The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (30 page)

The constable returned with the extra chairs, and they settled
themselves around Beardy like hyenas circling a wounded impala.

“Then there’s the indecent assault on our policewoman,” Mabaku
said with satisfaction. This at last elicited a response.

“I didn’t touch the bitch! She pretended to be a fucking
prostitute!”

Mabaku nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s what prostitutes
do,” he commented, “but she wasn’t one, you see.”

“And there’s resisting arrest,” Edison chipped in, hoping this
was the moment.

“Quite right,” said Mabaku.

Beardy looked disgusted. “All right, you’ve made your point.
What do you want to know, and what’s in it for me?”

Mabaku looked pensive. “Well, we want to know everything,
actually. Who you work for, who was with you, how you got into
Botswana, why you attacked an assistant superintendent’s wife and
sister-in-law. That would be a good start. As for what’s in it for
you, if you cooperate, things may go a bit easier on you. That’s
all I’m offering right now. Let’s see how it all goes.”

Beardy shrugged. “This guy Johannes hired me for the job. I
don’t know who pointed him to me. Said it was an easy job. Just
guarding a house and a woman for a few days in Gaborone. He’d get
what he was after, we’d let the woman go – no rough stuff – and get
out. I’d get ten thousand pula for a week’s work. I had no problems
with that.”

Edison was making notes. “Where did he hire you?”

“Bulawayo.”

“Who were the other men with you here?”

“We called them Setu and Johannes.”

“What were their last names?”

Beardy shrugged again. “Johannes and Setu, that’s all. You think
I asked for IDs?”

Mabaku glared at him. “You said you were cooperating. Now you’re
lying and getting smart-assed with it.”

“We called him Johannes, the other guy, Setu. They called me
Khumalo. That’s how it was!”

Mabaku walked over to the bed and bent threateningly close.
“Who’s Madrid?” he asked loudly in Beardy’s face.

Beardy jerked his head away, fear playing in his eyes. “I don’t
know any Madrid.”

“Oh, I think your Johannes is very close to my Madrid, who you
don’t know. Maybe you’d better think again.”

“I don’t know a man called Madrid.”

“I didn’t say it was a man, but you’re right about that. A white
man actually. He and your friend Johannes attacked some people at a
tourist lodge near Kasane. Ring any bells?”

Beardy turned and looked Mabaku in the eye. “I know nothing
about that.”

Mabaku grunted and returned to his seat.

“How did you get into Botswana?” asked Edison.

“Johannes drove us down from Bulawayo. He had the contacts for
the house and car set up already. I don’t know who organized
that.”

“What about Happiness House?”

Beardy looked surprised. “That was on Saturday while the others
were out tracking down the second woman. I wanted a girl. What of
it?” Then it occurred to him why the police knew the location of
the Ganzi Street house.

“Oh, shit!”

Mabaku looked bored. “You have a problem with keeping your pants
on, don’t you, Khumalo? No wonder they dumped you to face the music
when they took off. Want to tell us why they were kidnapping a
policeman’s family?”

“I didn’t know who the women were. Just that we would pick up
one and hold her until we got some briefcase that Johannes wanted.
He said it was stolen from him.” He paused for a moment and then
asked, a little too artfully, “That true?”

Mabaku looked disgusted. “I’ll ask the questions. What was in
the briefcase?”

Beardy hesitated, but evidently decided he had better know
something. “Money,” he said. “A lot of money. U.S. dollars.”

“How much money?”

Beardy just shrugged. “A lot.”

“What’s this money for?”

“I told you, he hired me to help get it back from someone called
Bengu. I don’t know how this Bengu got it in the first place.”

“Was it for drugs?”

“Yes. I guess that’s right. Drug money.”

Mabaku got up again. “You’re not leveling with us, Khumalo. You
know that, and we know that. I guess your Zimbabwe friends might be
pretty upset about what you have told us, though. Why don’t you
think about that while we move you to Central Prison? To more
permanent accommodation.”

With that he walked out, followed by Edison.

