The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (52 page)

♦

If Kubu thought that this Sunday could not get better, he was
wrong. On the way home, his cell phone rang. He pulled onto the
dirt verge and stopped.

“Yes, Tatwa,” he said recognizing the number. “I’m having a
wonderful day. Please don’t spoil it.”

“Good news, not bad,” Tatwa said. “They’ve caught him!”

“Enoch?”

“Yes! The Namibian police are holding him in Katima Mulilo. They
got a tip from the headman of a fishing village on the Linyanti.
Enoch was staying with them, as bold as you please.”

“That’s wonderful, Tatwa! Now we can…” He stopped and corrected
himself. “Now you can wrap up the whole Jackalberry affair. Call
the director and have him arrange with the Namibians for you to go
and interview him.”

“I’ve already done that, and I can go tomorrow!” Kubu could hear
the excitement in Tatwa’s voice.

“Excellent. I’m sure you have all the angles covered, so go to
it. See if you can get a confession from him. Unlikely, but worth a
shot. I assume the director has started extradition
proceedings?”

“He said he would, but it could take some time.” Tatwa paused.
“Kubu, have you any advice? I didn’t make much headway with the
ranger from Elephant Valley Lodge. I’m worried I won’t do a good
job tomorrow. I don’t want to ruin the case.”

“You’ll be fine, Tatwa. I think you’ll find the Rhodesian civil
war is at the root of all this. Get into Enoch’s past. And don’t
forget you are asking the questions. No need to answer his or offer
any information.”

Then it was Kubu’s turn to share good news. Tatwa was delighted
and congratulated them both. Kubu realized that the whole police
force in Kasane would know by morning. He smiled, looking forward
to the avalanche of good wishes.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
atwa was so eager to
get to Katima Mulilo that he left Kasane at 6:00 a.m., which was
the earliest he could drive through the Chobe National Park on the
way to Ngoma Bridge. The border post was clogged with trucks, and
he sat patiently for about fifteen minutes before he remembered
that his boss had arranged expedited transit for him with the
Namibian authorities. He had been rehearsing his questions with
such concentration that he had forgotten this. With a big smile,
the tall man drove to the front of the line, where the Botswana
border guard waved him through. Much the same thing happened at the
Namibian control point, except that his passport was stamped. Even
with the needless delay, he was in Katima before 9:00 a.m.

He had coffee with a senior detective, who told him how they
found Enoch. Apparently Enoch had stumbled upon a small village,
with a story that he worked for an exploration company. After
dinner, one of the elders listened to the evening news on the
radio, learning of a massive manhunt for a murderer from Botswana.
Enoch fitted the description. The next day the old man borrowed the
communal cell phone and climbed to the top of a ridge where he
could get reception. Luckily there was already a police patrol not
too far away looking for Enoch, and they caught him a few hours
later heading into the bush. He did not resist arrest, but admitted
to nothing except his name. He refused to answer any questions.

“Well,” Tatwa said, “time to try my luck!” He wondered how he
would react to seeing the man who had almost killed him.

His colleague escorted him to an interrogation room where Enoch
was seated at a table, cuffs on his legs. He looked up as the two
men entered, but said nothing. “Good morning, Rra Kokorwe,” Tatwa
said politely in Setswana. He was pleased he felt no anger; he did
not want revenge, just that Enoch pay for his crimes.

“The Namibian police said I could talk to you before you’re
extradited. My colleague here has offered to tape this session. He
has told me that you know your rights both here and in
Botswana.”

Enoch stared at him, his face expressionless.

“When you return to Botswana,” Tatwa began, “this is what you
will face. Resisting arrest, kidnapping, and the attempted murder
of a policeman. That’s when you pushed me off the boat into the
river. Also, the murder of Sipho Langa and Goodluck Tinubu and the
theft of about half a million U.S. dollars. We have the money now,
by the way.” He looked across the table at Enoch, but his face
still revealed nothing. “The murder of Peter Jabulani, known to you
as Ishmael Zondo. And the murder of William Boardman in Maun.”

Enoch’s continued silence began to erode Tatwa’s confidence.

Tatwa stood up, but Enoch looked down at the table rather than
strain his neck. “Why did you kill Goodluck Tinubu?”

