The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (26 page)

Molobeti described the men as best he could, but his apartment
was on the second floor, and he had only seen them from behind. But
he was interested in cars. He gave a detailed description: green
like a wine bottle, small, Hyundai. Tswane wrote all the details
down.

“Do you remember anything else that might help?”

Rra Molobeti shook his head. “Not really. Just the license
numher. B234JRM. I remember because the numbers are so easy and the
letters are my initials.”

The constable thanked heaven for nosy old men with good
memories. He shook Rra Molobeti’s hand several times and thanked
him profusely.

“We will now be able to rescue your friend, and she will be home
soon. All because of your help.”

The old man felt very proud. After the policeman left he treated
himself to a congratulatory cup of coffee.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

H
appiness House was
in a seedier part of the city, in the direction of Tlokweng. Joy
and Mma Khotso took a minibus taxi in the direction of the border
with South Africa, got out at a café along the way, and then walked
a few blocks back from the main road.

The middle of the day was a slack time for the girls, and they
were sitting drinking Cokes and eating take-out hamburgers from the
Wimpy. Mma Zarte, the madam, was not pleased to see the two women
approaching. In her experience when women come to a brothel, they
are looking for their husbands or boyfriends, and there would be a
scene whether they found them or not. But, like everyone else, she
knew Mma Khotso and rose to greet her.

“Good day, Mma Zarte,” said Mma Khotso politely. “I have brought
you two jars of Love Lotion. One of the girls tells me it is useful
if a client is a bit bashful when he takes off his pants. And this
is my friend, Joy. We are hoping that one of your girls may be able
to help us with a small problem.” She carefully did not give Joy’s
surname.

Mma Zarte looked suspicious, but accepted the lotion. “Just what
is your small problem? We have to be very discreet here you
know.”

“We are looking for a foreign man. Someone new to the
neighborhood. Someone even I don’t know. He has an accent.”

“Black man? Why do you want to find him?”

“He has gone off with this lady’s sister, and she is trying to
track them down.”

Mma Zarte called out, “Any of you girls had new clients
recently? Black man with a foreign accent?”

One of the girls said through a mouthful of hamburger, “A
Zimbabwean? They’re hardly foreign anymore.” They all tittered.

“Oh, yes,” said Joy. “He might very well be a Zimbabwean. They
cause a lot of trouble these days.” She felt she was on safe ground
now. No one would protect a Zimbabwean who was seducing a good
Batswana girl.

The prostitute finished her hamburger and wandered over.
Obviously she was dressed for work, and Joy was amazed at how
little was left to the imagination. It was fortunate that Gaborone
was in the grip of a heat wave.

“I’m Rachel,” said the girl. “So what about this guy?”

Belatedly, Joy realized that men wouldn’t leave a forwarding
address at a brothel, even if they weren’t criminals. “I want to
know where to find him,” she said lamely.

The girl nodded. “What’s it worth?”

Joy would have paid any price, but Mma Khotso interrupted, “Ten
pula.”

“Fifty,” said Mma Zarte firmly. “Half for me.”

“You got the lotion!” said Rachel. Mma Zarte gave her a cuff.
“As though it’s any use to me! In my day I didn’t need cream to get
a client to screw me! You girls are all spoiled.”

“It’s agreed,” said Mma Khotso, cutting through the domestic
tiff. “Now, what do you know, Rachel?”

“Maybe he’s at that house that was for rent on Ganzi Street.
Number 15, 17, 19. Something like that.”

“How do you know?” asked Joy, amazed.

The girl looked sullen. “He didn’t tip me enough. Ten pula! He
had a good time even if I did make him wear a condom. I went
through his wallet while he was using the toilet. He had the
address written on a piece of paper between the money. I left it
there after I read it.” She did not say how many of the pula notes
she had not left.

Joy asked what the man had looked like. Her heart sank when she
learned he had a heavy beard. Both the men who had attacked her had
been clean shaven. But it was still her best chance. She was
grateful and gave Rachel a hug. Rachel was touched and volunteered,
“There was a second address on the paper. Not near here though. It
was in Acacia Street. I’m not sure about the number.”

