The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (39 page)

Tatwa gazed at Douglas, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Tatwa waited
until he was sure Douglas was not going to say anything. Then he
said, “Who do you get the drugs from and who do you give the money
to?”

Douglas sat, head down. The only movement Tatwa could see was a
clenching and unclenching of the jaw muscles. They sat in silence
for several minutes, Tatwa hoping Douglas would break, but he did
not.

“Okay, Douglas. I’ve given you your chance to help us. You’ve
blown it. Now we’ll deal with the serious stuff. In addition to
charging you with trafficking in drugs, I’m also going to charge
you with murder – the murder of Boy Gomwe.”

Douglas looked up. “That’s bullshit. And you know it.”

Tatwa continued. “Ms. Levine says that you told her where to
take Gomwe on the morning of his murder. You said he needed to be
taught a lesson for trying to muscle into the market around Kasane.
You knew what was going to happen; in fact you set it up. That
makes you one of the murderers.”

“That’s a lie,” Douglas shouted. “She’ll say anything to save
herself. You’ve nothing on me except her word. It’s all
bullshit.”

Tatwa glared at Douglas, knowing he was right. All the evidence
was circumstantial. They would never win a case based mainly on
Allison’s word. Tatwa’s self-confidence took a dive. He was sure
Douglas was implicated, but how was he to shake him?

Tatwa inhaled sharply. He was his own man now. He had to play
the game himself.

“I’m arresting you, Mr. Legwatagwata, for the possession of a
controlled substance, namely heroin. I expect to add charges of
dealing in a controlled substance, as well as of murder. Take him
away, Constable.”

“You can’t do this,” Douglas yelled. “You’ve got no evidence.
You’ve nothing at all. You can’t keep me here!”

Tatwa looked at Douglas as he was led struggling from the room.
“You’ll have your chance to prove that.” Tatwa spoke quietly with
more confidence than he felt. “You had your chance to cooperate,
but now it’s too late.”

Tatwa bit his lip, hoping the gamble of keeping Douglas in
custody for a few days would make him change his tune.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

W
hile Kubu was
interrogating Allison, and Tatwa was trying to make progress with
Douglas, Moremi was once again walking among the vendors of the
Kachikau Saturday market. He was doing three things. His philosophy
was that if you could do several things at the same time, perhaps
you could fit two or even three lifetimes into one. So he was
singing a song of his own composition to an apparently appreciative
Kweh. He was thinking of Botswana in the far past, before white
people, before Tswana people, before even San people, and how it
might have been. Most important of all, he was keeping a lookout
for a man wearing a very special hat.

Suddenly he spotted it. He stopped singing and walking, and
moved the thoughts of the past out of his conscious mind.
Disappointed, he realized that although the man had the right type
of build and height, he was not Ishmael Zondo. He stared at the man
for a few seconds.

“I’m sure it’s Rra Zondo’s hat, Kweh. Don’t you think so?”

While asking the question, he was moving toward the man. An
advantage of being thought eccentric was that you could do
eccentric things and people were not surprised. So approaching a
stranger and discussing his hat was entirely in character.

“
Dumela
,” he began politely. The man looked at him,
wondering what this was about. He had heard of the strange cook
from Jackal-berry Camp. The man nodded, but said nothing.

“Your hat is very fine!” Moremi continued. “Is it perhaps a
family heirloom? A man must be very proud to wear such a hat.”

Surprised, the man reached up and touched it. It was an ordinary
felt bush hat, quite worn and faded, with a floppy brim all around,
good for shielding the face from Botswana’s scorching sun. It had
three guineafowl feathers carefully sewn onto one side apparently
for decoration. When Moremi had asked about them, Zondo had said
each feather was for a different type of luck. Moremi had laughed,
delighted by the idea and the symmetry. There was no question that
this was the same hat. And it seemed that it hadn’t brought luck to
its owner after all.

“What would such a hat cost?” Moremi continued. “I suppose it’s
very expensive. A poor man like me would not be able to afford such
a hat.” He could see from the clothes of the hat wearer that he too
was poor. He held out his hand in greeting.

