A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “We’ll need both of you to help,” Kubu said. “It’s something we’re not prepared for.” Kubu paused for effect. “Mother, Father, before Christmas you will become grandparents. We are having a baby!”

  Amantle jumped to her feet and hugged Joy. “The Lord has blessed us!” she said with a huge smile. “That is the best news in the world, is it not, Wilmon?”

  Wilmon, who was struggling to his feet, had a rare full smile. “I knew my son was a man,” he said, “and my daughter-in-law has brought us great happiness. We have prayed for this day ever since you were married. Even this morning I asked God to bless you with children.” He shook Kubu’s hand and uncharacteristically patted him on the shoulder. He would have shaken Joy’s hand too, but she was having none of it. She hugged him tightly and gave him a big kiss. A little flustered, he extricated himself, took a step back, and stood grinning.

  “We must celebrate!” Kubu said. “I have brought something to drink. Joy, get some glasses while I open the bottle.” Kubu opened a cooler bag and took out the sparkling grape juice. “It’s nonalcoholic, Father. I know that you’d disapprove of drinking alcohol on the Sabbath, even on such an occasion.”

  “Thank you, my son,” Wilmon said. “I know you would prefer something different.”

  A few minutes later the four drank a toast to the couple and the unborn baby. Joy and Amantle could not stop talking, so when they had emptied their glasses, Wilmon suggested a walk. Kubu knew Wilmon wanted to share the good news with the neighborhood as quickly as possible.

  To some he would say, “You know my son, the senior detective in the police? His wife is pregnant, and he is going to be a father!” To others, “My son has just told Amantle and me that we will be grandparents by the end of the year. Is that not wonderful?”

  It took an hour for Wilmon and Kubu to do the rounds. Kubu was touched by how respectfully his father was treated, how happy people were for him. There’s more to this man than I know, Kubu thought. Why can’t children know their fathers and mothers as friends as well as parents?

  When the four were again seated on the veranda, some of the women’s excitement had dissipated. Now there was a comfortable warmth among the four. Kubu was absentmindedly humming Moremi’s melody.

  “Oh, Kubu,” Amantle exclaimed. “You remember that song! I used to sing it to you when you were a child.”

  “What is it? I’ve been trying to remember.”

  “It’s called Sala Sentle. It is very beautiful.”

  Memories flooded Kubu’s mind. Memories of a happy childhood. Now he remembered the Tswana farewell song. He wondered if it had some special meaning to Moremi.

  “Are you going to give up work?” Amantle asked Joy.

  Joy had anticipated this question from her mother-in-law, but had not yet discussed it with Kubu.

  “I will keep working for now. But I’ll stop work later in the year to get ready. After the baby’s born, I’ll stay at home for a while.”

  “I was always at home,” Amantle said. “It is important for a child to have a parent who is at home.”

  “I agree,” Joy said, “but I enjoy my work a lot also. I’ll wait and see. I can’t predict how I’ll feel.”

  “Mother,” Kubu interjected, “Joy and I haven’t discussed this yet. I’m sure you know that we’ll do what is best. You and Father gave me the greatest gift of all, and Joy’s parents did the same for her—a loving home with lots of good common sense. We’ll do the same for our child.”

  “Oh, Kubu!” Amantle started to cry. “I am so proud of you both. We are so lucky, are we not, Wilmon?”

  Wilmon nodded agreement.

  A loud bark interrupted the proceedings. In all the excitement, they had forgotten about Ilia, who was feeling neglected. What about me, she seemed to say. I’m still here. Wilmon patted his lap, and Ilia jumped up immediately. Kubu leaned over to give her half a wafer biscuit that he had been saving. He was sorry to part with it, but Ilia deserved a treat.

  If Kubu thought that this Sunday could not get better, he was wrong. On the way home, his cell phone rang. He pulled onto the dirt verge and stopped.

  “Yes, Tatwa,” he said recognizing the number. “I’m having a wonderful day. Please don’t spoil it.”

  “Good news, not bad,” Tatwa said. “They’ve caught him!”

  “Enoch?”

