The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (25 page)

Edison and Mashu finished breakfast and argued about soccer and
which African teams would get to the World Cup in South Africa.
Edison was scathing about Bafana Bafana, but Mashu had relatives in
South Africa and supported its national team, except when it played
against Botswana. They had some more coffee. Then they talked about
Mabaku for a while, a perennial topic among members of the CID.

Ilia, who had wrangled a bacon rind or two, got up and went to
lie at the bathroom door. Edison realized that it had been three
quarters of an hour since Joy had left them. He rose and listened
at the bathroom door but heard nothing. He knocked. “Joy, are you
all right? Joy?” There was no response. He tried the door. It was
not locked. “Joy?” He opened the door gingerly. The room was empty,
the bath was full of clean water, and the sash window to the garden
was open. Edison felt a thrill of fear. Then he saw the lipstick
writing on the basin mirror. “Kubu, I’m fine. I’ve gone to find my
sister. Don’t worry, all’s well. I have my cell phone. Love you.
Joy.”

Edison pouted, but couldn’t suppress a smile. Kubu would be
furious. But Joy was a very resourceful lady. He wondered who would
be the first to find Pleasant.

♦

Mabaku was waiting for Kubu in his office. Kubu wanted to start
a house-to-house search for Pleasant at once, but Mabaku was firm.
“Let’s get some coffee,” he said. He asked after Joy as they filled
their cups from the urn. When they returned to Mabaku’s office,
Kubu could see that his boss was more than concerned. He was
scared.

“Kubu, this case has got completely out of hand. I’ll tell you
in a minute what I learned from the Munro sisters. They are waiting
impatiently to tell you themselves, by the way. But everything has
changed now. I don’t know what we are up against. International
drug cartel? Money-laundering network? Who has the nerve to attack
a senior policeman’s family? Even if he did invite it,” he finished
bitterly.

Kubu was fidgeting; he wanted action not philosophy. “We should
be going through her flat inch by inch,” he said.

“Underway,” Mabaku responded. “Now this is how we are going to
deal with the situation.” He held up his hand to forestall Kubu’s
interruption. “I should take you right off the case, but I’m not
going to do that. Frankly, I can’t do that. You’ve put yourself in
the center of it, and we’re going to exploit that.” Kubu started to
thank him, but again Mabaku stopped him. “From this point on, I’m
in charge. Tatwa will handle things in Maun. Edison will do the
legwork here. You will be in on everything; but you’ll never be on
your own; and your first priority will be Joy.” Kubu started to
protest, but Mabaku was adamant. “We work this way, Kubu, or you’ll
spend your time under house guard with Joy until it’s over.” Kubu
calmed down enough to realize that this was fair.

“Yes, Director, I agree. Now how do we go about finding
Pleasant? I’ve promised Joy she’ll be home for supper.” Kubu
wondered if he would come close to fulfilling that promise.

Mabaku’s cell phone demanded attention. He listened for half a
minute. Then he handed it to Kubu. “Well, it seems your wife has
decided to take matters into her own hands. Now we have a double
problem.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

M
ma Khotso’s shop was
in African Mall, not a large western-style shopping center, but a
collection of small establishments clustered around narrow streets
and parking places near the middle of Gaborone. Known as Khotso
Shop, it sold an eclectic mix of items, anything that appealed to
Mma Khotso. But it was definitely a shop for women, and anyone was
welcome to come in and browse, gossip, and have a cup of
rooibos
(“I’ve just made some fresh”) with as much milk and
sugar as they wanted.

Mma Khotso had an unusual sales technique. She always told the
truth about her items even if – in fact, especially if – she used
them herself. She sold Bami Beauty Cream. “It’s supposed to keep
your skin fresh and a lighter shade and remove wrinkles,” she would
tell a customer. “But it’s all nonsense. Every woman has an inner
beauty, which shines through at every stage of her life. We don’t
need these things. Look at me! I use Bami cream all the time, and
you can see it makes absolutely no difference.” Although well past
youth, Mma Khotso had a particularly smooth and wrinkle-free,
silklike skin. The cream sold like hot cakes.

