A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  I’ll have to bring Joy here, he thought. She would love to be in such a beautiful place. He smiled as he thought of her thoroughly indulging herself. Perhaps Dupie and Salome will offer me a special rate when this is all over. He found himself humming Moremi’s tune, but the words still eluded him.

  With a sigh, he stood up. “I declare myself officially off duty,” he said, ambling back to the bar. He ordered a double steelworks from Dupie to settle the dust, with a glass of South African sauvignon blanc to follow. Tatwa soon joined him and was pleased to see his colleague with a drink. He ordered one of Botswana’s St Louis beers. Kubu thought it had insufficient alcohol, but Tatwa liked it.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about your problem of attracting guests,” Kubu said to Dupie. “You need some publicity in the overseas newspapers. Perhaps you could invite a travel writer to stay free for a few days. Have you ever tried something like that?”

  Dupie shook his head. “They only write about the luxury camps. They don’t want to stay at a place like this.”

  “You’ve never had any travel writer here?”

  Dupie shook his head again. “Not as far as we know. But a freebie’s not a bad idea. I’ll chat to Salome.”

  Kubu frowned. “Salome seems pretty depressed. She was talking about giving up altogether.”

  Dupie shrugged. “Well, it’s a blow, these murders. But she’ll come around. Maybe things will look up. Another glass of wine? On the house? You deserve one for the travel writer idea. Another beer for you?” He looked at Tatwa, realizing he had forgotten his name.

  Just as he was about to pick up his wine, Kubu felt his mobile phone vibrate. Who’s calling now? He hoped it was Joy. He walked away from the bar toward the water.

  “This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu,” he said.

  Kubu listened intently, hardly saying a word. Eventually, returning to the bar, he slumped on a stool and drained the warming glass of wine in a single gulp.

  “That was the director,” he said to Tatwa. “He’s heard from the Zimbabwe police. About the fingerprints.”

  Tatwa was swatting at mosquitoes with his cap. “Did they identify Zondo?”

  “Indeed. His real name is Peter Jabulani, and he’s regarded as a dissident, possibly worse. He shouldn’t be traveling anywhere since they’re holding his passport. They’re very keen to meet him now. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him if they get to him first.” He waited for Dupie to refill their glasses.

  “And the other fingerprints were definitely those of Goodluck Tinubu. There’s no doubt because we gave them a full set taken from the body, and they got a perfect match. There is a problem though.” He savored a mouthful of wine while Tatwa waited impatiently.

  “Goodluck Tinubu died twenty-nine years ago in the Rhodesian war.”

  Part Two

  BORROWED TROUBLE

  Borrow trouble for yourself if that’s your nature, but don’t lend it to your neighbors.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING,

  “COLD IRON”

  Chapter 14

  As he settled into one of Director Mabaku’s uncomfortable chairs, Kubu realized that he had to solve this case quickly. Otherwise he would be living in the director’s office—a fate he did not want to contemplate. He had driven directly from the airport north of Gaborone to the CID headquarters in Millennium Park in the vanguard of the western expansion of the city. The still wild Kgale Hill looked down on the intrusion of the new office buildings with disapproval, a tiny psychological barrier to inevitable westward growth. In time, the city would spread around it in an outflanking movement, leaving it isolated and eventually tamed.

  “So, what progress have you made?” Mabaku growled.

  “No further than where we were last night,” Kubu replied. “You know what the Zimbabwe police told us about Zondo and Tinubu. Zondo is not Zondo, and Tinubu died years ago. To all intents and purposes, neither exists. Makes solving a murder a little difficult.”

  “Don’t get me worked up, Kubu,” Mabaku said acidly. “I’m getting enough pressure from Tourism. They’ve been onto the commissioner, too! Remember those murders in Kenya about ten years ago? No foreigners went there for a year. A disaster!” He walked over to the window. Kgale Hill was sending in guerrillas. A small troop of baboons was scampering down the slope and over the wall into the parking area.