“Was it 26 perhaps?”

“Yeah, that may’ve been it. How’d you know?”

“Because that’s my address,” said Joy quietly. She paid Mma
Zarte the fifty pula, thanked her and Rachel, and the two women
left.

“We must go there at once,” said Joy. This was not at all Mma
Khotso’s understanding of the agreement, and she told Joy that the
time had come to call Kubu.

Joy shook her head firmly. “We must get Pleasant out first. Then
we’ll call the police.”

Mma Khotso took a deep breath. “Joy, my darling, how are we
going to do that? There are at least three men – the two you met
and the one with the beard. They’re sure to have guns. It’s one
thing catching them by surprise with a bit of help from Ilia – and
that was wonderfully brave of you both – but quite another
attacking their fortress. What’ll you do? Walk up to the front
door, knock politely, and threaten to practice beginner’s karate on
them if they don’t immediately hand over Pleasant?”

“I’m not a beginner,” Joy said sullenly, but she took the point.
She had no resources and no plan. It was a job for the experts.

“But suppose we’re wrong, and no one’s there? Then I’ll be back
under house arrest and cooking for my jailers. We have to be sure.
The house isn’t far. Let’s go there carefully and see. Then we can
call the police.”

Mma Khotso was dead against this idea, which she felt could only
lead to trouble. But Joy was adamant. If her friend would not join
her, she would go alone. Eventually Mma Khotso capitulated, but on
the condition that Joy phoned Kubu the moment they arrived at Ganzi
Street. So they set off.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu traced the car
to a small local rental agency, which had accepted a fake
international driver’s license and a large cash deposit in lieu of
a meaningful address. He sent out an all-points bulletin with the
description of the car and the license number. This exercise had
temporarily taken his mind off Joy, but once the alert was out he
felt lost again. What should he try next? Then his cell phone
rang.

“Kubu, it’s Joy.”

“Joy, where on earth are you? I’ve been worried to death.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I do,” he lied. “This is all my fault. Just
tell me where you are, and I’ll come to fetch you.”

“I’m with Mma Khotso. We’re in Ganzi Street, near Tlokweng.
Kubu, I think they’ve got Pleasant in one of the houses here. It’s
a pretty poor area. Not nice at all.”

Kubu felt his throat close and go dry. He did not ask why Joy
thought that, nor how she had got there. Instead he asked if there
was a green Hyundai parked in the street.

Joy looked around until she spotted it. “Yes, Kubu, across the
road from us. Its number is B234JRM.”

“Joy, my darling, listen to me very carefully. That car was used
to kidnap Pleasant. Probably the bastards are very close! Stay
where you are, but keep out of sight. We’ll be there in ten
minutes, and we’ll get Pleasant out and catch these pigs. I’m
coming right now.” Kubu was already walking and signaling to
Edison. “Call the director!” he shouted. “I know where Pleasant is.
And Joy’s there too!”

♦

For Kubu it was a nightmare trip. Every traffic light was red,
every lane blocked by the slowest driver in Gaborone. He cursed
himself for not bringing a police vehicle with a siren. Soon he
emulated the minibus taxis, helping himself to sidewalks and
passing on solid lines. From time to time he checked that Joy was
still there, terrified something would happen to her before he
arrived. At last he was in Ganzi Street, and there was a small,
green car parked in front of a run-down house. But there was no
sign of the women.

“Joy, where are you?” he yelled into the phone. They emerged
from a narrow service alley. He pulled over, and they clambered in.
“You remember my friend Mma Khotso?” said Joy, not forgetting her
manners. Kubu nodded, then moved down the street. It was not
encouraging. The house was dilapidated, its uncurtained windows
watching the street. You could not get close to the house
unnoticed.

“We’ll go back to the café on the main road and meet Mabaku,” he
said. “We need a plan.” There was no suggestion that Joy would be
excluded from the proceedings. Kubu had learned his lesson.

♦

Mabaku drank foul take-out coffee as he listened to the group.
This was an extraordinary situation. They were discussing a
delicate police operation with two civilians – women at that – and
actually deferring to their opinions. But they had solved the
puzzle of Pleas-ant’s location swiftly, and the police would have
had little success at Happiness House. The problem was what to do
next. Kubu is completely out of it, Mabaku thought sourly. No idea
what’s going on.

