A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “Kubu, this case has got completely out of hand. I’ll tell you in a minute what I learned from the Munro sisters. They are waiting impatiently to tell you themselves, by the way. But everything has changed now. I don’t know what we are up against. International drug cartel? Money-laundering network? Who has the nerve to attack a senior policeman’s family? Even if he did invite it,” he finished bitterly.

  Kubu was fidgeting; he wanted action not philosophy. “We should be going through her flat inch by inch,” he said.

  “Underway,” Mabaku responded. “Now this is how we are going to deal with the situation.” He held up his hand to forestall Kubu’s interruption. “I should take you right off the case, but I’m not going to do that. Frankly, I can’t do that. You’ve put yourself in the center of it, and we’re going to exploit that.” Kubu started to thank him, but again Mabaku stopped him. “From this point on, I’m in charge. Tatwa will handle things in Maun. Edison will do the legwork here. You will be in on everything; but you’ll never be on your own; and your first priority will be Joy.” Kubu started to protest, but Mabaku was adamant. “We work this way, Kubu, or you’ll spend your time under house guard with Joy until it’s over.” Kubu calmed down enough to realize that this was fair.

  “Yes, Director, I agree. Now how do we go about finding Pleasant? I’ve promised Joy she’ll be home for supper.” Kubu wondered if he would come close to fulfilling that promise.

  Mabaku’s cell phone demanded attention. He listened for half a minute. Then he handed it to Kubu. “Well, it seems your wife has decided to take matters into her own hands. Now we have a double problem.”

  Chapter 38

  Mma Khotso’s shop was in African Mall, not a large western-style shopping center, but a collection of small establishments clustered around narrow streets and parking places near the middle of Gaborone. Known as Khotso Shop, it sold an eclectic mix of items, anything that appealed to Mma Khotso. But it was definitely a shop for women, and anyone was welcome to come in and browse, gossip, and have a cup of rooibos (“I’ve just made some fresh”) with as much milk and sugar as they wanted.

  Mma Khotso had an unusual sales technique. She always told the truth about her items even if—in fact, especially if—she used them herself. She sold Bami Beauty Cream. “It’s supposed to keep your skin fresh and a lighter shade and remove wrinkles,” she would tell a customer. “But it’s all nonsense. Every woman has an inner beauty, which shines through at every stage of her life. We don’t need these things. Look at me! I use Bami cream all the time, and you can see it makes absolutely no difference.” Although well past youth, Mma Khotso had a particularly smooth and wrinkle-free, silklike skin. The cream sold like hot cakes.

  Then there was the Love Lotion. The label had a rather rude depiction of a nude man, physically well endowed in every area, watched approvingly by a reclining woman. Mma Khotso turned the label away and was particularly scathing if a curious customer picked up a jar to look. “Love Lotion! When I was with my Jacob we always had a wonderful sex life. He always performed, and I had great orgasms! Of course he liked me to massage the cream into his inner thighs and on his balls and his thing. What man wouldn’t? But we never needed it. He was a bull, that man! He could do it two, and once even three times. Do you know that’s when he had his heart attack?” The Love Lotion sold well, too.

  When Joy entered the shop, Mma Khotso was showing a customer her new line of handbags, reputedly ostrich skin. “How could I sell it for 199 pula if it was really made from ostrich skin from Oudtshoorn in South Africa? It would be five hundred pula, more likely. And look here it says ‘genuine ostrich lether.’ The spelling of leather is wrong! They come from China, my dear. The Chinaman at the take-away restaurant orders them for me. They probably have people making the holes where the feathers were supposed to go, or maybe they have ostriches in China? I don’t know. But I’ve had one of these bags for years. They’re soft and really well made.” She showed the double stitching on the inside. “I got him to order more, because mine lasted so well. And only smart people like you and me can tell the difference. But ostrich skin for only 199 pula?” She shook her head. “People are so gullible, aren’t they?” The shopper bought the bag.