Then there was the Love Lotion. The label had a rather rude
depiction of a nude man, physically well endowed in every area,
watched approvingly by a reclining woman. Mma Khotso turned the
label away and was particularly scathing if a curious customer
picked up a jar to look. “Love Lotion! When I was with my Jacob we
always had a wonderful sex life. He always performed, and I had
great orgasms! Of course he liked me to massage the cream into his
inner thighs and on his balls and his thing. What man wouldn’t? But
we never needed it. He was a bull, that man! He could do it two,
and once even three times. Do you know that’s when he had his heart
attack?” The Love Lotion sold well, too.

When Joy entered the shop, Mma Khotso was showing a customer her
new line of handbags, reputedly ostrich skin. “How could I sell it
for 199 pula if it was really made from ostrich skin from
Oudtshoorn in South Africa? It would be five hundred pula, more
likely. And look here it says ‘genuine ostrich lether.’ The
spelling of leather is wrong! They come from China, my dear. The
Chinaman at the take-away restaurant orders them for me. They
probably have people making the holes where the feathers were
supposed to go, or maybe they have ostriches in China? I don’t
know. But I’ve had one of these bags for years. They’re soft and
really well made.” She showed the double stitching on the inside.
“I got him to order more, because mine lasted so well. And only
smart people like you and me can tell the difference. But ostrich
skin for only 199 pula?” She shook her head. “People are so
gullible, aren’t they?” The shopper bought the bag.

Coming over to Joy, she could see immediately that something was
wrong. “My darling, you look worried. What’s the matter? Let’s have
a cup of tea. I’ve just made some fresh.” Joy admitted that a cup
of tea sounded wonderful. Mma Khotso found a packet of finger
biscuits in her cash drawer. “You look ill, Joy. Better have the
tea very sweet for energy. And some of these biscuits. Now tell me
what’s wrong.”

Joy told her everything that had happened since the two men came
up her driveway. Mma Khotso said nothing until the story was
complete. “My goodness, no wonder you’re worried! This is terrible!
How brave you were, you and Ilia. But your husband has a senior
police post. Surely the police will help you?”

Joy shook her head. “You don’t understand, Mma Khotso, our
parents are dead. Pleasant is my little sister. She’s my
responsibility. Our brother is in Francistown, and he works for the
government.” Mma Khotso understood at once. You couldn’t expect
anyone who worked for the government to do anything
constructive.

“What if the police catch these men, but Pleasant is hurt, or
killed?” Joy continued. “Sometimes the police don’t succeed in
rescuing kidnap victims. Kubu says he doesn’t know what these
people want, but would he give it to them anyway? The police don’t
believe in paying off kidnappers.”

Mma Khotso considered this for a moment. Then she said quietly,
“Do you trust your husband, Joy?” Joy thought about how Kubu had
fallen asleep while protecting her because he’d drunk too much
port. Then she thought about how much Kubu loved her and Pleasant;
how strong and honest he was. Finally she nodded.

“Kubu must be worried sick,” said Mma Khotso.

“No,” Joy said. “I left him a message on the mirror. And I have
my cell phone.” She did not add that the phone was switched off.
She felt ashamed. Climbing out of the bathroom window had seemed so
clever, but she had no idea what to do next.

“My darling, you don’t look at all well. Wouldn’t it be better
to leave this to the police? It’s their business after all. That’s
why we pay all these outrageous taxes. Let’s have another cup of
tea.” Without waiting for a response, she poured.

Joy sipped the brew, crestfallen. “I have to find Pleasant. I
can’t just run back with my tail between my legs like a little
mongrel. Will you help me?”

“Of course, my darling. But what do you want me to do?”

“Mma Khotso, you know everything that goes on in Gaborone.
Surely you can help me find these men? Then we’ll just get Pleasant
to safety. I’ll call Kubu, and we’ll leave the rest to the
police.”

Mma Khotso managed to keep a straight face. “Ah, well, if you
promise to call Kubu as soon as we’ve found them, that shouldn’t be
too difficult.”

Joy brightened, completely missing the irony. “Where will we
start?”

