Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  24

  Sunday was family day in the Bengu household. Kubu and Joy made a point of visiting his parents every Sunday after church. This Sunday Kubu and Joy decided to bring the lunch so his mother could have a relaxed day. Of course, his father never cooked. He spent his time tending a small garden of vegetables and medicinal herbs at the back of the house.

  Joy had a great love for her in-laws, and they treated her as a daughter. When Joy was fifteen, her mother died of tuberculosis, leaving her thirty-five-year-old husband to care for Joy, her brother, Sampson, and sister, Pleasant. In typical African fashion, he was supported by his and his wife’s families, who absorbed the children into their lives and homes. But five years later, he suffered a massive heart attack and died within a few days. Sampson was then twenty-one, Joy twenty, and Pleasant eighteen. The children sold their father’s general dealer’s shop, and so had a little money for the future.

  Joy and Pleasant took a secretarial course and decided to move to the capital, Gaborone, where there was more work and a larger pool of single men. Joy found a job as a clerk with the police department, while Pleasant joined a travel agency, where she soon upgraded her qualifications to become an agent rather than a secretary. Sampson stayed in Francistown and went to work for the government, in the Ministry of Lands and Housing.

  Kubu’s mother was overjoyed when he and Joy married. She had almost given up hope of her large, hard-working son ever finding a wife. Amantle liked Joy immediately and embraced her as one of the family. Even the reserved Wilmon emerged from his shell, showing her great affection.

  Kubu was looking forward to the visit, not only for the socializing, but also for the opportunity to quiz Wilmon more about Goodluck.

  On the drive to Mochudi, Kubu was preoccupied with the recent events at Jackalberry, and Joy knew that conversation would be futile. Normally, she and Kubu used this time to catch up, but today Kubu’s mind was far away, so she resorted to the Sunday newspaper. Even Ilia had curled up on the backseat. Typically, she spent the entire forty- or fifty-minute trip with her nose out of the slightly open rear window, her stub of a tail wagging nonstop. However, as they turned into the road where Kubu’s parents lived, she jumped up, yipping with excitement. She knew from experience that Wilmon and Amantle would spoil her.

  After he and Joy had carried the various containers of lunch into the house, Kubu greeted Wilmon.

  “Father,” he said. “You are looking well.” He extended his right hand, touching his right arm with his left hand.

  “David, you are welcome at my house.”

  Kubu turned to Amantle and kissed her on the cheek. “Mother, you, too, look well.”

  The duties of the son discharged, Joy greeted both Amantle and Wilmon in the modern way – with warm hugs. Kubu always wished he could photograph Wilmon’s face as Joy wrapped her arms around him. The usually impassive face managed to register happiness and reserve simultaneously.

  Normally, Kubu would not be able to raise the subject of Goodluck until after lunch, when the ladies went inside to clean the dishes and put the leftovers into little packets for freezing or refrigerating. Until that time, Amantle and Joy gossiped, while Wilmon and Kubu listened. However, this time, since much of Amantle’s gossip surrounded Goodluck’s tragic death in any case, Kubu had an early opening.

  “Father,” he said, “when I was here on Wednesday, you couldn’t understand why anyone would kill Goodluck Tinubu. Have you had any more thoughts about that? Or heard any from your friends?”

  “When you asked me,” Wilmon said quietly, “I thought you had made a mistake. I thought you had not identified him properly. I do not understand it.”

  Kubu interrupted. “The police were also worried about that because when we sent the fingerprints to Zimbabwe, they told us he’d died in the war. So we thought we’d better make sure that it was the same man as the headmaster of the Raserura School. We showed a photo of him taken at the camp to the teachers, and they identified him.”

  Wilmon shook his head. “I know it is important to help the police, so I spoke to the wife of a friend of mine. She works as a cleaner at Raserura School. She says nobody can understand it. He worked the whole time for the children.” He sat quietly for a few seconds.

  “Do you know if he had a girlfriend?”