  “Tinubu died twenty-nine years ago,” Mabaku continued. “The Zimbabwe police say there’s no doubt about it, although he used the name George then, not Goodluck. His fingerprints match. That obviously doesn’t make sense. There’s been a screwup somewhere. They say he fought against Smith’s forces in the civil war and was killed in a raid on a farmhouse.” He paused, watching the baboons wander toward the CID building. “Zondo, whose real name is Peter Jabulani, also fought against Smith, but is now on Zimbabwe’s hit list. The security forces there want him badly. Treason, they claim. If they catch him, we’ll never get a whiff of him.”

  Suddenly he flung open the window. “Get off my car,” he yelled. “Fuck off!” The baboons paid no attention and continued to play with the mirrors of Mabaku’s old Range Rover. One looked up at him insolently and, with due deliberation, defecated in the middle of the metallic silver hood.

  “One day I’ll have the trainees come over and use them for target practice!” Mabaku fumed.

  Kubu said nothing. In fact, Mabaku had a soft spot for the baboons. They did not need to worry.

  “Mr. Director,” Kubu said. “We’re doing everything possible to find Zondo. Civil Aviation is checking all flights around Kasane and Maun. We’ve got a photo of Zondo taken by one of the guests, which we’ve circulated to all northern and central police stations and border posts. We’ve guys in Kasane, Kazungula, and Maun walking the streets on the lookout. There’s not much more we can do.”

  Mabaku returned to his chair. “At least there is some connection between Tinubu and Zondo,” he continued. “They both fought on the same side of a war nearly thirty years ago. We now know Tinubu taught at a school in Mochudi and became the headmaster. He wasn’t a salesman as he put on his papers at the camp. Your friend Edison Banda went to the school yesterday. Everyone was shocked when he told them Tinubu was dead. Very popular, apparently. But this Langa guy is a mystery. The South Africans confirmed his identity, and the car’s registered in his name. Never been in trouble. That’s all I got from them. There’s no obvious connection between him and the other two.”

  Kubu wriggled his ample body in the inadequate chair, trying to get comfortable. “Maybe he just got in the way,” Kubu suggested. “Maybe his death wasn’t premeditated.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Mabaku said. “And the South African police phoned me in response to Tatwa’s inquiry about Langa. Why did they do that? Why didn’t they get back to Tatwa? There’s something fishy going on. And I didn’t like the tone of the guy who called me from Johannesburg. Seemed reluctant to help with my other questions. I ended up phoning Director Van der Walle in Johannesburg for help. I explained the situation and asked him to let me know what Langa did for a living, who he worked for, and to ask around to see if they could find out why he was in Zeerust. But Van der Walle wasn’t his usual helpful self either. Listened, but didn’t say much. Said he would get back to me, but hasn’t yet.” Mabaku pressed a button on his intercom. “Miriam, two teas, please.”

  Kubu blinked. Mabaku did not usually offer tea.

  “Mr. Director,” Kubu said quietly. “We can only go as fast as we can go. If Zondo’s the culprit, then we need the help of the Zimbabwe police. If he isn’t, we’ll need a lot of legwork to find out who is. Nobody at the camp is a likely suspect, but we’re checking everyone’s background. However, I’d be surprised if we turn up anything interesting. We should have more information this afternoon.”

  For Kubu, the arrival of the tea tray was a welcome sight. Miriam poured two cups and offered Kubu a biscuit. He took three and arranged them strategically around his saucer, thus preem
pting the need to reach for more. For a moment, Kubu was lulled into thinking that he and Mabaku were friends. But the moment was brief.

  “I want you to go to Mochudi this afternoon,” Mabaku said as soon as his cup was empty. “See if you can add to what Banda’s discovered about Tinubu. Who were his friends? Did he have any enemies? Anything suspicious about his finances? The usual. Report back to me tomorrow at two.” He paused, then continued, “When you’ve finished at the school, stop in at your parents. I’m sure they’ll want to see you.”

  He waved a dismissive hand and pressed the intercom button. “Miriam, please phone Director Van der Walle in Johannesburg. Tell them it’s urgent. I want to speak to him now.”

  Walking out, still holding the last biscuit, Kubu wondered what was going on between Mabaku and the South African police.