He wants to call out the army! Mabaku knew that massive assaults
on positions with hostages often led to the death of the hostages
as well as their captors. That was out of the question. He held up
both hands to stop the debate.

“This is what we’re going to do,” he said firmly. “We’re going
to secure the area and watch the house. Sooner or later they’ll
contact Kubu. If we can get two of them out of the house, our
chances are much better. They’ll set up a meeting with Kubu
somewhere away from here. My guess is that the one with the beard,
who can’t keep his pants on, is the hired help and not smart.
Brothel down the road for heaven’s sake!” He directed a smile at
Mma Khotso.

“Yes, but they won’t leave Pleasant unguarded. How do we get to
her?” Joy was still desperately concerned for her sister.

“I’m betting they’ll leave Beardy for that. And we know what he
likes. This is a job for you, Mma Khotso. Do you think you could
get one of our younger policewomen looking like one of the ladies
up the road?”

Mma Khotso smiled. “Get me back to African Mall and tell her to
meet me there.”

♦

Mma Khotso had a cup of
rooibos
while she caught up at
the shop. No sales, again. No one seemed to sell anything when she
was not there.

“Must we all end up on the street?” she berated the unfortunate
Minnie. “Did you offer the customers fresh tea? And biscuits? Or
did you just try to sell them things they didn’t want?” Minnie
looked at the large tea leaves floating in her cup. Mma Khotso
snorted. “I can tell your fortune without those!” she said
sarcastically. But then she spotted a well-dressed lady examining
an elegant Italian rain jacket made in China. She bustled over.

“They’re really the height of fashion,” she told the customer.
“But it never rains here, so what’s the point? Although it does
seem a bit threatening this afternoon. And they are rather pricey.
Most people can’t afford them, although I do have one myself, of
course. Why not have a cup of tea, rather? We’ve just made a fresh
pot.” But the lady was in a hurry, so she bought the jacket and
left.

The next woman who entered was conservatively dressed, in a gray
suit. She was in her early thirties, short with curves in the right
places, and a face of well-defined features. She looked lost. Mma
Khotso realized immediately that Mabaku had sent her.

“I’m Sergeant Amy Seto,” the woman told her.

“Come, my dear, we’ll find you some clothes. Then we’ll come
back and do some makeup. Yours is too sophisticated, I’m afraid.”
She shouted back at her assistant, “Minnie! I’m going out. Try to
sell something while I’m away. A jar of Love Lotion at least! Find
some man and show them how it works!” Everyone laughed.

Mma Khotso took Amy to a shop that sold clothing for teenage
girls and selected a miniskirt that would need binoculars to see
the knees. She also bought hip-long black stockings and shoes with
suicide heels. Amy had wonderfully shaped legs, and she was quite
taken with the effect. She wondered what her boyfriend would
think.

Mma Khotso looked at Amy critically. “That blouse is hopeless.
She needs a tank top,” she told the shop assistant.

“Does Madam take a medium or a large?” asked the confused
girl.

“A small,” replied Mma Khotso firmly.

The top was so tight that all three were a little shocked by the
effect. But Mma Khotso was still dissatisfied. “Come here, my
darling.” She reached her hands into Amy’s bosom and carefully
slipped her bra cups down so that the breasts were lifted, and the
freed nipples stood out clearly. “Perfect!” she said. The shop girl
was speechless, but accepted Amy’s money and gave her change. Amy
then asked for a cash slip, making the poor girl blush by telling
her it was a business expense. Amy did a few turns in front of the
mirror, a little smile on her face. It would be fun to dress like
this for her man. In private, of course. Mma Khotso smiled too, and
decided they would be friends.

“Come, my dear,” she said. “We need to spoil the excellent way
you’ve applied your makeup.”

♦

The call came at about 5:00 a.m. “Superintendent Bengu? It’s
time to trade. Now we have something you want.”

Kubu knew he must not be too eager. “My sister-in-law? Come on!
You must do better than that.”