  “I thought about that and asked her,” Wilmon replied with a glimmer of pride at anticipating his son’s question. “She told me that no one had ever seen him with a woman.”

  “What about Rra Madi?” Kubu asked.

  Wilmon did not respond immediately. “Rra Madi is also well respected in Mochudi. He was the assistant of Goodluck. He too is a good man. He will become headmaster, I think.”

  “There’s nothing you’ve heard that may help me? It doesn’t make sense – a man with a good heart and no enemies brutally murdered and disfigured.”

  Amantle stood up to clear the table. “A man like Goodluck, who does not have a wife, must have something to hide. Otherwise he could have been married a hundred times. Every single mother in town wanted to marry him. Maybe he did things or saw things during the war in Rhodesia that were always in his head. Maybe the children were his muti – his medicine for the mind.” When Amantle used this tone of voice, no disagreement was possible, because she was certain what she said was the truth. As she picked up the tray, she continued, “Maybe he met someone at the camp who was an enemy from the war. I am sure that must be it!”

  “But, Mother, that was thirty years ago! How would he remember?”

  “Your birth caused me much pain,” Amantle said softly. “And I remember every moment of it.”

  ♦

  “That was a strange visit,” Joy remarked as they were driving home. “Normally it is warm and cozy. This time there was a chill, a sadness, I couldn’t understand.”

  “I felt it too,” Kubu said. “It must be something to do with Goodluck’s death. It raises difficult questions when someone everyone knows and admires dies violently. Why a man like that? Why did God let it happen? How can God be so callous? I am sure my father prayed about it at church this morning. Perhaps the sermon was about Goodluck. It affects a community like Mochudi deeply.”

  They both lapsed into silence, thinking about their own beliefs, their own God.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  25

  On Monday morning, Kubu arrived at the office to find his inbox already beckoning with new papers. He filled his cup with tea, and took a few Marie biscuits from a packet in his bottom drawer. Reading Tatwa’s faxed report of the latest problems at Jackalberry Camp, as well as Dupie’s and Salome’s statements, his imagination re-created the camp and played out the events of Friday night. It was this introspective mood that was interrupted by the shrill ring of his telephone.

  “Hello, this is Assistant Superintendent Bengu.” He did not like the voice on the line. It was cool, falsely pleasant, dangerous. A white-male voice speaking English with an unfamiliar accent.

  “Superintendent Bengu? My name is Smith. John Smith. I was told you’re investigating the murder of a very dear friend of mine. Goodluck Tinubu. Is that correct?” Kubu confirmed this. “Yes. Well, you see, I’m interested in recovering something of mine that Mr. Tinubu had with him when he died. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  Kubu thought he did, but hesitated while he gestured to Edison to trace the call. “His briefcase?”

  “Yes, exactly. Very clever of you. I spoke to the police in Kasane, but they don’t seem to have such an item. Perhaps you felt it would be safer with you in Gaborone?”

  “Look, Mr. Smith, I don’t know who you are or what you want. I presume you can prove that you have a legitimate interest in this item? I think it would be best if you came to my office tomorrow, and we can discuss all this properly.”

  “I’m nowhere near Gaborone, Mr. Bengu.” The trace would later confirm that. “I don’t think it would
be healthy for me to appear at the Criminal Investigation Department anyway. Someone has already been killed for that briefcase, you know. I think we should meet privately. We can make a deal. A good deal for both of us. You do have the briefcase, don’t you, Superintendent? Much safer with you, I’m sure.”

  Kubu hesitated. He was sure that he was close to the core of the case. If he could get information out of Smith, he would understand why Goodluck had died and who was responsible. But how to do that? Smith seemed to think he was a corrupt cop with a valuable item to fence. Perhaps if he played along, he could flush Smith out.

  “I’m not saying I have it, but I’m not saying I don’t. I am saying that we should meet and see what we can arrange. You know the briefcase has interesting contents, so I’m not interested in talking to any of your cronies either, Mr. Smith. Only you.” He paused. “You may find you can push around overweight lodge managers, but I promise you’ll be sorry if you try that with me. Very sorry.”

