thought.

The man leaned forward as if he were going to tell her something
confidential. But suddenly he shouldered the door, shoving her into
the hallway. The second man followed, and Ilia went ballistic. He
tried to kick her, but she kept out of reach. Joy saw that the
first man was now holding a pistol.

“Call off the dog. We won’t hurt you if your husband cooperates.
He knows what we want. He’ll give it to us.”

“Ilia!” she snapped. The dog was momentarily quiet. “He’s not
here. He’ll be back shortly. With colleagues from the police as I
told you.”

The man smiled. “We know where your husband is, Mrs. Bengu.
We’ll meet him later. Now we want you to come with us. Quietly. No
one gets hurt.” The second man had taken something from his pocket,
a dishtowel wrapped around a small bottle. The sickly sweet smell
Joy had mistaken for aftershave became stronger. She screamed.

At once Ilia rushed for the man and bit his leg through his
trousers. He yelled, dropped the bottle, and tried to knock her off
with his fist. She let go of his leg long enough to bite his hand
before returning her teeth to the fleshy part of his calf. Trying
to kick her off, he nearly fell over. The man with the gun was
distracted, and Joy saw her chance. Still screaming, she rushed him
and kneed him in the crotch as hard as she could. Doubled over in
pain, he hardly realized that she had grabbed the gun and backed to
the far wall. The other man had freed himself from Ilia, but she
circled him snarling, looking for an opening.

They regrouped and weren’t smiling anymore.

“If you come any closer, I’ll shoot you both!” she gasped. They
ignored that, but stopped when she competently worked the action to
ensure a bullet was in the chamber and released the safely
catch.

“Put up your hands and stand against the wall. I’m a good shot.
It’ll give me pleasure to shoot you both!” She was bluffing, and
they could tell, but they did not push their luck. Slowly they
raised their hands to shoulder level. Then the one she had kneed
started backing to the door.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Mrs. Bengu. You don’t want to do
that. We’ll just leave now.” The second man joined him. It was
clear that they saw this as a temporary setback, not a defeat.
Joy’s self-defense lessons had paid off, but her hands were
shaking. She let them go.

But Ilia had the last word. She tore down the driveway barking
furiously and ripped off a piece of trouser leg. She brought it
back proudly, and Joy was immensely pleased with her.

“Good girl! Your father will want that for evidence. We showed
them, didn’t we, Ilia?” Then suddenly she felt faint and nauseous.
She locked the front door, checked the back door and windows. Then,
still tightly gripping the gun, she ran to the toilet and threw up.
After a few minutes, she felt better and phoned the CID.

When Edison and Mabaku arrived ten minutes later in a cacophony
of sirens, they found Joy surrounded by women trying to comfort
her. Joy’s neighbors had heard Ilia’s frenzied barking and had come
to investigate. One had her arm around her; another rubbed her
back. A third was making tea.

It was only after Edison had shooed the women out of the house
that Joy’s control finally broke, and she started to sob. Edison
put his arms around her, but she desperately wished it was Kubu
holding her against his comforting bulk.

♦

Kubu drove through the night and arrived home the next morning
just after dawn. All night Edison and Constable Mashu had
alternated sleeping on the couch and patrolling the house. Ignoring
them, Kubu rushed to Joy, even finessing Ilia’s welcome. Later Ilia
would get plenty of attention and rewards for her bravery. Once he
was convinced that Joy was safe and had suffered no obvious ill
effects, Kubu settled down and officially relieved the other
policemen. Edison headed for home, and Mashu went back to CID
headquarters.

Kubu spent the day at home, unable to come to terms with whether
Joy was his charge, wife, or even patient. In desperation, Joy fed
him a large lunch with a generous glass of red wine, and was
relieved when he settled down in the bedroom with her and fell
asleep. With a sigh, she left him there and went to clear up. He’s
feeling guilty about the whole episode, she thought. But whether it
was because he hadn’t been there, or for some other reason, was
unclear.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

B
uilt in the Chobe
Forest Reserve, Kachikau is a charming helter-skelter of small
houses climbing the slope overlooking the Chobe River flood plain.
The Kachikau Saturday market is a popular event. People come from
as far away as Satau and Kavimba, and everyone has something to buy
or something to sell. And it’s a good excuse for a chat and to meet
for tea and, later, maize beer.

Moremi had grown up in Kachikau and loved the market. He had
managed to get a day off, and a ride with Enoch who was driving in
to Kasane and dropped him off at the town, roughly halfway. Moremi
and Kweh were now browsing the stalls, which were nothing more than
camp tables or a patch of ground, tended by a merchant seated on a
log. Sometimes he found interesting local herbs that added a
special flavor to his intriguing stews. Local ingredients always
appealed to the guests at Jackalberry, although once there had been
a problem with an herb used mostly for medicinal purposes. Several
of the guests had stayed at the camp the next day, not daring to
venture far from the toilets.

Several people stopped to chat to Moremi and to greet Kweh, who
had become something of a local mascot. The gray go-away-bird sat
on Moremi’s right shoulder, balancing himself with his long tail as
his owner bent to examine the wares. Moremi had discovered Kweh as
a fledgling that had left the nest too soon and found himself on
the ground unable to get back to the safety of the trees. Moremi
had taken him back to the camp and fed him scraps of fruit.
Everyone had told him that the big, noisy, clumsy birds couldn’t be
tamed. In Moremi’s experience, when everyone agreed on something
with no evidence, it was usually false, and this was no exception.
Kweh had become more than a pet; he was Moremi’s friend and
confidant.