A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Three hours later they arrived at the small town of Palapye. Ilia, who had slept quietly for much of the trip, started jumping around the car, diving from her backseat pad into Joy’s lap in the front.

  “Ilia needs a break,” said Joy.

  “Yes, we should stop for lunch,” said Kubu. “It’s after midday.”

  “But we’ve just finished breakfast!”

  “We’ll have something light,” said Kubu, visualizing a double cheeseburger.

  Kubu’s lunch break was interrupted by the call from Tatwa. Fortunately Kubu was down to mopping up the ketchup with the last of his chips while Ilia watched with disappointment. He listened with an occasional grunt.

  “A vehicle,” he said finally. “Probably they used a vehicle.”

  “The murderers?” Tatwa asked. “To get to the scene?”

  Kubu brushed this aside. “Suppose you wanted to make it look as though an elephant had crushed someone, you’d need something really heavy. I suppose a sledgehammer might work, but I’d guess that it would produce a different sort of injury. But drive over someone’s chest with a heavy vehicle? That would do your crushing for you. Broken neck is easy. You don’t need an elephant or a vehicle for that.”

  Tatwa hadn’t thought of that possibility. He would tell Forensics to check the tire tracks carefully. Then, changing the subject, he told Kubu about the briefcase with its false bottom. There was silence as Kubu considered the implications.

  “Get it to Forensics in Gaborone, Tatwa. I need to close the Tinubu loop in Zimbabwe, but I’ll keep in touch. Your instinct was spot on. I don’t buy the elephant story. We’re treating this as murder.”

  Chapter 51

  After the call, Tatwa went to reception and gave instructions that Gomwe’s tent be left untouched until the forensics team arrived. He made notes of what camp manager Adam Kamwi had told him, then considered what his next move should be. Having promised to keep the matter low key, he did not want to start by interviewing all the guests. However, he certainly wanted to talk to the woman who had been the last person to see Gomwe alive, and to the guide who had been the first person to see him dead.

  As he came to this decision, he was approached by a woman with an attractive figure and a rather stolid face. Her eyes were moist; she had either been crying or was close to tears.

  “Are you the detective? The manager sent me to talk to you. He said he couldn’t tell me anything about Boy and that I must talk to you. Something awful’s happened, hasn’t it? You must tell me.”

  Tatwa took her to a more secluded spot on the outside deck, ducking too late to avoid the polished log supporting the thatched roof. He gave the woman a wan smile, shrugged while rubbing his head, and invited her to be seated.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “My name is Allison Levine. I’m from Johannesburg. I was with Boy last night.”

  Tatwa nodded. “Ms. Levine, I’m afraid there has been a terrible tragedy. Your friend is dead. I’m very sorry to bring you this bad news.”

  The woman put her head into cupped hands and said nothing for several moments. “What happened?”

  “It’s believed that he was attacked by an elephant. Fortunately, it killed him very quickly.” The woman said nothing, as though acknowledging that her worst fears were realized.

  “May I ask you a few questions? Are you up to it?” She nodded.

  “Did you know his real name was Gomwe? Boy Gomwe?” She looked at him, surprised, and shook her head. Tatwa continued. “It seems you were the last person to see him. Would you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “We got up early, just after dawn. Boy wanted to jog. He said he never missed a day, liked to keep fit. He had a great body.” She broke off and wiped her eyes. “Anyway, I wanted to watch birds, and he wasn’t a birder, so I told him to stick close to the camp while I went for a walk around the grounds. I saw a flock of parrots, which is exciting because they’re not often seen here. They were really cooperative, so I called one of the guides to help me identify them. They were Meyer’s parrots. I wanted to show them to Boy—seemed romantic, you know? But we couldn’t find him. I guessed he’d run along the main track past the camp. Being macho, I guess. You men are all the same!”

  “Where did you see the parrots, exactly?”

  Allison gave him a puzzled look. “They were in the trees behind the pool.”

  “And the guide was there too?” Allison nodded. Tatwa made a note.

  “When did you get worried?”

  “When he didn’t turn up for breakfast. Even with a long run, shower, and change, he should’ve been there by nine. That’s when I went to the manager—Mr. Kamwi.”

