A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  The Gaborone Central Bus Station is on the verge of the city center. It is a large, more or less rectangular open lot, bordered by major roads on two sides and the railway line on the third. On the fourth side is the Gaborone Hotel and pub. Despite having fallen on somewhat seedy days, it remains popular with visiting businesspeople who cannot afford the prices or stomach the ostentation of the casino hotels.

  A mixture of vehicles of various shapes and sizes fills the lot. Minibus taxis crowd the narrow entrance, shouting at each other good-naturedly and hooting at the pedestrians in the street. Larger transport buses are parked toward the back of the lot. The ones from Botswana and South Africa look reasonably well maintained, and follow a schedule of sorts. In contrast, the ones from Zimbabwe are old, broken-down hulks. They travel when they are full, or when the driver feels like leaving. Their roof carriers are crowded with items that look like junk but are unobtainable in Zimbabwe—used tires, reconditioned car engines and other old and dusty mechanical parts from scrapyards, bags bulging with the nondescript treasures of their owners. Probably the passengers have come to visit relatives working in Gaborone. Perhaps they have been lucky enough to find short-term work themselves. They undercut the locals and are exploited by their employers. They make few friends. Many Batswana have lost sympathy for their desperate neighbors to the northeast.

  Everyone walks in the street. Flea-market stalls and hawkers overflow the sidewalks. Foodstuffs, cooked and raw, adult and children’s clothing, blankets, trinkets, mirrors, even household appliances, are crowded into small, collapsible stalls. Much discussion precedes each sale. The merchandise changes according to circumstance. When a thunderstorm is brewing, everyone sells umbrellas; when it is hot, bottled water and soft drinks in buckets of cold water appear. At nightfall, all stock disappears into battered old vans.

  The Old Man weaves his way through the flea-market crowd. Despite confusion, shouting, and hooting, he knows exactly where he is going. He moves out of the main shopping area and back off the street. Here stalls sell other sorts of items. Only a few people show serious interest in these goods. Some walk past slowly with the furtive curiosity that a conservative westerner might show for a newly opened sex shop, but most walk past quickly. The witch doctor makes a few inquiries and soon finds what he wants. He pays the price asked, and places the items carefully in his suitcase.

  Then he makes his way toward the intercity buses.

  Kubu looked at his young friend with disappointment.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before, Bongani? You’re a first-rate scientist. Surely you don’t believe in witch doctors and evil eyes and spirits who steal peoples’ names and souls? And that finger bone was evidence, possibly important evidence. You’ve placed yourself in the position of concealing evidence from the police.”

  “Yes, I know it was stupid. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I don’t know. I was scared, but I don’t know what I was scared of.”

  “I remember you were more upset than I expected the first time I met you. But I still don’t understand.” He lifted himself out of his easy chair. “I’ll get us another gin and tonic. For medicinal purposes. And some nuts. It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.” He headed off to the bar, leaving Bongani alone for a few minutes to search for enlightenment in his empty glass with its melting ice and flaccid lemon wedge.

  When Kubu returned, Bongani had pulled himself together. “His left hand felt like dry bone,” he said. “The feeling was all wrong; it was warm, but dry warmth, like a piece of stone left lying in the sun, not the warmth of live flesh and blood.”

  “Listen, Bongani, witch doctors do have powers. They have remarkable control of their bodies. They can trance. Some can go into a state of suspended animation.”

  “But the other hand was quite different. It was as cold as ice. So cold that my hand felt chilled! No one has that sort of control.”

  “No, I suppose not. But they are often skilled in hypnosis too. Are you sure that these things weren’t just in your mind? Carefully placed there by the witch doctor? You admit you were almost hysterical by the time he disappeared.”

  “But what would be the point? He didn’t ask for money.”

  “He could be reeling you in with his lion-skin pouch and your emotional reaction to the murder. You don’t know what else he has in mind for you once you’re taken in by this charade. You don’t even know what was in that pouch. It could be a piece of carved cow bone, anything.”

