The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (23 page)

Moremi tried and rejected the feel of a carved walking stick,
and looked around the scatter of stalls in search of the fresh
curry powder he wanted. He spotted a fat, overdressed woman trying
on a hat. “Look at that lady, Kweh,” he said nodding
surreptitiously toward her. “She looks ridiculous!” The hat had a
large and rather wilted ostrich feather as its centerpiece. Kweh
raised the neat crest on his head, as if in competition. Moremi
wandered on, keeping an eye out for interesting hats to entertain
Kweh. Suddenly he stopped, shocked.

“That’s Rra Zondo,” he told Kweh. “That’s his hat. You see the
felt hat with the guineafowl feathers on the side?” The man was in
a crowd around a drinks seller.

“Rra Zondo!” he called out and would have moved through the
crowd toward him, but something more interesting had caught Kweh’s
attention. He took off with a flapping of ash wings and landed
heavily on a rough wooden table. Its owner, who was selling marula
fruit at ten for a pula according to a handwritten sign, was a
stout lady sitting on a wooden stool hardly adequate to support
her. She knocked it over in fright and began complaining and
flapping at Kweh with a brown paper bag grabbed from a small stack
on the table. Kweh was selecting a fruit, but jerked back to avoid
the flapping bag, and voiced a loud alarmed, “Go away! Go
away!”

Nevertheless, he grabbed the closest fruit and flew to the
safety of Moremi’s shoulder. Balancing on one claw dug deeply into
the shoulder, he held the marula in the other while he ate. Juice
dribbled down Moremi’s neck.

“You must pay for the marula,” screeched the woman. “Your bird
has stolen one.”

“I will, Mma,” said Moremi. “I just need to find Rra Zondo, then
I’ll come right back.”

“No!” said the fruit seller firmly. “You pay now!”

Moremi was looking around. He could no longer see the felt hat
with the feathers. Quickly he fished ten thebe from his pocket, but
the woman shook her head. “Twenty-five thebe,” she said. Moremi
wanted to go after Zondo, but felt cheated.

“It’s too expensive! I can pick these from the trees by the road
for nothing! It’s ten for a pula, so each one is ten thebe.” He
held out the coin.

The woman shook her head again. “Special price. You have to buy
ten.”

Moremi looked around. He thought he saw Zondo crossing the road
some way off, but wasn’t sure. The man was wearing a felt hat, but
was too far away for Moremi to tell if it had feathers on the
side.

“All right. Quickly. Give me ten. But the ripe ones, not the
green ones hidden underneath. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Again the woman refused, insisting he pay at once. Irritated,
Moremi ignored her and started to walk away. “I’ll scream that you
are robbing me and stealing my fruit!” cried the woman. Angrily,
Moremi pulled out a pula and pushed it at her. She accepted it and
started filling a bag. Moremi watched to see that he was not
cheated. As he accepted the bag with the nine fruits inside, the
bird let out another raucous “go away!” startling them both, and
flew down to the table to grab another marula. The woman started to
scream again and flap with her paper bags. Quickly Moremi pulled a
fruit from his bag, dropped it on the table, and moved hastily
away. Kweh landed elegantly on his moving shoulder with his new
prize in his bill. The woman’s loud complaints that the bird had
fouled her table followed them, but Moremi was hurrying across the
road looking for Zondo.

But the felt hat with three guineafowl feathers was nowhere to
be seen.

♦

Moremi and Kweh went to the house of Constable Shoopara. Moremi
felt it was his duty to report the matter to the police. And, in
Kachikau, Constable Shoopara was the police. Because it was market
day, he was off duty – although always on call – and he was not
feeling particularly friendly.

“You can’t bring that bird in here,” he said firmly.

“Kweh does no harm. If I can’t bring him in, we must talk
outside on the veranda. Or I’ll go away if you like.”

Shoopara looked at Moremi. He had known the cook for many years
and, like most of the villagers, regarded Moremi as strange,
unusual, but not mad. In fact he thought Moremi smart, but not in
ways that made sense in rural Botswana.

“No, it’s all right, he can stay,” he relented. “Now what’s the
problem?”

“We saw Rra Zondo – didn’t we, Kweh? – the man who was at
Jackalberry Camp, the man you’re all looking for!” Moremi finished
triumphantly.