  Tatwa asked a few more questions and made notes, but Allison had nothing more to add. She had been due to stay for another two nights, but now wanted to leave as soon as possible. Tatwa sympathized, but asked her to stick to her original schedule in case the police needed her help. She hesitated, but then reluctantly agreed.

  At this point Tatwa was informed that the forensics people had arrived. He took his leave of Allison, found the guide, Douglas, and asked him to show them where Gomwe had been killed.

  Tatwa drove with Douglas—the two men from Forensics followed in their own vehicle—as he wanted the opportunity to quiz Douglas on how he had discovered the body.

  “I drove up the road a way and then turned south. The paths from the lodge lead into the bush this way. I drove into the side tracks and open spots on the right and looked around a bit.”

  “Why only on the right?”

  Douglas glanced at him. “No footprints crossing the road.”

  Tatwa nodded. He hadn’t thought of that. Suddenly a flash of blue and purple flew across the road. “What’s that?” he asked the guide. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Lilac-breasted roller. Common around here.”

  “You obviously know a lot about birds. Did you help Ms. Levine with her parrots?” Douglas nodded.

  “Where did you see them exactly?”

  Douglas looked at him. “You interested in birds?”

  “Just a beginner. I saw a man with a tame go-away-bird the other day. Fantastic. Sat on his shoulder. Seemed to talk to him. Did tricks.” Douglas nodded, concentrating on the driving.

  “So where were the parrots?” Tatwa persisted.

  “I don’t know. Allison just described what she’d seen. Had to be the Meyer’s. The others don’t occur here.” He slowed, searching for car tracks.

  “What made you come this far?”

  “I was going to turn back. But there’s a clearing up ahead with a waterhole nearby. I thought he might have gone there. It’s actually a walking track but I knew how to get the vehicle through the bush from this side.”

  They had come to that point of the road. Douglas pointed out his tracks and those of Kamwi, before following them carefully through the bush. After a few bumpy minutes they came to an open area. A mixture of shrubs surrounded it, but it was presided over by a massive knobthorn tree. It had survived a dangerous youth and now was serene, too big to be damaged by even the largest elephant. Around it were elephant tracks, some dried dung, and wilting broken branches. There were also multiple vehicle tracks and boot prints. Hardly a pristine crime scene.

  “Where did you find Gomwe?”

  Douglas gave him a quizzical look.

  “That was his real name. Biko was a false name he was using at the Lodge. We don’t know why. Yet. Where did you find the body?”

  Douglas pointed at a spot surrounded by scuff marks and boot prints. The vehicle tracks converged there. I should have guessed, Tatwa thought.

  There was little to show for Gomwe’s death. Just a little dried blood on the dead grass. The forensics people started to look around, collecting samples and taking casts of the prints. They examined the tire tracks, checking for any clues to how Gomwe had died.

  Douglas stood by with a rifle, but did not look worried. The bush was still now, and quiet but for the bowing of cicadas. While
the others worked, Tatwa looked around but did not stray far. He did a full circle of the area looking carefully for tracks. He saw where the elephant had come and gone, noting its direction by the toe-smudge at the front of the elliptical pad mark. He had grown up in the bush and knew how to read its stories. A careless man on a jog or walk, let alone fleeing from an elephant, would leave easy signs of his progress, but he found none. Conveniently, it seemed, Boy Gomwe had materialized in this glade to be mauled and killed by a rogue bull.

  Chapter 52

  The Bengu family arrived at Sampson’s house in Francistown shortly after 3:00 p.m. A neighbor met them and let them into the house.

  “Make yourselves at home,” she said, very graciously Kubu thought, especially as it was not her house. He explored the fridge and, in the absence of the makings of a steelworks, helped himself to a St Louis beer. Joy and Pleasant settled for fruit juice, and Ilia for water.

  Unfortunately, Kubu was not fond of his brother-in-law, and the feeling was mutual. Sampson was number two in the Francistown office of the Ministry of Lands and Housing. He was always singing the praises of the government in general and his minister in particular. By contrast, Kubu felt that elected officials were only human, and so it was unfair to expect them to behave in a less selfish way than other people. Thus they needed to be watched carefully and not held in unreasonably high regard. Kubu’s viewpoint was much closer to the norm. Sampson was also a jogger and prided himself on keeping fit. Kubu felt such activities were imports from countries where people did not have enough work to do to keep themselves busy.