♦

In the car, Mabaku seemed pensive. “What do you make of that?”
he asked Edison.

“It’s half the story. He knows more than he’s letting on.”
Mabaku nodded. “Exactly. He knows Madrid, all right. Did you see
his face when I asked him? But I think he was telling the truth
about the Jackalberry attack. That was news to him.”

“And the briefcase full of drug money?”

“Well, I think the briefcase bit is true – that’s what Madrid
wanted from Dupie and Kubu, after all. Maybe the money bit, too.
But he seemed a bit too keen to settle for the drug money
story.”

Mabaku thumped the dashboard. “Get him out of that damned
hospital into a nasty dank cell. Then maybe he’ll stop playing
games with us.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
rish and Judith met
Kubu at Livingstone’s restaurant, and they settled at a comfortably
large table. Kubu had a steelworks, and the sisters, who seemed in
a celebratory mood, ordered a bottle of white wine. Kubu wondered
if he would learn more if he waited until the wine took effect, or
if he would then learn nothing at all. But Judith took the
initiative.

“Are you married, Mr. Bengu? May we call you Kubu? It’s such a
wonderful nickname.”

“And children?” asked Trish.

Kubu admitted to being married, but that he had no children.

“What about your parents? Where did you grow up?”

Kubu felt he was losing control of the situation. He was the one
who should be asking the questions. He finished his steelworks and
ordered another.

“When did you decide to become a detective?”

“Well, I’ve always loved puzzles. My father used to buy them
from a street trader, and we’d do them together. Then, as I grew
older, I realized that puzzles don’t have to be physical things,
they can be problems, perhaps difficult problems, but if you apply
the same logic to them, you’ll find the solution. And my Bushman
school friend, Khumanego, taught me something else. That the pieces
of the puzzle are often hidden, but still right in front of your
eyes. That’s how the Bushmen live; they see things we just ignore.
Things that are food and drink and danger.”

He looked around, wishing he could enjoy the chardonnay.
“Where’s that waiter gone with my steelworks?” The waiter was
nowhere to be seen.

“Well, we must get to business,” Kubu continued. “I’m trying to
understand who Goodluck Tinubu actually was. A freedom fighter who
went over the top? A dedicated teacher? A drug smuggler? A victim?”
He shook his head. “He can’t be all of these things.”

Judith repeated the story they had told Mabaku, finishing with
the sneering indictment of Tinubu by Tito Ndlovu, the ex-terrorist
living in England. They paused for the appetizers. Kubu had chicken
livers, which were piquant. The chardonnay would have been
excellent to wash them down.

“How did you find out where Goodluck was living? Obviously
Ndlovu didn’t know.”

Trish answered. “Well, we found four Tinubus in Botswana, but
only one was a schoolteacher. We thought it had to be him. And, of
course, we believed he lived near Gaborone.”

“Why did you think he was a schoolteacher living near here?”

“It was in the letter from Shlongwane,” Judith answered.

“What letter?” Kubu was starting to lose the thread being tossed
between the two sisters. His veal arrived. It was delicious, and
when the last of the lemon sauce had been mopped up with the last
fried potato, Kubu was feeling content. But he was intrigued by the
mysterious letter.

“What letter?” he asked again. “Who’s Shlongwane?”

Judith picked up the story. “When we started researching the
project, one of the things we did was to scan old copies of the
Rhodesia Herald
from the war period. The newspaper was
censored, of course, and you couldn’t rely much on what it had to
say, but it gave us a feel for the times. One issue reported a
school teachers’ strike. The newspaper said it was unruly and
politically motivated, but admitted that the government had
misjudged the opposition to closing the school. It mentioned a
George Tinubu who was arrested for leading an illegal
demonstration, and we immediately remembered Ndlovu’s remark.
Tinubu’s not a common name. Another teacher called Shlongwane was
arrested as well.

“We found in a paper from after independence that the school had
reopened and many of the teachers reinstated. We wrote a letter to
George Tinubu but received no reply. So on the off chance, we wrote
a letter to Mr. Shlongwane. He wasn’t there, but the school
forwarded it to him, and after quite a while he wrote back. He had
moved to Harare, and his reply was posted in South Africa.”