The goings-on at Jackalberry Camp were well known throughout the
area. People here did not rely on newspapers, it was word of mouth.
The excitement of the attack on Dupie and Salome had been described
variously as another attempted murder and an armed invasion of
Botswana from Zimbabwe. But Shoopara knew the true story, and he
knew about Zondo.

“Are you sure it was him? Did you see him close? Did you talk to
him? Where did this happen?”

“Yes. Not very. No. At the market.” Shoopara had to replay his
questions to decode the answer. “Let’s go and look,” he said. “How
did you know it was Rra Zondo, if he wasn’t close?”

Moremi explained while they walked, and Shoopara lost some of
his enthusiasm. “Perhaps there are many such hats,” he said
doubtfully. “Did you see his face?” Moremi admitted that he had
not. Nevertheless they searched the area around the market and
questioned the sellers who were now busy packing up their unsold
goods. No one remembered a man wearing a felt hat with guinea-fowl
feathers. Shoopara showed them the picture of Zondo, albeit a poor
faxed copy, but no one recognized the man. Worse, no one even
remembered a stranger unable to speak good Setswana.

Shoopara gave up on the wild goose. “I think you were mistaken,”
he said firmly. “You had better hurry or you’ll miss your ride.
Keep well, Moremi.” And he stalked off to resume his interrupted
nap.

As Moremi waited for his ride back to the main road, he hummed
and puzzled. “We did see him, didn’t we, Kweh? I’m sure, aren’t
you?” Kweh had a russet eye fixed on the brown paper bag Moremi was
carrying. He chortled, but whether he was agreeing or begging for
the food was hard for Moremi to decide. Absentmind-edly, he passed
the bird another marula fruit.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
atwa spent Saturday
morning following up the remnants of clues and loose ends. He was
relieved to know that Joy was fine. He had met her once or twice
with Kubu during his time in Gaborone and liked her. More
important, Kubu had been good to him and supported him. He was very
fond of the big detective.

He had been shocked to see him so haggard the day before, taking
off alone on the long journey home. He had offered to help drive,
but Kubu had waved this aside. “I’ll be fine. You have to talk to
Mrs. Boardman tomorrow. I’ll call you when I’m home.” Then he was
gone.

So in the afternoon Tatwa called on Amanda Boardman at the Maun
Safari Lodge. He found her calm, focusing on the details of a death
in a foreign land rather than its enormity.

“It’s been a nightmare with the plane. You’d think it’s the
first time they’ve been asked to transport a body,” she told him.
“The undertaker is an idiot. And the police haven’t been helpful
either.”

She glared at the mild-mannered detective as though the fault
were his.

“Mrs. Boardman, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I only met
your husband once, but I thought he was a fine man. I wish there
was something I could do.” Amanda seemed surprised and touched by
his short speech. “Thank you, Detective. Well, you can tell me what
the police have done to catch his killer.”

“I’m hoping you can help me with that. We – Assistant
Superintendent Bengu and myself – don’t think this was just a
robbery. We believe it was somehow connected with the murders at
Jackalberry Camp.”

“Yes, of course. I said as much to Assistant Superintendent
Notu, but he couldn’t see it. A vicious, brutal murder for a few
pula? That would be believable in South Africa, detective, but not
in Maun.”

Tatwa was intrigued. “So you agree your husband was somehow…” He
stumbled, not wanting to say ‘involved’…“Somehow connected with
what happened at Jackalberry?”

“I think there may’ve been something he knew or guessed about
what happened. He seemed almost pleased about it – not about the
murders, but in the way you can be pleased when you know a useful
secret. He didn’t tell me what it was, though. William kept things
to himself, business and such, even though we worked together. He’d
wait until the deal was closed, then he’d let me know. Almost as
though he thought saying it out loud would tempt fate. I know it
sounds silly, but he was like that.”

“Why did you think that in this case?”

“There was something about him after the interview with you and
the Superintendent. Almost as though something important had been
confirmed. Something he’d find valuable in the future. That’s the
impression I had at the time. But then it was gone, and he was back
to normal. I knew better than to quiz him about it.”

Tatwa felt a stir of excitement. Was it possible that Boardman
had somehow stumbled on Gomwe’s involvement? Perhaps seen him that
night when looking for an owl? If that were true, and he’d tried to
use it in some way such as blackmail, then Gomwe might have a
motive for staging a violent and deliberately fatal attack.