  However, after a very acceptable dinner, particularly in view of the bachelor fare Joy and Pleasant had for ingredients, the men were mellow. Kubu had brought an acceptable shiraz, and Sampson had been appreciative.

  Sampson had a sketchy knowledge of what had happened to his sisters, but now they filled in the outline and added the colors. He was shocked, but listened with only the occasional exclamation or question. He made no secret of his dissatisfaction with the police. Kubu felt he had a point and did not rise to the comments. After all he was requesting Sampson’s help.

  “I’m sorry to impose on you this way, Sampson,” Kubu said once the story was complete. “We think it’s best that your sisters are out of Gaborone until we wrap this case up. We don’t expect any more trouble, now that these people know I don’t have their money, but there’ll be a policeman keeping an eye on them just in case. From a distance,” he added quickly when Joy’s brow furrowed. “I’ll be in Zimbabwe for the next two days; after that I’ll stay for the weekend, if that’s okay with you, and then head back to Gaborone on Monday.”

  Sampson said it was fine, although it might be a bit cramped. All of them were welcome to stay for as long as they wished. He asked what Kubu would be doing in Bulawayo, but the detective avoided anything specific.

  “No cloak-and-dagger stuff, I hope,” said Sampson with a laugh, making a joke of it. “The minister wouldn’t want anything embarrassing to mar the president of Zimbabwe’s visit to the African Union meeting.”

  Kubu laughed too, adding, “I would’ve thought that receiving the Zimbabwe president in the first place was embarrassing enough.”

  Joy spotted an incipient argument and called for dessert. The tense moment passed.

  The next morning, Kubu left early and headed for Plumtree. He wanted to be at the border post before it became too crowded. He filled up with gas at the last possible point before Zimbabwe and bought two slabs of chocolate and two packets of cigarettes. He was unlikely to find any fuel available once across the border, certainly not without a long line. The collapse of the Zimbabwean currency meant that anything requiring hard currency to purchase—such as fuel—was very difficult to obtain. Shortly after that he came to the border post. Even with the early start he had to wait to get through immigration.

  He drove through Plumtree, Marula, and Figtree. Names of lush fruits for wilting towns, living on custom from visitors from Botswana. When he reached Bulawayo, he checked into the Holiday Inn and had lunch. He found the food good and cheap provided you were paying in foreign currency at the hotel’s special rate. After lunch, he drove through the town, noting lots of activity but unsure what all the people were doing around the poorly stocked shops and gas stations devoid of fuel. Yet the people were neatly dressed and did not look hungry. Zimbabwe’s economy was a puzzle. No doubt he would discover worse in the rural areas.

  From Bulawayo, he headed northwest for about an hour on a single-lane, paved road to reach the small town of Nyamandhlovu. He stopped to consult his map and ask directions, but carefully so that there was no real clue as to whom he wanted to find. He drove past a run-down building that was a hospital, according to a sign faded almost to illegibility. Perhaps people don’t get sick here anymore, he thought grimly. And so he came to the home of Paulus Mbedi.

  Chapter 53

  When Kubu arrived at the house, Mbedi was hoeing in his garden. His hoe consisted of a straight branch with the bark scraped off, side twigs removed and the knots smoothed out, and a rusty metal head tied on tightly with wire. He was working in a patch of stunted mielies, chopping out weeds and breaking the earth. But the ground was hard and dry, and he worked without high expectation. Other vegetables grew in the rest of the small patch of land. Flowers and attractive shrubs are luxuries for people who aren’t hungry.

  When he saw Kubu battling the gate’s rusty hinges, he tensed. The hoe moved to his right hand, and he held it by the middle, off the ground. It had become a defensive weapon. Kubu closed the gate with care although there seemed nothing to be kept in, and it was useless to keep things out. Kubu took in the vegetable garden with the drunken fence around it, the little house, neat but in need of paint, the chassis of a bicycle with no wheels leaning against a wall.