“My name is Moremi. I am happy to meet you. This is my bird. His
name is Kweh.” Seeing no harm in this peculiar man with his
fixation on hats, the wearer introduced himself. Some small talk
followed, in the course of which the possibility of the hat being
for sale entered the conversation. Moremi asked if he might hold
it, and checked it carefully, particularly admiring the feathers.
He asked where it had been obtained, and the man said it was a
gift, and then that he had found it, contradicting himself in the
same sentence.

Moremi nodded, then, with apparent regret, he said, “My friend,
this hat is stolen. I know it’s stolen because its owner valued it
and wouldn’t have given it away or sold it. Now you must tell me
how you got it and where.” Frightened, the man lunged for the hat,
but Moremi whisked it behind his back with a flourish. Kweh ruffled
his feathers, put up his crest, and stared with beady eyes.

Moremi shook his head. “Shall we call for help, my friend? Tell
them that I am stealing your hat? Tell them how you came to have
this hat, and so it is yours?” The man began to edge away, but
Moremi added quietly, “If you tell us the story of the hat, I will
buy it from you for a fair price.”

“I found it. It was in the bush, thrown away.”

“Where was that?”

The man gave a complicated description of the location. It was
near the airstrip that served Jackalberry Camp. Moremi nodded as if
he had known this all along.

“What did you do with the other things you found? The clothes
and stuff?”

The man swallowed hard. This madman knew too much. “There was
nothing else!”

Moremi nodding as though in agreement, jauntily placed Zondo’s
hat on his own head. Kweh investigated the new addition to what he
regarded as his domain.

“What did you do with the other things?”

The man capitulated. “There was only a coat. It was with the
hat. Nothing else. I gave the coat to my brother.” He threw up his
hands. “I kept the hat. You can have it. I don’t want it
anymore.”

Moremi walked away without another word. He knew he could find
this man again, knew that Constable Shoopara would now believe him,
and call the fat detective or the tall one. But he felt very sad.
He had liked Ishmael Zondo and his unlucky hat with the guineafowl
feathers. He hummed the snatch of music that had intrigued and
puzzled Kubu.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
he trip back to
Gaborone was uneventful. Unlike Joy and Pleasant, who seemed to
have an infinite number of observations about Sampson, his house,
his diet, and his apparent lack of girlfriends, Ilia was
uncharacteristically quiet. Except for a short visit to the grass
ditch at the edge of the road, she slept the whole way.

“What’s wrong with the dog?” Kubu asked.

“She’s just homesick,” Joy replied.

They had decided to stop for tea at Kubu’s parents since they’d
missed their usual Sunday lunch together, and Kubu wanted to fill
them in on the details of the attacks on Joy and Pleasant.
Fortunately Kubu still had the picnic chairs in the back of his
Land Rover. He brought one up to the veranda so they could all be
seated.

“We must buy some more chairs,” Amantle said to Wilmon,
embarrassed by not being able to provide adequate seating. “When
Pleasant comes to visit, we will need at least one more.”

“Why don’t you keep this one,” Kubu responded. “I have several
more, and we only use them when we’re with you and Father in any
case. I can always get it back if I need it.” Kubu knew that buying
another chair for the occasional time when Pleasant visited would
seem an extravagance to his parents. On the other hand, they would
be mortified by not having enough chairs. His offer finessed both
issues.

Even before tea appeared, Wilmon and Amantle wanted to hear
every detail of what had happened to Joy and Pleasant. Amantle had
collected several newspapers with reports on the event, and several
times contradicted one or other of the younger generation, telling
them that the newspaper had a slightly different version. She
obviously felt that anything in print must be correct.

When all the details had been laid to rest, Amantle leaned over
and touched Pleasant on the shoulder. “At least you are safe. You
must have been very scared. I think I would die if someone
kidnapped me. These days you do not know what they might do to
you.”

“It was horrible,” Pleasant said, holding Amantle’s hand. “I
didn’t know whether to cry or scream or keep quiet. Fortunately,
they only wanted to use me to get a briefcase from Kubu.”

“Which I didn’t have!” Kubu snorted.