  Chapter 15

  Kubu was hungry. The summons to see the director immediately after landing nearly four hours after leaving Jackalberry Camp meant he could not stop for food en route to the office.

  Now he needed to get to Mochudi for a 4:00 p.m. appointment with the deputy headmaster, leaving insufficient time to debrief Edison and also have a decent lunch. The only solution was to eat at the fast-food Wimpy hamburger joint with Edison. Fortunately for Kubu, since he was not fond of their hamburgers, the Wimpy offered its steak-and-eggs breakfast throughout the day. As he ate, he questioned Edison about Mochudi.

  “I found very little,” Edison replied between mouthfuls. “We searched Tinubu’s house. Very modest place right next to the school. Bare minimum of creature comforts. Only a few old black-and-white photos on the wall. They looked like school class photos. And one of what must be a young Tinubu and two friends. Not even a television. No personal letters. No sign of a girlfriend. I’ve asked for all his telephone records for the past year. Should have them tomorrow morning. We can see if there’s been anything unusual lately.”

  “What about his bank records?”

  “I’ve got them. Nothing unusual. Certainly no big amounts of money ever went in or out. There’s a monthly stop order for a hundred pula. I’m waiting for the bank to let me know where that goes. Teachers aren’t the best paid people in the world. There was very little money in his account.”

  “What was the reaction at the school when you told them he was dead?”

  “I spoke to the deputy headmaster, a man called Madi. He was clearly shocked. No acting there. He said Goodluck Tinubu was the kindest person he had ever met. I also spoke briefly to an assistant and one teacher who happened to be at the school. It’s school holidays, you know. They both had the same response. Shock and sadness. They both said the school would never be the same.”

  Kubu finished his steak. He had better get going. “How do I get to the school?”

  “On the way into Mochudi, turn left at Rasesa Street. The school is on the left just past the Welcome Bar Part 1. Strange name! Where’s Part 2?”

  “Oh, that’ll be at the high school,” said Kubu, leaving Edison to work out if he was serious. Most of the way out of Gaborone he needed to steer the vehicle through the apparently random behavior of traffic, pedestrians, and animals, even though the road was a modern highway. The greatest threat came from taxis. Their drivers obviously thought that having the word TAXI hand-painted on their vehicle bestowed unlimited privileges, including exemption from all the rules of the road.

  After about fifteen minutes, the traffic thinned and moved more quickly, giving Kubu a chance to call his parents for the third time since leaving the director’s office. Every morning Kubu’s father, Wilmon, turned on the cell phone Kubu had given him, convinced it would waste money to leave it on overnight. And every Saturday night he charged it with due ceremony, but he had never used it to make a call. He was proud of the phone and showed it to his friends. “A present from my son, David,” he would say, chest puffed out. “My son is an important man in the police.”

  Kubu was concerned. Wilmon’s phone always waited in eager expectation. But Wilmon was nearly seventy. Had he forgotten to turn it on? Had it malfunctioned? Or could the power outages in the Mochudi area the previous weekend be to blame? It would not occur to Wilmon to charge it on a weekday.

  The traffic had been unusually light and, having time to spare, Kubu decided to check on his parents on the way to Goodluck’s school. He turned off the highway toward Mochudi and drove through the higgledy-piggledy patchwork of houses on small plots along the road. He drove down the main street and turned right into Kgafela Drive, passing the Linchwe II Junior and the Molefe Senior Secondary Schools. Just after the Hungry Tummies Take Away and the Taliban Haircut and Car Wash, he turned right into his parents’ street.

  Driving toward their small house, Kubu saw his parents sitting on the veranda. Aha, he thought. There’s time for a quick cup of tea. As he stopped in front of the house, his mother, Amantle, stood up and waved. Wilmon took longer to stand. He did not wave, but awaited Kubu’s arrival at the top of the steps. Kubu extended his right hand, touching his right arm with his left hand in the traditional, respectful way.

  “Father,” he said. “You are looking well.”

  “David, you are welcome at my house,” Wilmon greeted him in Setswana. It was the same dignified greeting Wilmon always used.