  “Yes! The Namibian police are holding him in Katima Mulilo. They got a tip from the headman of a fishing village on the Linyanti. Enoch was staying with them, as bold as you please.”

  “That’s wonderful, Tatwa! Now we can…” He stopped and corrected himself. “Now you can wrap up the whole Jackalberry affair. Call the director and have him arrange with the Namibians for you to go and interview him.”

  “I’ve already done that, and I can go tomorrow!” Kubu could hear the excitement in Tatwa’s voice.

  “Excellent. I’m sure you have all the angles covered, so go to it. See if you can get a confession from him. Unlikely, but worth a shot. I assume the director has started extradition proceedings?”

  “He said he would, but it could take some time.” Tatwa paused. “Kubu, have you any advice? I didn’t make much headway with the ranger from Elephant Valley Lodge. I’m worried I won’t do a good job tomorrow. I don’t want to ruin the case.”

  “You’ll be fine, Tatwa. I think you’ll find the Rhodesian civil war is at the root of all this. Get into Enoch’s past. And don’t forget you are asking the questions. No need to answer his or offer any information.”

  Then it was Kubu’s turn to share good news. Tatwa was delighted and congratulated them both. Kubu realized that the whole police force in Kasane would know by morning. He smiled, looking forward to the avalanche of good wishes.

  Chapter 78

  Tatwa was so eager to get to Katima Mulilo that he left Kasane at 6:00 a.m., which was the earliest he could drive through the Chobe National Park on the way to Ngoma Bridge. The border post was clogged with trucks, and he sat patiently for about fifteen minutes before he remembered that his boss had arranged expedited transit for him with the Namibian authorities. He had been rehearsing his questions with such concentration that he had forgotten this. With a big smile, the tall man drove to the front of the line, where the Botswana border guard waved him through. Much the same thing happened at the Namibian control point, except that his passport was stamped. Even with the needless delay, he was in Katima before 9:00 a.m.

  He had coffee with a senior detective, who told him how they found Enoch. Apparently Enoch had stumbled upon a small village, with a story that he worked for an exploration company. After dinner, one of the elders listened to the evening news on the radio, learning of a massive manhunt for a murderer from Botswana. Enoch fitted the description. The next day the old man borrowed the communal cell phone and climbed to the top of a ridge where he could get reception. Luckily there was already a police patrol not too far away looking for Enoch, and they caught him a few hours later heading into the bush. He did not resist arrest, but admitted to nothing except his name. He refused to answer any questions.

  “Well,” Tatwa said, “time to try my luck!” He wondered how he would react to seeing the man who had almost killed him.

  His colleague escorted him to an interrogation room where Enoch was seated at a table, cuffs on his legs. He looked up as the two men entered, but said nothing. “Good morning, Rra Kokorwe,” Tatwa said politely in Setswana. He was pleased he felt no anger; he did not want revenge, just that Enoch pay for his crimes.

  “The Namibian police said I could talk to you before you’re extradited. My colleague here has offered to tape this session. He has told me that you know your rights both here and in Botswana.”

  Enoch stared at him, his face expressionless.

  “When you return to Botswana,” Tatwa began, “this is what you will face. Resisting arrest, kidnapping, and the attempted murder of a policeman. That’s when you pushed me off the boat into the river. Also, the murder of Sipho
Langa and Goodluck Tinubu and the theft of about half a million U.S. dollars. We have the money now, by the way.” He looked across the table at Enoch, but his face still revealed nothing. “The murder of Peter Jabulani, known to you as Ishmael Zondo. And the murder of William Boardman in Maun.”

  Enoch’s continued silence began to erode Tatwa’s confidence.

  Tatwa stood up, but Enoch looked down at the table rather than strain his neck. “Why did you kill Goodluck Tinubu?”

  Enoch did not reply.

  “Rra Kokorwe, keeping silent won’t help you. We’ve enough to put you away for life without Goodluck’s murder. The longer it takes you to help us, the less we will help you.” Tatwa sat down again. Minutes passed.

  “Okay,” Tatwa said at last. “Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me how you know Rra Du Pisanie.” As he said this, Tatwa noticed a shadow cross Enoch’s face, sadness rather than anger, resignation rather than resistance. Perhaps I can get something from him after all, Tatwa thought.