  Bongani concentrated on his drink, saying nothing. Kubu finished the nuts, using a finger to mop up the salt on the side of the dish. He expected an argument, but instead Bongani changed tack.

  “Did you ever find any parts of the hands? They weren’t attached to the body when we found it.”

  “A few pieces were identified as being part of a hand. The pathologist determined that. But nothing that would help to identify the victim.”

  “Was it possible to tell which hand they came from?”

  Kubu shook his head. “I didn’t ask, but it seems unlikely. Apart from orientation, the two hands will be pretty similar. Why?” Bongani didn’t answer, and an uncomfortable silence ensued while Kubu wondered if he should tell Bongani what the pathologist suspected. He decided that it was only fair to do so.

  “There was one thing, though. One arm was missing below the elbow, but there were marks on the humerus that looked as though it had been hacked at by something like a cleaver. They thought that the man might have been attacked and lifted his arm in front of his face to defend himself. Didn’t do any good, though. Perhaps his throat was slashed before they hit him from behind. The hyenas would have eaten any evidence of that.”

  Despite Kubu’s clinical tone, Bongani was glad he hadn’t eaten any of the nuts. “Which arm was it?” he asked quietly.

  “It was the left arm. If the assailant was right-handed, the victim would defend with his left.”

  “But it’s unlikely that a blow would hit the upper arm. It would be more likely to hit the forearm. Suppose I attacked you with a knife, and you wanted to protect your face with your arm. What would you do?”

  Kubu raised his arm to block the hypothetical blow and immediately took Bongani’s point. The forearm would face the blow.

  Bongani nodded. “You see? The radius bone would be hit and probably broken with a heavy blow. The humerus wouldn’t be damaged. But suppose the arm was hacked off after he was killed, not before? Maybe it wasn’t taken to the desert. Maybe it is ‘waiting’; the devil knows what for.”

  Kubu considered his glass and the empty peanut bowl, then looked at his watch. “I have to go home to dinner, or Joy will be upset,” he said, getting up. “I’ll try to track down your witch-doctor friend, though. He’s up to something, and I’d like to know exactly what.”

  Chapter 43

  Before the meeting started, while tea and coffee were served, Cecil took Dianna around, introducing her to each of the BCMC directors, starting with the most senior. He made a point of introducing her as his niece in order to emphasize the family connection. He was surprised to discover that many of the directors recognized her at once, but supposed they remembered her from the reception he had held for her and Angus when they first returned to Botswana more than a month ago. Dianna handled it well, remembering names and making a few pleasant and appropriate comments to each.

  At last they settled to their positions around the massive, rectangular yellowwood boardroom table. Cecil sat at one end with a large portrait of his brother behind him. Roland had been painted with a formal and somewhat stern aspect. The artist had captured the strength of Roland’s face, and the hardness. But the most striking feature was the intensity of the blue eyes that, Mona Lisa–like, seemed to look at each person around the table. When he’d been chairman, Roland had always sat at the far end, facing his portrait; Cecil had taken the opposite seat, saying with apparent modesty that he didn’t feel comfortable usurping the founder’s chair. But some of the older dire
ctors believed that he didn’t want those stern eyes watching him. It had become tradition that Roland’s chair remained empty.

  Cecil seated Dianna on his right, and the other members of the board assumed their usual seats. An overgrown telephone sat in the center of the table, with a spread of cables leading to strategically placed microphones. Cecil disliked it. It reminded him of a fat black spider in the middle of a messy web. He hoped it would work. He had experience in managing and manipulating people, but was uncomfortable dealing with a person while physically separated from him by technology. He’d made a point of being on hand when the technician installed the system earlier that morning, but had received small comfort for his trouble. He’d tried yet again to reach Angus at the hospital without success, being told curtly that he wasn’t available. He’d had to settle for testing it on a conference call with his personal assistant.