  Kubu turned to Amantle and kissed her on the cheek. “Mother,” he said. “You too look well.” He hesitated, then continued. “I can only stay a few minutes and would love a cup of tea and, perhaps, a biscuit. I’ve had a really busy day.”

  While his mother bustled off to boil water, Kubu decided to investigate the case of the unanswered cell phone.

  “Father,” he said quietly, “I tried phoning you several times today, but you didn’t answer. I was worried. Is the phone okay?”

  Wilmon shrugged. “I decided to leave it off. It uses electricity, which is very expensive. And it is a lot of trouble.”

  “But, Father, it is useful to keep in touch.” Kubu did not mention that he paid for the electricity in any case.

  “We see you quite often. We do not need it,” Wilmon said stubbornly.

  Kubu knew his father, and how he treasured the phone. He thought for a while, then said, “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

  Wilmon was clearly embarrassed by the question and looked about as if trying to find somewhere to hide on the small veranda. Kubu sat silent, unrelenting. At last Wilmon grimaced and said, “You know I always charge it on Saturday evenings.” Kubu nodded.

  “Last Saturday, we were cleaning the floor, and at six o’clock the sofa was in front of the plug—that is the time I charge the phone. I decided to use the plug in the bathroom instead. I put the phone on the windowsill above the toilet while I plugged the cord into the wall.” He frowned. “Before I fixed the cord to the phone, your mother asked me to help move a table. When I finished, I had forgotten about the phone.” His embarrassment became acute, but he sat taller in his chair and continued. “Your mother had need of the bathroom and closed the curtains of the window. The curtains knocked the phone into the toilet!”

  Wilmon shook his head. “It was my fault. I took the phone out of the water and dried it, but I was scared to plug it in again. You cannot use electricity near water, you know.” He was not looking at Kubu.

  Kubu managed a straight face. “Father, you made the right decision. It could’ve been very dangerous. I’ll look at it and advise you.”

  He stood up, leaving Wilmon to his discomfort.

  A few minutes later he returned and said, “Father, you did a very good job of drying the phone. I turned it on, and it still works. I also plugged it in—very carefully—and it’s charging now. Everything is fine.”

  Wilmon broke out in a smile the likes of which Kubu rarely saw from his father.

  Twenty minutes later, Kubu had drained two cups of tea and consumed several rusks that he had successfully dunked without losing any into the tea. He briefly told them about the murders in the north.

  “Father,” Kubu said. “O
ne of the victims is from Mochudi. A man called Goodluck Tinubu.”

  Wilmon’s normally impassive face registered shock. “Goodluck dead? How can this be?”

  “You know this man?” Kubu was astonished.

  Wilmon snorted. “Everyone in Mochudi knows Goodluck. I am surprised you do not. He came here many years ago from Rhodesia. He is the headmaster of the Raserura Primary School. A good man, even if he is a foreigner. But then his mother was a Motswana. She married an Ndebele in Bulawayo,” Wilmon concluded with a touch of disapproval. “But we all liked him. He cared about the children.”

  “Do you know if he had any enemies?”

  Wilmon shook his head. “Everyone liked him.”

  When Kubu took his leave, his father’s final words to him were “Why would anyone kill Goodluck Tinubu?”

  “Why indeed?” Kubu muttered as he searched for Raserura Primary School. He missed Rasesa Street and had to ask the way. He turned around, drove a short way, and turned left into a road without a street sign. Kubu wondered whether other countries had street signs that mysteriously disappeared.

  Parking and leaving the car windows slightly open to let the heat escape, he walked through the main entrance. Classrooms were scattered around the property, each colorfully painted with a variety of cartoon characters, as well as letters of the alphabet and numerals. For an instant the buildings towered around him, the perspective of the small boy who had made his way from Mochudi to Maru a Pula school in Gaborone. How lucky he had been. His parents, uneducated and poor, had dreamed of their son being the first in the family to complete secondary school. Their priest, who liked Kubu’s soprano hymn-singing and spotted his unusual intelligence, persuaded the headmaster at the recently opened Maru a Pula school to give the young Bengu a scholarship. No doubt Wilmon had something to do with it too.