  Coming over to Joy, she could see immediately that something was wrong. “My darling, you look worried. What’s the matter? Let’s have a cup of tea. I’ve just made some fresh.” Joy admitted that a cup of tea sounded wonderful. Mma Khotso found a packet of finger biscuits in her cash drawer. “You look ill, Joy. Better have the tea very sweet for energy. And some of these biscuits. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  Joy told her everything that had happened since the two men came up her driveway. Mma Khotso said nothing until the story was complete. “My goodness, no wonder you’re worried! This is terrible! How brave you were, you and Ilia. But your husband has a senior police post. Surely the police will help you?”

  Joy shook her head. “You don’t understand, Mma Khotso, our parents are dead. Pleasant is my little sister. She’s my responsibility. Our brother is in Francistown, and he works for the government.” Mma Khotso understood at once. You couldn’t expect anyone who worked for the government to do anything constructive.

  “What if the police catch these men, but Pleasant is hurt, or killed?” Joy continued. “Sometimes the police don’t succeed in rescuing kidnap victims. Kubu says he doesn’t know what these people want, but would he give it to them anyway? The police don’t believe in paying off kidnappers.”

  Mma Khotso considered this for a moment. Then she said quietly, “Do you trust your husband, Joy?” Joy thought about how Kubu had fallen asleep while protecting her because he’d drunk too much port. Then she thought about how much Kubu loved her and Pleasant; how strong and honest he was. Finally she nodded.

  “Kubu must be worried sick,” said Mma Khotso.

  “No,” Joy said. “I left him a message on the mirror. And I have my cell phone.” She did not add that the phone was switched off. She felt ashamed. Climbing out of the bathroom window had seemed so clever, but she had no idea what to do next.

  “My darling, you don’t look at all well. Wouldn’t it be better to leave this to the police? It’s their business after all. That’s why we pay all these outrageous taxes. Let’s have another cup of tea.” Without waiting for a response, she poured.

  Joy sipped the brew, crestfallen. “I have to find Pleasant. I can’t just run back with my tail between my legs like a little mongrel. Will you help me?”

  “Of course, my darling. But what do you want me to do?”

  “Mma Khotso, you know everything that goes on in Gaborone. Surely you can help me find these men? Then we’ll just get Pleasant to safety. I’ll call Kubu, and we’ll leave the rest to the police.”

  Mma Khotso managed to keep a straight face. “Ah, well, if you promise to call Kubu as soon as we’ve found them, that shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  Joy brightened, completely missing the irony. “Where will we start?”

  “We’ll start by asking the women who always know where the men are.” She shouted to the little back room, “Minnie! Come look after the shop! I’m going out for a while with Joy. And offer the customers some tea. This pot’s cold. Make some fresh.”

  Chapter 39

  When he heard what Edison had to say, Kubu was beside himself and directed a few choice comments at Edison about people who cared so much for their stomachs that they neglected their jobs. When he calmed down, he tried to formulate a plan with Mabaku.

  “Where on earth would she go?” asked Mabaku. “Women are impossible to understand!”

  Kubu tried to think. “Well, she’s obviously gone to look for Pleasant. It’s actually my fault, Director. She offered to come here to help. I just thought she’d be in the way, but she might have helped with suggestions about Pleasant’s acquaintances and plans. At least she would have felt useful and involved. And she’d have been safe. Now she’s running around looking for the very people w
ho are looking for her!”

  Kubu knew he should be able to guess what his wife would do. “She’ll go to a friend,” he said at last. “She won’t do this on her own. Women don’t even go to the toilet on their own.” He had a suspicion that this idea was not likely to add to his reputation as a detective, but at least it was something. He started phoning all Joy’s friends.

  Meanwhile a Constable Tswane was going door to door at the apartment complex where Pleasant lived. Unfortunately, as it was a weekday, most of the tenants were at work, and he was having little success. But four doors down from Pleasant’s apartment his luck changed. An old man answered the door and asked what he wanted. He was so elderly that his hair was pure white.

  “Rra,” began the policeman politely in Setswana. “I’m very sorry to disturb you this morning. I’m with the police.” He presented his identification, which the man looked at carefully. After a while he seemed satisfied. “Very well. My name is Molobeti. Please come in. What can I do to help the police?”