  There was a long silence. When Smith replied it was brief and cold. “Very well. You’ll hear from us, Kubu.” Then the line went dead.

  Kubu wondered how Smith knew his nickname, and what else he might know. He hoped he hadn’t overplayed his hand.

  ♦

  Mabaku was apoplectic. “Kubu, for one of our smartest detectives, how can you be so unutterably stupid? We don’t know who these people are, or where we can find them. On the other hand, they know exactly who you are and where to find you. You’ve made yourself a target.” He gestured to the electronic inhabitants of his office. “This is how we work nowadays. Computers, tracing phone calls and e–mails, fingerprint databases, DNA tests. Not standing in the street inviting potshots and trying to guess the direction the bullet came from!”

  “Director, they’re white foreigners. I’m sure they think I’m the stereotype African policeman. They think they’re dealing with a corrupt cop, but actually they are dealing with the might of the whole Botswana Police Force!” Kubu tried to make it sound impressive, but Mabaku was not buying it.

  “The might of the Botswana Police Force has other things to do with its time! Other cases to work on! It’s pretty clear now what happened. They were using Tinubu to courier money – drug money, whatever. The other side of the coin – Zondo – decided to keep the money for himself. Open and shut. No attacks on innocent tourists. No international intrigue. And Langa was on their trail and got in the way. Exit Langa. Two and two. Four. Now you’ve complicated everything! Do you think they’ll be happy if you give them an empty briefcase?”

  Kubu tried to interrupt the tirade. “I don’t think Tinubu was a drug smuggler. And this was the only thing I could think of to draw them into the open.”

  Mabaku glared at him. “Edison stays in contact with you at all times. You don’t arrange any private meetings. I’m informed of everything. Beforehand! We don’t know how this Smith is going to react, and I don’t want any surprises. No more surprises!” He thumped his fist to emphasize each of the last three words in turn.

  Kubu nodded acquiescence and left to find Edison. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been as clever as he had thought. He would be very careful to ensure that the director got no more surprises. He was sure he could manage that.

  But he was quite wrong.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  Part Three

  UNFORGIVING MINUTE

  Fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  26

  The Munro sisters had made their way through the Okavango Delta and now were back at the comfortable Grand Palm Hotel in Gaborone. Trish wanted to rest, and Judith decided to relax by the pool. The visit to Jackalberry Camp had been upsetting and disconcerting, a confluence of events impossible to understand. The unwanted extra days at the camp had added to the stress, particularly as Salome – who had been friendly before – appeared to regret telling them her story and seemed to avoid them.

  The Okavango sojourn had been a relief, yet there had been no closure to what had happened at the camp. The answers were here in Gaborone, not in the pristine waterlands of northern Botswana. Judith lay in the sun feeling sweat form and evaporate, hoping that an hour in the sun would help relieve her tension.

  From the other side of the pool, a younger man checked her out and smiled. She smiled back in thanks for the compliment, expecting nothing more. He dove into the pool, swimming strongly while she watched. After a while he pulled himself out of the pool and walked over to her.

  “Sit here?” he asked, looking down at her. She nodded, smiling again, watching water drip from long black hair onto his tanned shoulders.

  “Sorry, English bad. Portuguese. Mozambique. Jose,” he said and laughed.

  She liked his accent and strong face, “Judith,” she said smiling.

  “Drink?” he asked, waving to a passing waiter.

  She nodded.

  “Gin with tonic?”

  She nodded again.

  Jose stretched out on the beach chair next to hers. “Here often?” he asked.

  Judith laughed. He laughed too, showing startlingly white teeth in his dark face.