  The assistant was speaking into the handset now. Had she been able to contact Angus? She smiled, said something he didn’t catch, and carefully replaced the handset. Then she gave the thumbs-up. She’s behaving as though we’re on a sound stage, Cecil thought with disgust. The whole issue of Angus being in hospital for this crucial meeting infuriated him. It destabilized the meeting. And he remained unaware as to what Angus wanted or what he would say. How could the young man have been careless enough to pick up malaria at this crucial time? He realized he was nervous, still shaken by the interview with Mabaku. Those issues had yet to be resolved. They hung over him like an unpleasant shadow.

  Cecil decided that they might as well begin. He cleared his throat officiously.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attendance. I would especially like to welcome my niece, Dianna Hofmeyr, who is joining us this afternoon at my invitation. I also want to welcome my nephew, Angus Hofmeyr, who is unable to join us in person, as he is ill in South Africa, but who has joined us by teleconference from his hospital. This is the first occasion we have used this particular innovation. Angus, we are all extremely sorry to hear that you’ve contracted malaria and give thanks you are on the mend. While we would have been delighted to have you with us, we are glad that you are participating in this way and trust that it will be satisfactory for the board and for yourself.”

  There was polite applause. After several seconds’ pause, Angus’s voice came from the speaker. “Thank you, Uncle Cecil. I’m grateful to have this opportunity to address the board. As you all know, as of last Thursday, I speak for the Roland Hofmeyr Trust. And I have had quite a bit of time to think over the last few days. I’ve tried to put my ideas together in a short statement. I wanted to discuss it with you, Uncle Cecil, and Dianna first, but it simply hasn’t been possible. So I request the chairman’s permission to read my statement.”

  Cecil was taken aback. He had expected polite acknowledgments from Angus and Dianna, followed by the smooth formality of the board’s normal meeting. He had not expected any substantive input from the twins other than their acceptance, with appropriate thanks, of their nominations to the board. Still, he could see no reason to delay whatever it was that Angus wished to say. At this point he was interrupted by his secretary, who had glided quietly into the room. She said something to him, and he nodded and waved her toward Dianna. “If no one has any objection?” he asked looking around the table. Of course, there was none.

  Dianna read the note the secretary had handed her. She turned to Cecil, “I’m sorry, Uncle, it’s an urgent call concerning my mother in London. She’s…not well. Excuse me. Please go on without me. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She stood up and left, followed by the ever-attentive secretary.

  Cecil was furious. How were the Hofmeyrs going to run one of Botswana’s most important companies if they couldn’t get through a board meeting without rushing off to deal with each other’s medical problems? He had little time for his brother’s trophy wife. He thought her a hypochondriac and a shallow snob. She would have fitted perfectly into the British Raj, where she would have found kindred spirits in the British upper class to isolate her from the country in which she lived. In Botswana there had been none of that, and she had not fitted in at all. Now she had to interrupt her daughter at a crucial moment to complain about one of her spells, no doubt. He ground his teeth. Then he realized that everyone was looking at him, waiting for his decision on Angus’s request.

  “I’m sorry. Dianna had to deal with an urgent issue and will rejoin us in a few minutes. Please go ahead, Angus.”

  Angus cleared his throat.

  “The Botswana Cattle and Mining Company has a long and distinguished history in this country, dating to my father’s development of it from a collection of small cattle-farming properties in the south and mining investments around Francistown. The company is now a major player in Botswana, with government shareholding, providing great benefit to all the shareholders and the Batswana people. The company has a proud history of achievement.” A pause, and then he continued. “The company started in the colonial Bechuanaland days, when exploration and development were synonymous with progress, and little regard was paid to the environment or to the indigenous peoples. The rules of the game have changed since then. It is no longer acceptable to make profits and accelerate national development without thought of the cost. The world demands sustainable development and long-term concern for the environment. It wishes to see the local people benefit, as well as the economy as a whole.” He paused again to a murmur of agreement around the table; this was motherhood and apple-pie stuff and needed due recognition but nothing more. Cecil fidgeted with his pen, wondering where this was leading.