  “I’m Superintendent David Bengu,” he offered in English. “Are you Paulus Mbedi?” He saw the flash of fear in Mbedi’s face and the stiffening of his body, and added quickly, “I’m with the Botswana Police, not from Zimbabwe. Everyone calls me Kubu, which means hippo in my language, because of my shape.” Mbedi relaxed slightly, but did not smile or accept Kubu’s offered hand.

  “I am Paulus Mbedi. What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you about Goodluck. Goodluck Tinubu.”

  Paulus hesitated for just a moment. “I don’t know anyone with that name. Goodluck is a very strange name for a man.”

  “I didn’t say it was a man.”

  Paulus shrugged. “I don’t know anyone called Goodluck,” he repeated.

  “Paulus, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Goodluck is dead. He was murdered three weeks ago in Botswana. I want to find out who killed him and why, and make sure the murderer is brought to justice. I need you to help me. You helped Goodluck before, didn’t you? He needs your help again.”

  Paulus stood in silence. Death was a regular in this part of the world, and Paulus expected to bump into him from time to time. But this meeting left a taste of bile, and the fight went out of him. “You’d better come inside,” he said, putting down the hoe.

  They sat at a wooden table in the kitchen, and Paulus gave Kubu tea. It was in a kettle on the wood stove, and he simply added extra water and reboiled it. The taste was bitter from stewing but cut by the sugar Paulus added without asking. He measured two spoons each and stirred it in well. There was not much sugar left.

  “How did you find me?”

  “The money from Goodluck.”

  “There won’t be any more?”

  “At least not for a while. Perhaps in the will…” Kubu wished he had checked. Remembering the cigarettes and chocolates, he reached into his jacket and passed them to Paulus. He should have brought some real food instead. But Paulus accepted the gifts politely with both hands and his thanks. Then they disappeared into a drawer in the small kitchen unit by the stove. Barter was the real currency of Zimbabwe these days, and cigarettes and chocolates would fetch a good exchange.


  Kubu was not in a hurry. They talked about the late rains and the bad crops, and drank their tea in peace. When the cups were both empty, Paulus asked Kubu how Goodluck had died, and Kubu told him what had happened. He concluded by saying that Goodluck had been loved and respected in his adopted home and had built up a very successful school. Paulus nodded, knowing this.

  “How can I help you? It was very long ago.”

  “I need to know who Goodluck was and what happened before he came to Botswana. Then, perhaps, I can understand why he was murdered.”

  Paulus thought where to start. This was a story he had told no one before, and one he had expected never to tell. But now there could be no harm in it, if this policeman was telling the truth. And Paulus believed that he was.

  “My wife and I worked at the hospital at Nyamandhlovu,” he began.

  “Your wife?” asked Kubu.

  “Mary is dead,” replied Paulus, firmly closing that topic. “She was a nurse-aid, and I cleaned the equipment and the rooms.” He paused. “I don’t work there anymore. The money is worth so little, and I don’t have transport.” Kubu thought of the remains of the bicycle.

  “It was the terrible time,” he continued. “There was the war, and you didn’t trust the whites and couldn’t know who to trust among the blacks. We thought we were poor, but that was before…” He shrugged not wanting to mention the president’s name aloud. “Anyway, it was bad. There were terrorists and freedom fighters and police and army. Most people wanted to live in peace. We didn’t understand about politics. We still don’t.” He wanted to offer more tea but was afraid of running out of sugar. So he continued. “My friend Msimang had a bakkie. He used it for fetching and delivering electrical appliances like fridges when they needed fixing.”

  He looked at his own fridge, now a cupboard. He could not afford to get it fixed, and Msimang was long gone. “He drove here at ten one night and woke us up. We were soundly sleeping because there was work the next day. Perhaps I had drunk a beer or two because it was Sunday. He said he had found a man collapsed by the road. At first he thought the man was drunk, but then he saw all the blood. Msimang thought he’d been shot by the army or the police or vigilantes. He looked around but no one else was there, so he lifted the man and dragged him up onto the metal floor of the bakkie like a slaughtered pig. We thought he was dead. He should’ve been dead. But he was alive. So Msimang and I took him into the house and put him on the spare bed despite all the blood. Mary was a very fussy housewife but she made no complaint.