  Tswane noted that the small living area had a balcony, with carefully tended potted plants, overlooking the road. “Rra Molobeti, did you hear or see anything unusual yesterday evening or perhaps this morning?”

  The man shook his head. “What sort of unusual thing?”

  “We are looking for a lady called Pleasant Serome. She’s missing, and her family is very worried.”

  “Pleasant missing? But I saw her last night.”

  “You know this lady?”

  “Of course. She is my friend. Sometimes she brings me some of her dinner or a piece of cake. She is a kind person. And we talk sometimes. Her parents are dead. She is my friend.”

  “When did you see her?”

  The old man hesitated. “She was going out. I saw from my balcony. I like to sit there in the evening with the plants. Sometimes I drink beer if I have some, but last night I had run out.”

  Tswane was excited. “What time was that?”

  “About seven o’clock.”

  “Was she alone?”

  Molobeti shook his head. “She was with two men.”

  “Was she going with them willingly?”

  Molobeti hesitated for so long that Tswane began to think that he hadn’t heard. At last he said, “I suppose so.”

  “Why are you not sure?”

  “Constable, Pleasant is my friend. She is a nice young lady and very pretty so she has lots of boyfriends. Nice young men. Well-dressed, like the men last night. She would never drink, you know? Nice girls do not do that.” He nodded for emphasis. “Now, the other night, she had one young man who was drunk,” he added with disapproval. “And she brought him here. I am sure she did not want him to go home alone, or she would not have brought him here in that condition. I have a beer myself from time to time. No harm in it. But he had drunk too much.” He nodded firmly. This seemed to be the end of the story, and the policeman was none the wiser.

  “But the men last night?” he pressed.

  “Oh, they were not drunk. They seemed fine. They were helping Pleasant.”

  Suddenly Tswane got the point. “You mean she looked drunk. Was she staggering, unsteady? Were they holding her? One on each side?”

  The old man nodded, embarrassed for his young friend.

  Tswane felt the urge to defend Pleasant’s reputation. “Rra, she wasn’t drunk. She was drugged. She was being kidnapped!”

  This revelation cheered Molobeti considerably. A young lady’s reputation for sobriety is very important. But then he realized that being kidnapped might be worse. What would they do to her?

  “Now this is very important,” Constable Tswane said. “Do you remember anything about the men? How were they dressed? And did they have a car? Can you remember the color? Anything will help. Your friend is in great danger!”

  Molobeti described the men as best he could, but his apartment was on the second floor, and he had only seen them from behind. But he was interested in cars. He gave a detailed description: green like a wine bottle, small, Hyundai. Tswane wrote all the details down.

  “Do you remember anything else that might help?”

  Rra Molobeti shook his head. “Not really. Just the license number. B234JRM. I remember because the numbers are so easy and the letters are my initials.”

  The constable thanked heaven for nosy old men with good memories. He shook Rra Molobeti’s hand several times and thanked him profusely.

  “We will now be able to rescue your friend, and she will be home soon. All because of your help.”

  The old man felt very proud. After the policeman left he treated himself to a congratulatory cup of coffee.

  Chapter 40

  Happiness House was in a seedier part of the city, in the direction of Tlokweng. Joy and Mma Khotso took a minibus taxi in the direction of the border with South Africa, got out at a café along the way, and then walked a few blocks back from the main road.

  The middle of the day was a slack time for the girls, and they were sitting drinking Cokes and eating take-out hamburgers from the Wimpy. Mma Zarte, the madam, was not pleased to see the two women approaching. In her experience when women come to a brothel, they are looking for their husbands or boyfriends, and there would be a scene whether they found them or not. But, like everyone else, she knew Mma Khotso and rose to greet her.

  “Good day, Mma Zarte,” said Mma Khotso politely. “I have brought you two jars of Love Lotion. One of the girls tells me it is useful if a client is a bit bashful when he takes off his pants. And this is my friend, Joy. We are hoping that one of your girls may be able to help us with a small problem.” She carefully did not give Joy’s surname.