Enoch did not reply.

“Rra Kokorwe, keeping silent won’t help you. We’ve enough to put
you away for life without Goodluck’s murder. The longer it takes
you to help us, the less we will help you.” Tatwa sat down again.
Minutes passed.

“Okay,” Tatwa said at last. “Let’s start at the beginning. Tell
me how you know Rra Du Pisanie.” As he said this, Tatwa noticed a
shadow cross Enoch’s face, sadness rather than anger, resignation
rather than resistance. Perhaps I can get something from him after
all, Tatwa thought.

He stared into Enoch’s eyes. After a lengthy silence, Enoch
shifted slightly in his chair. Tatwa waited patiently. Then Enoch
spoke. “I met Dupie because I was in the wrong place.” Tatwa looked
hard at Enoch, trying to understand. He decided not to say
anything.

“I had dreams that this is how my journey would end. My
ancestors were always angry with me.” Enoch spoke so quietly the
two policemen had to lean forward to hear. “I must’ve done
something bad when I was young, but I don’t remember. Maybe
stealing milk from a neighbor or missing school to play in the
river? Surely these are too small for ancestors to be angry.” Enoch
paused, and the policemen said nothing. Tatwa knew what Enoch was
talking about. Although he was a Christian, he, too, believed that
everyone’s life was influenced to some degree by their
ancestors.

“From when I was a boy, I was in the wrong place.” Enoch
swallowed, trying to wet his throat. Tatwa’s colleague gave him a
glass of water. He drank half, and then continued, “When I was
about eight or nine, I walked home after school. It was late. I was
playing football with friends, so I walked across a farmer’s field
to save time. The next day I was in school, and the headmaster
called me to his office. The farmer was there. He said he’d seen me
in the field, and I’d let his cows out, and a calf was dead now,
eaten by a leopard. I told him all I did was climb the fence and
walk across. The cattle were there, grazing. I didn’t even go near
the gate. The man shouted that he’d seen me open the gate. I
started to cry. I promised that I hadn’t done anything. The man
turned to the headmaster and told him that if he didn’t punish me,
he would do it himself. The man was white and had a bad temper, so
the headmaster listened. I got a terrible lashing. I had done
nothing.”

The two policemen were drawn to Enoch’s story.

“That’s how my life is,” Enoch continued. “I’m always in the
wrong place. My ancestors are always frowning.” He took a sip from
the glass. “And now I’m here. What are they thinking now?” He shook
his head.

“When I was sixteen, my father took me out of school and made me
join the army. ‘Do you good,’ he said. ‘You can make some money;
help the family.’ It was okay. We were treated okay by the whites.
Even after the war started. They trusted us.” Enoch took another
sip of water. “One Sunday I stayed in the barracks. Most of the
others had gone to Bulawayo for the weekend. I was lying on my bed.
The district commander came in and shouted that we should go to his
office. I think there were five of us. We got dressed and ran to
the office. There was a big white man there with the commander.

‘This is Major Du Pisanie,’ the commander said, ‘from the Selous
Scouts. He needs some men. You’ve volunteered. You leave in thirty
minutes. Go!’ I didn’t want to go. There were bad stories about the
Scouts. If I was in town that day, I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t
have met Dupie. I wouldn’t be sitting here. I was in the wrong
place again.”

There was a long silence, and Tatwa was afraid that Enoch would
say no more. But he was only collecting his thoughts. “People say
that the Scouts were the best. We were. But we were also the worst.
We did what we wanted, when we wanted, sometimes to innocent
people.” Enoch struggled to maintain his composure. Several times
he sucked in breath as though he was about to sob. “And I was one
of them. I became like Dupie. And my ancestors shook their
heads.”

Enoch stopped talking. Tatwa noticed that one of Enoch’s eyelids
was twitching.

“How did you become so friendly with Dupie?” he asked.

“We never became friends, but something happened near the end of
the war. We learned that some workers at a farm near Bulawayo were
supporting the freedom fighters. Giving them shelter and food. We
went to find out what they knew. We got there at midnight and
dragged the men from their beds. We stripped them and tied them to
trees. Some of us started to torture them.” Enoch shook his head at
the memory. “We were laughing as they screamed. I still hear the
screams.” He paused. “Turned out later we were on the wrong farm.”
He shrugged his shoulders.