“But they didn’t know that, did they, darling?” Joy’s question
rekindled Kubu’s guilt at leading the kidnappers on.

Surprisingly, it was the normally quiet Wilmon who spoke. “I do
not understand why it was Joy who found Pleasant. Why did Kubu not
do it? You have not rejoined the police, have you, Joy?”

“Father, Joy is a very difficult wife sometimes,” Kubu said
trying to keep a serious tone to his voice. “I told her to stay at
home with two policemen to look after her, in case the kidnappers
came again. When she heard about Pleasant, she climbed through the
bathroom window and was able to use her friends’ help to locate
where Pleasant was being held.” Kubu paused. “I have to say that
even though she shows me no respect, I was proud of how she solved
the problem. I’ll have to ask Director Mabaku whether there is an
opening in the CID. At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on
her.”

Amantle was far from satisfied. “Have you caught these wicked
men?” she asked. “If you have, you must take the whip to them.”
Kubu smiled to himself. His parents did not understand the
difference between the traditional tribal courts, where flogging
was an acceptable punishment, and the country’s formal legal
system, which did not mete out justice in that way.

“No, Mother,” he answered regretfully. “Unfortunately we
haven’t.”

Amantle gave a disapproving nod and headed to the kitchen to
fetch the tea.

For the next half hour, they talked about Pleasant’s kidnapping
and the unsolved murders of Goodluck and William Boardman. When
Kubu told them that yet another guest who had been at Jackalberry
Camp had been murdered near Kasane, Amantle stood up, fear in her
voice.

“Aaaii. Now you make me worried for all of you. These are very
bad men. I think a witch doctor must have made an evil spirit live
inside them. They are evil! I will not sleep until they are caught
and locked up. You were right to go to Sampson’s house. But you
should have stayed there.”

“I will calm your mother,” Wilmon said, standing up. He touched
her gently on the cheek. “Do not worry, Amantle. Our son is after
them. They will never get away. He is more clever than them.”

With his parents standing, Kubu thought it a propitious time to
leave. He kissed his mother on the cheek, encouraged her not to
worry, and formally took leave of his father, thanking him for
taking care of Amantle. Joy and Pleasant cleared the table and took
the teacups and plates to the kitchen. They both hugged Amantle and
Wilmon. Again Kubu saw the fleeting look of pleasure lighten the
reserve of his father’s face. He wants to be warm, Kubu thought,
but doesn’t know how.

Eager to get home, Kubu drove faster than usual from Mochudi and
eventually pulled up to the house on Acacia Street only a few
minutes after the desert night had enveloped the capital city. He
hoped they had done the right thing in returning. The kidnappers
were still at large.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu had a restless
night worrying about Pleasant and Joy. At 6:00 a.m. he made coffee
and toast and gave Ilia her biscuits. About half an hour later Joy
and Pleasant appeared. He asked them to be careful and to let no
one into the house. Before Joy could argue, he kissed her and
headed off to the CID.

After pouring himself another cup of coffee, he settled at his
desk and found a fax in his in-basket from Kachikau about a hat. He
was intrigued. Zondo’s hat. Another piece of the puzzle. He closed
his eyes, not to snooze, but to let the fringes of his
consciousness nibble at the unsolved cases.

Kubu had always loved jigsaw puzzles. The sky was often the
hardest part. Too uniform, too blue. Some sneakier puzzles had sky
pieces with one almost straight edge. So you would try to fit them
into the border of the puzzle without success because they actually
belonged in the middle.

Kubu took off his shoes and put his feet on the desk, thinking
about pieces of a puzzle made to look as though they fit in one
place, whereas they actually fitted somewhere else altogether.

This was the sight that greeted Mabaku as he entered Kubu’s
office. Kubu’s substantial feet in carefully darned clean socks
were nudging his in-basket out of the way. His eyes were closed.
Mabaku viewed this for a moment or two with a peculiar mixture of
disapproval and envy. “I can see you’re busy,” he said at last.
“I’ll come back later.”

Kubu opened his eyes, gave the director an apologetic smile, and
waved him to the well-worn guest chair. He maintained his
comfortable position.