Trish leaned forward. “Goodluck wasn’t a drug smuggler, Kubu. I
don’t know what he did in the war, but he wouldn’t do that. Not to
the children. You’d know if you read the letter.”

“Do you have the letter here?”

Trish nodded. “I’ll fetch it for you after lunch. But to get
back to your question, Shlongwane said he didn’t know exactly where
Goodluck was, but he thought he was near Gaborone. He’d received a
call from him once, many years before.”

“What about dessert, Kubu?” suggested Judith. “Do have
something. We have many more questions!”

Kubu wanted to get back to work, but he was intrigued by the
letter and feeling mellow after the meal. “The
creme brulee
is good,” Trish encouraged. Kubu protested that he was really too
full, but felt obliged to keep them company. How do they keep so
slim? he wondered. Must be something to do with the English
weather. They’ve matched me mouthful for mouthful!

By the time they had finished chatting, and Trish had fetched
him a copy of Shlongwane’s letter, the afternoon was well advanced.
The letter was several pages long and written in beautiful script
and good English. Mr. Shlongwane was clearly an educated and
meticulous man. Kubu felt a touch of excitement. Here, at last, was
a record from the start of the journey that had ended at a bush
camp on the Linyanti. He folded it carefully, to read at his
leisure and in private.

At last he took his leave, wishing the sisters well and a good
trip home. They shook his hand warmly, saying what a pleasant
afternoon it had been, and how much they appreciated his time. As
he left, Trish called after him, “We’ll send you a copy of the
article when it comes out.”

Kubu missed half a stride. Somewhere during the afternoon, he
had forgotten the article they were proposing to write. He wondered
if he had said anything he should not have, especially about
Director Mabaku.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

D
ear
Ladies
,

♦

Please excuse me for the long delay in replying to your
friendly letter of last January. It took several weeks to reach me
as it tracked me around this country. Frankly, I pondered as to
whether I should respond at all. I am not sure where George Tinubu
is, or even if he is still alive. If not, then it is his second
passing. I will explain later how that can be
.

The things you enquire about took place many years ago. The
memory of them is not pleasant and perhaps dimmed by that, and,
perhaps, it is best that these things are forgotten altogether. The
world is a different place now, both for better and for
worse
.

You are writers, so you will remember that Charles Dickens
started
A Tale of Two Cities
with the line: “It was the best
of times, it was the worst of times.” I suppose that reveals that I
am a teacher of English. But I think you know that already. It was
a set book for a final year at a high school where I once taught. I
liked the line and remembered it. Nowadays we do not teach or read
these books, nor do we study English history. Instead we study
African writers and history. Something is gained, but something is
lost
.

It was the best of times. We were young and keen. We felt an
excitement and a mission. There were three of us – George Tinubu,
Peter Jabulani, and myself – school friends, always together. When
we finished high school, we enrolled in the College for Teachers.
This was not because our education was paid for, but because we
felt a calling. “The children are our future.” That is what George
always said. After independence from Britain, we would run the best
school in Zimbabwe. We had ideas, ambitions. I had ideas,
ambitions. George laughed at me because he was a teacher and that
was what he wanted to do. I thought my ambitions could take the
whole country forward! I could be Minister of Education one day for
the ‘winds of change’ were sweeping through Africa. You must
forgive me; I was young, and these things seemed possible
then
.

But it was also the worst of times. For the door was shut and
bolted. In Southern Rhodesia the wind howled outside, but inside
there was only a whistling, creeping around the door. And when it
became Rhodesia, padding was stuffed in the cracks, and it became
stiffingly still
.

There came a day Peter told us he was leaving. He could not
stand back and wait for others to win our freedom. The next day he
was gone. I thought we should follow him, but George said no. “Our
job is to teach,” he said. So George and I carried on at the
college, and we talked politics and planned for freedom, but we did
nothing. The war growled around us like the sound of traffic on
busy streets outside your house
.