“Mrs. Boardman, did your husband say anything about what he was
doing here on Monday? Particularly Monday night?”

“Well, of course, he was here to buy stock for our shop. He’d
done pretty well, judging by his full trailer. But I know he was
meeting someone. He usually calls me every day when he’s on a trip.
He phoned about six, but I was out, so he left a message on the
answering machine. He was meeting someone for drinks after dinner
that evening. He thought he might be late, so he’d phone the next
morning. So, you see, he was definitely expecting someone.”

Tatwa hesitated, then asked, “Could it have been a woman?”

Amanda laughed. “You’re not married, are you, Detective?” Tatwa
shook his head. “Well, if you were having an affair, would you call
your wife and tell her you were expecting to have drinks with an
unnamed person?” Tatwa admitted that seemed unlikely.

“Very unlikely, I’d say. I’m sure William was looking forward to
telling me another of his secret successes in the morning. But the
morning never came, did it?” She stared at the ceiling, forced to
focus on that gruesome night. Her voice dropped. “That’s all I can
tell you, detective. Perhaps you would leave me now?”

Tatwa nodded, muttered his thanks, and rose to go. “We’ll catch
this man, Mrs. Boardman, I promise that.”

“Yes, I suppose you will,” she said.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu and Joy came
close to one of their infrequent rows that Sunday morning. Kubu was
adamant that he and Joy should stay at home. Joy was still not
feeling well after Friday’s frightening experience with the
intruders, and Kubu argued that a quiet day with him and Ilia would
do her good. Joy, on the other hand, had begun to feel like a
prisoner in her own home and desperately wanted to get out and
about. It was Sunday, she railed, and on Sundays they visited his
parents.

“I’m not going to stay here and be a sitting duck.” Her voice
rose angrily. “They know I’m here. And you want me to stay? Not a
chance! We’re going to see your parents. I’ve already invited
Pleasant and told your mother we’re bringing food for a picnic.”
Kubu thought it unwise to challenge Joy in this mood. He decided to
live with being told what to do.

Grudgingly, he conceded that Joy’s choice of a picnic was a
sound idea. This way his mother would not have to cook. Although
she would complain that Kubu and Joy had brought the food the
previous Sunday, she would not press the point too far. “But,” Kubu
said firmly, “we say nothing about your attack. My parents will
worry, and everyone in Mochudi will know tomorrow. We want to keep
this quiet.” Joy understood and agreed, but she knew Kubu very
well. She suspected there was something else behind his
insistence.

♦

Since there were to be five adults and one dog in his old Land
Rover, Kubu decided on a picnic spot close to where his parents
lived. With everyone in the car, and Ilia curled up on Wilmon’s lap
to enjoy her ears being rubbed, he drove up into the semicircle of
hills that surround Mochudi. He turned up a paved road near the
hospital and followed it as it wound up the
koppie
, through
rock fig trees with grasping roots that enveloped huge boulders. At
the crest they reached the Phuthadikobo museum – an elegant
colonial building, once a school, overlooking southern Mochudi.

After checking that there were no acacia thorns to damage the
tires, Kubu parked off the road near the museum. The entire area
was covered with rocky outcrops, and Kubu chose a flat rock in the
shade of a wonderboom tree. From there, they could almost see
Amantle and Wilmon’s house on the east side of town. In the
distance, through the haze, Kubu thought he could see Kgale
Hill.

Kubu spread a blanket on the rock and unfolded a small table and
two chairs which he offered his parents. Joy and Pleasant covered
the table with a colorful cloth and unpacked the contents of two
baskets. Soon a dish of cold meats was surrounded by salads, cold
pap
, and a bowl of chopped tomatoes and onions – Wilmon’s
favorite. Joy then covered the table with mosquito netting to keep
off flies. Finally, Kubu regretfully took only soft drinks out of a
cooler – Wilmon would not countenance alcohol on the sabbath. Kubu
had fleetingly considered replacing the contents of a ginger ale
bottle with sparkling wine. However, he had rejected the temptation
as disrespectful to his father. Wilmon and Amantle ate at the small
camping table while the others sat on the blanket with plates on
their laps.