“Go on,” the Namibian policeman said, transfixed by Enoch’s
story.

“As we left, a man jumped from the bushes and rushed at Dupie.
He had a big cane knife. He must have been peeing or something when
we arrived. I didn’t have time to pull my revolver, so I jumped in
front of him and took the blow on my shoulder. Dupie was able to
shoot him before he could strike again.”

Enoch continued to sit erect in his chair, but he looked as
though his words were stuffing slowly being pulled from inside him.
He seemed to shrink right in front of Tatwa, defiant and defeated
at the same time.

“I had a deep wound through my shoulder. It was bleeding badly.
I thought I was going to die, and I was glad,” Enoch whispered,
drawing the two policemen closer. “Dupie wasn’t sure what to do. He
didn’t like me, didn’t like any blacks, but I’d saved his life. In
the end, he carried me almost a mile to where we’d left the
vehicles. Without him, I would’ve died. After that we were
partners. Looked out for each other. But never friends. Never
friends.” He drained the glass.

“After the war I went back to my village. Dupie left Rhodesia.
He couldn’t accept being ruled by the terrorist leaders. About two
years later, he came to the village. Said he needed someone to help
him run hunting trips in Botswana. Someone to look after his back.
Someone he knew he could trust. Would I go? So I did. There was no
work for me in Zimbabwe. When he went to Jackalberry twelve years
ago, I went too.”

“What about the Eyes?” Tatwa asked, remembering Dupie’s office.
He could see Enoch fighting to maintain a semblance of
composure.

“That came later. We took a group of businessmen hunting in the
Central Kalahari. They were from Turkey. One of them walked right
into a pride of lions lying in the grass. A lioness attacked him.
Luckily we were close by and shot it before she killed the man. He
wasn’t even badly hurt. Rips on his chest, but nothing terrible. He
was grateful and gave us money and an Eye each. He made us promise
that we would never get rid of them. He said they were for good
luck and would protect us. I hung mine around my neck. Dupie
carried his in his trousers. But we didn’t really believe him.”

Enoch shook his head. “A few months later I went to see my
family. I was waiting to catch a bus in Bulawayo. Someone tried to
stab me and steal my money. The knife hit the Eye under my shirt.
It saved me. When I got back and told Dupie, he said the same had
happened to him. It was a cool night and he was camping, sleeping
in the open. A mamba lay next to him for warmth. When Dupie woke up
he scared the snake. It struck at him, but hit the Eye. After that
we believed. What happened with the one happened with the
other.”

“And the night of the murders at Jackalberry?”

Enoch shrugged. “When Goodluck arrived, Salome thought he was
one of the men who had raped her thirty years before in the war.
Dupie didn’t believe it. She often had nightmares about it.
Sometimes she thought some guest at the camp had been there. It was
difficult for Dupie because he loves her. But he didn’t believe
her. Anyway he asked me to check Goodluck’s tent. I managed to get
his keys and found a briefcase full of dollars. I told Dupie, and
he saw a way to save the camp. You know Salome was running out of
money?”

Tatwa nodded.

“I think he always loved Salome. Maybe he thought this was a way
to show his love. To get her to love him. So he made this plan to
kill Goodluck and steal the money. He thought Goodluck deserved
this.” Enoch stopped talking.

“Tell us what happened, Enoch. What happened that night?”

Enoch remained quiet, head down, shoulders now slumped.

“Tell us. What happened?”

Suddenly Enoch sat upright and stared into Tatwa’s eyes. “Dupie
killed Goodluck. He had a sharp wire set in a piece of wood.
Something from the war. He knocked Goodluck out and stuck him
through the chest. Then he grabbed the briefcase, and I lifted the
body. We meant to throw it in the river. But suddenly Dupie
realized the briefcase was too light. It was empty. He’s quick,
Dupie. He always was. He told me to drop the body, and he cut the
throat and ears. I didn’t know what he was doing, but he’d made a
new plan. Goodluck must’ve given the money to someone else at the
camp, and he guessed it was Zondo. So we went to his tent, made him
give us the money, and then we killed him. We carried him to the
river and pushed him into the current.”