  He stared into Enoch’s eyes. After a lengthy silence, Enoch shifted slightly in his chair. Tatwa waited patiently. Then Enoch spoke. “I met Dupie because I was in the wrong place.” Tatwa looked hard at Enoch, trying to understand. He decided not to say anything.

  “I had dreams that this is how my journey would end. My ancestors were always angry with me.” Enoch spoke so quietly the two policemen had to lean forward to hear. “I must’ve done something bad when I was young, but I don’t remember. Maybe stealing milk from a neighbor or missing school to play in the river? Surely these are too small for ancestors to be angry.” Enoch paused, and the policemen said nothing. Tatwa knew what Enoch was talking about. Although he was a Christian, he, too, believed that everyone’s life was influenced to some degree by their ancestors.

  “From when I was a boy, I was in the wrong place.” Enoch swallowed, trying to wet his throat. Tatwa’s colleague gave him a glass of water. He drank half, and then continued, “When I was about eight or nine, I walked home after school. It was late. I was playing football with friends, so I walked across a farmer’s field to save time. The next day I was in school, and the headmaster called me to his office. The farmer was there. He said he’d seen me in the field, and I’d let his cows out, and a calf was dead now, eaten by a leopard. I told him all I did was climb the fence and walk across. The cattle were there, grazing. I didn’t even go near the gate. The man shouted that he’d seen me open the gate. I started to cry. I promised that I hadn’t done anything. The man turned to the headmaster and told him that if he didn’t punish me, he would do it himself. The man was white and had a bad temper, so the headmaster listened. I got a terrible lashing. I had done nothing.”

  The two policemen were drawn to Enoch’s story.

  “That’s how my life is,” Enoch continued. “I’m always in the wrong place. My ancestors are always frowning.” He took a sip from the glass. “And now I’m here. What are they thinking now?” He shook his head.

  “When I was sixteen, my father took me out of school and made me join the army. ‘Do you good,’ he said. ‘You can make some money; help the family.’ It was okay. We were treated okay by the whites. Even after the war started. They trusted us.” Enoch took another sip of water. “One Sunday I stayed in the barracks. Most of the others had gone to Bulawayo for the weekend. I was lying on my bed. The district commander came in and shouted that we should go to his office. I think there were five of us. We got dressed and ran to the office. There was a big white man there with the commander.

  “‘This is Major Du Pisanie,’ the commander said, ‘from the Selous Scouts. He needs some men. You’ve volunteered. You leave in thirty minutes. Go!’ I didn’t want to go. There were bad stories about the Scouts. If I was in town that day, I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have met Dupie. I wouldn’t be sitting here. I was in the wrong place again.”

  There was a long silence, and Tatwa was afraid that Enoch would say no more. But he was only collecting his thoughts. “People say that the Scouts were the best. We were. But we were also the worst. We did what we wanted, when we wanted, sometimes to innocent people.” Enoch struggled to maintain his composure. Several times he sucked in breath as though he was about to sob. “And I was one of them. I became like Dupie. And my ancestors shook their heads.”

  Enoch stopped talking. Tatwa noticed that one of Enoch’s eyelids was twitching.

  “How did you become so friendly with Dupie?” he asked.

  “We never became friends, but something happened near the end of the war. We learned that some workers at a farm near Bulawayo were supporting the freedom fighters. Giving them shelter and food. We went to find out what they knew. We got there at midnight and dragged the men from their beds. We stripped them and tied them to trees. Some of us started to torture them.” Enoch shook his head at the memory. “We were laughing as they screamed. I still hear the screams.” He paused. “Turned out later we were on the wrong farm.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Go on,” the Namibian policeman said, transfixed by Enoch’s story.

  “As we left, a man jumped from the bushes and rushed at Dupie. He had a big cane knife. He must have been peeing or something when we arrived. I didn’t have time to pull my revolver, so I jumped in front of him and took the blow on my shoulder. Dupie was able to shoot him before he could strike again.”

  Enoch continued to sit erect in his chair, but he looked as though his words were stuffing slowly being pulled from inside him. He seemed to shrink right in front of Tatwa, defiant and defeated at the same time.