  Mma Zarte looked suspicious, but accepted the lotion. “Just what is your small problem? We have to be very discreet here you know.”

  “We are looking for a foreign man. Someone new to the neighborhood. Someone even I don’t know. He has an accent.”

  “Black man? Why do you want to find him?”

  “He has gone off with this lady’s sister, and she is trying to track them down.”

  Mma Zarte called out, “Any of you girls had new clients recently? Black man with a foreign accent?”

  One of the girls said through a mouthful of hamburger, “A Zimbabwean? They’re hardly foreign anymore.” They all tittered.

  “Oh, yes,” said Joy. “He might very well be a Zimbabwean. They cause a lot of trouble these days.” She felt she was on safe ground now. No one would protect a Zimbabwean who was seducing a good Batswana girl.

  The prostitute finished her hamburger and wandered over. Obviously she was dressed for work, and Joy was amazed at how little was left to the imagination. It was fortunate that Gaborone was in the grip of a heat wave.

  “I’m Rachel,” said the girl. “So what about this guy?”

  Belatedly, Joy realized that men wouldn’t leave a forwarding address at a brothel, even if they weren’t criminals. “I want to know where to find him,” she said lamely.

  The girl nodded. “What’s it worth?”

  Joy would have paid any price, but Mma Khotso interrupted, “Ten pula.”

  “Fifty,” said Mma Zarte firmly. “Half for me.”

  “You got the lotion!” said Rachel. Mma Zarte gave her a cuff. “As though it’s any use to me! In my day I didn’t need cream to get a client to screw me! You girls are all spoiled.”

  “It’s agreed,” said Mma Khotso, cutting through the domestic tiff. “Now, what do you know, Rachel?”

  “Maybe he’s at that house that was for rent on Ganzi Street. Number 15, 17, 19. Something like that.”

  “How do you know?” asked Joy, amazed.

  The girl looked sullen. “He didn’t tip me enough. Ten pula! He had a good time even if I did make him wear a condom. I went through his wallet while he was using the toilet. He had the address written on a piece of paper between the money. I left it there after I read it.” She did not say how many of the pula notes she had not left.

  Joy asked what the m
an had looked like. Her heart sank when she learned he had a heavy beard. Both the men who had attacked her had been clean shaven. But it was still her best chance. She was grateful and gave Rachel a hug. Rachel was touched and volunteered, “There was a second address on the paper. Not near here though. It was in Acacia Street. I’m not sure about the number.”

  “Was it 26 perhaps?”

  “Yeah, that may’ve been it. How’d you know?”

  “Because that’s my address,” said Joy quietly. She paid Mma Zarte the fifty pula, thanked her and Rachel, and the two women left.

  “We must go there at once,” said Joy. This was not at all Mma Khotso’s understanding of the agreement, and she told Joy that the time had come to call Kubu.

  Joy shook her head firmly. “We must get Pleasant out first. Then we’ll call the police.”

  Mma Khotso took a deep breath. “Joy, my darling, how are we going to do that? There are at least three men—the two you met and the one with the beard. They’re sure to have guns. It’s one thing catching them by surprise with a bit of help from Ilia—and that was wonderfully brave of you both—but quite another attacking their fortress. What’ll you do? Walk up to the front door, knock politely, and threaten to practice beginner’s karate on them if they don’t immediately hand over Pleasant?”

  “I’m not a beginner,” Joy said sullenly, but she took the point. She had no resources and no plan. It was a job for the experts.

  “But suppose we’re wrong, and no one’s there? Then I’ll be back under house arrest and cooking for my jailers. We have to be sure. The house isn’t far. Let’s go there carefully and see. Then we can call the police.”

  Mma Khotso was dead against this idea, which she felt could only lead to trouble. But Joy was adamant. If her friend would not join her, she would go alone. Eventually Mma Khotso capitulated, but on the condition that Joy phoned Kubu the moment they arrived at Ganzi Street. So they set off.