  “I wish to raise in particular the issue of the Bushman people. This company has supported moves to force them off their ancestral lands, and they have become little more than research material for anthropologists and a curiosity for tourists. Their deep culture and knowledge, nurtured and tempered by the desert, is facing destruction. Fewer than a hundred thousand survive! Their protests are treated merely as a passing embarrassment by the government. The High Court has upheld their appeal against their forced removal from the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. One of them said, and I quote, ‘I don’t need any piece of paper to show that land was given to me by God. It belongs to my forefathers and all my children who were born there.’ The issue has even been raised at the United Nations! This company is doing no better by them. My father was a great admirer of the Bushmen, and their help and advice enabled him to select the appropriate areas for his first farming ventures. Now that is all forgotten. I’m convinced that we must address their needs and legitimate grievances. This is not only morally right; it is essential for the continued acceptance of this company’s business in the Western economies and by the people of Botswana.”

  He seemed to finish, and there was silence. This went way beyond the acceptable platitudes, and Cecil wondered what on earth to make of this surprising intervention. Angus had never shown any interest in these types of issues before. Almost anything the chairman said would be problematic. Even lip service to this ideal could embarrass the representatives from the government, whereas to reject it would seem callous and dismissive.

  “We have always been concerned…,” Cecil began, but Angus ignored him and interrupted.

  “I fear that we will not be able to achieve this new approach with management so steeped in the previous philosophy of the company. I’m sure that we need new leadership, while at the same time appreciating and utilizing the experience and expertise of the present management team. I look forward to your reactions and guidance on these crucial issues.” A stunned silence descended over the boardroom.

  Once they were outside the boardroom, the secretary led Dianna to a small office next to Cecil’s suite. “You can take the call here, if you like,” she said. “It’s quite private. The doctor said it was very urgent, so I asked him to hold and came to call you at once.” Dianna nodded her thanks and waited for the secretary to leave and close the door behind her. She took a deep breath, made herself
relax, and picked up the handset. “Hello, darling. I’m here,” she said.

  Cecil realized that in his confusion and hesitation, he had lost the initiative. Several hands shot up around the table. He was relieved to see that one belonged to Roger Mpau, a respected investment manager believed to manage funds controlling almost five percent of the company. He was a levelheaded and independent person who would be able to say the proper smoothing things from the politically correct side of the racial spectrum. “The chair recognizes Mr. Mpau,” he said gratefully.

  “Mr. Chairman, this is a very unusual state of affairs. We have had an unexpected and, may I say, radical proposal presented to us by someone who is not even a member of this board. In the normal course of events, we should politely note the proposal and move on with the items on our agenda. Or perhaps, if feeling generous, appoint a small subcommittee to prepare a report for urgent presentation in six months or a year.” This produced some smiles, and Cecil started to feel relief that the issue would soon be gracefully behind them. But the relief was to be short-lived.

  “However, this is by no means the normal way of things. I need to remind this board that Mr. Angus Hofmeyr, as of a few days ago on his thirtieth birthday, controls the Roland Hofmeyr Trust, which in turn holds forty percent of this company. He is, to put it plainly, the new controlling shareholder. But more important still, what he says makes a great deal of sense. I know that the Botswana government cares deeply about the Bushman people.” Here he nodded pointedly to the two government appointees, thereby coopting them as accomplices to his argument—unwilling accomplices, perhaps, but still trapped by the political imperatives of what he was saying. “Several funds that require good practice on the sustainable-development front will not invest in our shares. We need to move to reassure them and our other stakeholders that we have recognized these issues and moved on. We should ask Mr. Angus Hofmeyr how he proposes we do that.”