  “I had a deep wound through my shoulder. It was bleeding badly. I thought I was going to die, and I was glad,” Enoch whispered, drawing the two policemen closer. “Dupie wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t like me, didn’t like any blacks, but I’d saved his life. In the end, he carried me almost a mile to where we’d left the vehicles. Without him, I would’ve died. After that we were partners. Looked out for each other. But never friends. Never friends.” He drained the glass.

  “After the war I went back to my village. Dupie left Rhodesia. He couldn’t accept being ruled by the terrorist leaders. About two years later, he came to the village. Said he needed someone to help him run hunting trips in Botswana. Someone to look after his back. Someone he knew he could trust. Would I go? So I did. There was no work for me in Zimbabwe. When he went to Jackalberry twelve years ago, I went too.”

  “What about the Eyes?” Tatwa asked, remembering Dupie’s office. He could see Enoch fighting to maintain a semblance of composure.

  “That came later. We took a group of businessmen hunting in the Central Kalahari. They were from Turkey. One of them walked right into a pride of lions lying in the grass. A lioness attacked him. Luckily we were close by and shot it before she killed the man. He wasn’t even badly hurt. Rips on his chest, but nothing terrible. He was grateful and gave us money and an Eye each. He made us promise that we would never get rid of them. He said they were for good luck and would protect us. I hung mine around my neck. Dupie carried his in his trousers. But we didn’t really believe him.”

  Enoch shook his head. “A few months later I went to see my family. I was waiting to catch a bus in Bulawayo. Someone tried to stab me and steal my money. The knife hit the Eye under my shirt. It saved me. When I got back and told Dupie, he said the same had happened to him. It was a cool night and he was camping, sleeping in the open. A mamba lay next to him for warmth. When Dupie woke up he scared the snake. It struck at him, but hit the Eye. After that we believed. What happened with the one happened with the other.”

  “And the night of the murders at Jackalberry?”

  Enoch shrugged. “When Goodluck arrived, Salome thought he was one of the men who had raped her thirty years before in the war. Dupie didn’t believe it. She often had nightmares about it. Sometimes she thought some guest at the camp had been there. It was difficult for Dupie because he loves her. But he didn’t believe her. Anyway he asked me to check Goodluck’s tent. I man
aged to get his keys and found a briefcase full of dollars. I told Dupie, and he saw a way to save the camp. You know Salome was running out of money?”

  Tatwa nodded.

  “I think he always loved Salome. Maybe he thought this was a way to show his love. To get her to love him. So he made this plan to kill Goodluck and steal the money. He thought Goodluck deserved this.” Enoch stopped talking.

  “Tell us what happened, Enoch. What happened that night?”

  Enoch remained quiet, head down, shoulders now slumped.

  “Tell us. What happened?”

  Suddenly Enoch sat upright and stared into Tatwa’s eyes. “Dupie killed Goodluck. He had a sharp wire set in a piece of wood. Something from the war. He knocked Goodluck out and stuck him through the chest. Then he grabbed the briefcase, and I lifted the body. We meant to throw it in the river. But suddenly Dupie realized the briefcase was too light. It was empty. He’s quick, Dupie. He always was. He told me to drop the body, and he cut the throat and ears. I didn’t know what he was doing, but he’d made a new plan. Goodluck must’ve given the money to someone else at the camp, and he guessed it was Zondo. So we went to his tent, made him give us the money, and then we killed him. We carried him to the river and pushed him into the current.”

  A chill ran through Tatwa, thinking of the body sinking in the water with monster scavengers. “Unfortunately Langa was snooping around and saw us. I had to kill him too.

  “In the morning, I wore Zondo’s hat on the boat in case someone saw us on the river. Dupie wanted people to believe that Zondo had left, that he was the murderer. It would’ve worked, but Rra Boardman was up early looking at birds.” He shook his head. “The ancestors again, you see? Well, he saw through his binoculars that it was me not Zondo in the boat. He tried to blackmail Dupie.”

  “So you had to get rid of him too?” Tatwa said.

  “Yes,” said Enoch, finally. “We had to get rid of him too.”