  ♦

  Walking back to her room after an hour of flirting with Jose, Judith thought about men and love. She and Trish had experienced both – even marriage in her case – but it all seemed transitory. Perhaps she and Trish were too close. Sharing their lives since early childhood, their work, their interests. They were best friends and always had been. Their men never got to play that role. So what was left after the passion faded? Her mind turned to Salome. For her there had been no passion, no romance, perhaps no lovers at all. Just pain and violence that had now resurfaced.

  She found Trish sitting on her bed reading the letter from Shlongwane again. Her face was pale and strained. Perhaps she had even been crying. Her eyes looked red. Judith bit her lip. She didn’t want to revisit the horror and death. She wanted to tell Trish about Jose, to have dinner with him, perhaps to play tennis the next morning.

  “I’m going to have a shower and get changed,” she said.

  But Trish stopped her. “Shlongwane said he was supposedly killed after an attack on a farm, Judith. An attack on a farm! You don’t think…? Surely it’s not possible.”

  Judith pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders. “I’m getting cold,” she said.

  “I can’t bear it. Will you phone the school? Please. I can’t face it. I have the number. We have to know.”

  Why? Judith wondered. Why do we always need to confirm our fears? Why did we start this? Why must we finish it?

  “Give me the number,” she said.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  27

  Moremi had dreamed of far-off lands, of exotic dances, and colorful markets where women compared saris and talked in strange tongues. When he awoke, he had a hankering for a curry – not one that cauterized taste buds, but seduced with hints of tantalizing flavors.

  “We’ll do a bobotie, Kweh. What do you think?” Moremi asked his feathered friend who was sitting on a kitchen cupboard. Kweh cocked his head and chortled a reply.

  “I knew you’d agree. Everyone likes our bobotie!” Moremi took three medium onions from the wire vegetable rack and two large garlic cloves. Then he broke off about an inch of fresh ginger. At the table, he started peeling them all, sometimes humming, sometimes chatting to Kweh. When he was finished, he used a large knife to coarsely chop them into pieces.

  “There you are,” he said. “Now for the apples.” He took two green apples from a fruit basket and peeled them too. “This is for the bobotie, Kweh! Not for you. You can have the peel.” Moremi threw a long strand of apple peel at Kweh, who let it fall on the top of the cupboard. Then, clutching it in his claw, he nibbled on it, occasionally spitting bits out.

  Moremi poured two cups of milk into a bowl and dropped
in a couple of slices of bread. Then he wandered over to the gas oven, struck a match, and lit it. “Two thirty C means four fifty F. Two thirty C means four fifty F,” he chanted. Moremi then took a two-pound package of ground beef from the fridge. “Better if lamb. Better if lamb,” he muttered, unwrapping it.

  Suddenly he stopped what he was doing and turned to Kweh. “Solomon’s mokoro, Kweh. It was here. The morning after the murders. Do you remember? We thought Solomon and Beauty were here to set up for breakfast. But they came later with Dupie. So why was it here? Solomon’s mokoro?” Kweh looked as if he was concentrating, but didn’t offer any insights. Nevertheless the cook nodded. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe it was here the day before too. You could be right. You could be right. We should ask him.”

  Getting back to his cooking, he tossed the beef into a frying pan and browned it, spooning it into a large bowl when done. Then he threw the onion, garlic, and ginger into the pan.

  With a little smile on his face, Moremi picked up a piece of onion that had eluded the pan and tossed it to Kweh, who caught it deftly in his beak, but immediately spat it out. “Go away! Go away!” he cried in disgust.

  “Sorry! Sorry! Just a joke!”

  Moremi rummaged on a shelf in the cupboard, emerging with a container of curry powder and spooned a couple of tablespoons onto the translucent onions and stirred. “Too dry, too dry!” He grabbed several lemons, cut them in half, and squeezed the juice into the pan. Now the curry formed a paste. He also added a couple of tablespoons of brown sugar and a sprinkle of salt. “Stir, stir, stir the pan. Stir it very well.” Moremi spooned the mix onto the beef in the bowl. Then he threw in the grated apple. “What’s left, Kweh?” There was no response. Kweh was finishing off the apple peel.