“We’ll start by asking the women who always know where the men
are.” She shouted to the little back room, “Minnie! Come look after
the shop! I’m going out for a while with Joy. And offer the
customers some tea. This pot’s cold. Make some fresh.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

W
hen he heard what
Edison had to say, Kubu was beside himself and directed a few
choice comments at Edison about people who cared so much for their
stomachs that they neglected their jobs. When he calmed down, he
tried to formulate a plan with Mabaku.

“Where on earth would she go?” asked Mabaku. “Women are
impossible to understand!”

Kubu tried to think. “Well, she’s obviously gone to look for
Pleasant. It’s actually my fault, Director. She offered to come
here to help. I just thought she’d be in the way, but she might
have helped with suggestions about Pleasant’s acquaintances and
plans. At least she would have felt useful and involved. And she’d
have been safe. Now she’s running around looking for the very
people who are looking for her!”

Kubu knew he should be able to guess what his wife would do.
“She’ll go to a friend,” he said at last. “She won’t do this on her
own. Women don’t even go to the toilet on their own.” He had a
suspicion that this idea was not likely to add to his reputation as
a detective, but at least it was something. He started phoning all
Joy’s friends.

♦

Meanwhile a Constable Tswane was going door to door at the
apartment complex where Pleasant lived. Unfortunately, as it was a
weekday, most of the tenants were at work, and he was having little
success. But four doors down from Pleasant’s apartment his luck
changed. An old man answered the door and asked what he wanted. He
was so elderly that his hair was pure white.

“Rra,” began the policeman politely in Setswana. “I’m very sorry
to disturb you this morning. I’m with the police.” He presented his
identification, which the man looked at carefully. After a while he
seemed satisfied. “Very well. My name is Molobeti. Please come in.
What can I do to help the police?”

Tswane noted that the small living area had a balcony, with
carefully tended potted plants, overlooking the road. “Rra
Molobeti, did you hear or see anything unusual yesterday evening or
perhaps this morning?”

The man shook his head. “What sort of unusual thing?”

“We are looking for a lady called Pleasant Serome. She’s
missing, and her family is very worried.”

“Pleasant missing? But I saw her last night.”

“You know this lady?”

“Of course. She is my friend. Sometimes she brings me some of
her dinner or a piece of cake. She is a kind person. And we talk
sometimes. Her parents are dead. She is my friend.”

“When did you see her?”

The old man hesitated. “She was going out. I saw from my
balcony. I like to sit there in the evening with the plants.
Sometimes I drink beer if I have some, but last night I had run
out.”

Tswane was excited. “What time was that?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“Was she alone?”

Molobeti shook his head. “She was with two men.”

“Was she going with them willingly?”

Molobeti hesitated for so long that Tswane began to think that
he hadn’t heard. At last he said, “I suppose so.”

“Why are you not sure?”

“Constable, Pleasant is my friend. She is a nice young lady and
very pretty so she has lots of boyfriends. Nice young men.
Well-dressed, like the men last night. She would never drink, you
know? Nice girls do not do that.” He nodded for emphasis. “Now, the
other night, she had one young man who was drunk,” he added with
disapproval. “And she brought him here. I am sure she did not want
him to go home alone, or she would not have brought him here in
that condition. I have a beer myself from time to time. No harm in
it. But he had drunk too much.” He nodded firmly. This seemed to be
the end of the story, and the policeman was none the wiser.

“But the men last night?” he pressed.

“Oh, they were not drunk. They seemed fine. They were helping
Pleasant.”

Suddenly Tswane got the point. “You mean she looked drunk. Was
she staggering, unsteady? Were they holding her? One on each
side?”

The old man nodded, embarrassed for his young friend.

Tswane felt the urge to defend Pleasant’s reputation. “Rra, she
wasn’t drunk. She was drugged. She was being kidnapped!”

This revelation cheered Molobeti considerably. A young lady’s
reputation for sobriety is very important. But then he realized
that being kidnapped might be worse. What would they do to her?

“Now this is very important,” Constable Tswane said. “Do you
remember anything about the men? How were they dressed? And did
they have a car? Can you remember the color? Anything will help.
Your friend is in great danger!”