The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (31 page)

When we graduated we went to teach at a school outside
Bulawayo at a place called Nsiza. We both wanted to go to a country
area where we felt the need of good teachers was greatest. The
Nzisa secondary school was happy to have us for we had done well in
our training. So it seemed we might wait out the war and bring
these children to a new world. But that was not to be
.

The school was some way outside Nsiza, and the time came when
the government of Mr. Ian Smith said it was not safe. That the
terrorists – as they called our fighters – would come and attack us
and kill the children. I think they were afraid that we were
sympathizers and that we would secretly support the fighters. The
school was a boarding school where the children lived during the
teaching term. An important official came from the Department of
Education and explained that the villagers would be moved into
Nsiza, that the children could go to school there. He was not clear
about what school or whether we were to go too, only that we were
all to leave. The headmaster was very upset and said he would write
to the Department. But we could all see that he was scared. Of the
fighters and of the police. So George stood up and addressed the
man from the Department. He spoke very calmly. I cannot remember
his exact words after all these years, but he said something like,
“We are grateful for your concern about our safety and that of our
pupils here at the school. We are happy to tell you that there is
no danger here; these children are the future. No one will touch
them. We will stay here with them, and they will be safe. Now you
must excuse us because we have our duties.” With that, he turned
and left, and we all followed. Even the headmaster! We left the man
in the staff room on his own, so surprised that he left shortly
after. Can you imagine such a triumph for a group of school
teachers?

But triumphs are transitory. A week later a policeman came,
this time with an eviction order. We were all to be gone by the end
of the month. It was clever, because that was the half-term, and
the pupils would go home in any case. Normally we would stay and
prepare for the next term. After the policeman left, we assembled
again in the staff room. The headmaster addressed us. He told us he
had heard from the Department, they understood our concerns, and
they said we must obey the police instructions. We would be
reassigned to different schools. We would lose no benefits or
salary. He sat down, relieved, as though the matter was resolved. I
am proud to tell you that this time I raised my hand. What about
our education initiatives? I asked. What about our pupils? How
could these people destroy our school? The headmaster said we had
no option. Then George got up, and we were all quiet, wondering
what he would say this time. And I do remember his words, even
after all these years. He said, ‘The headmaster is right. At least
for me, there is no option. I will stay here and be ready with my
lessons when the pupils return.‘ Then he sat down
.

There was much discussion. Would the pupils come back? Would
they not be kept in the town? Should we not obey the Department?
George listened to all this quietly. Then he said, “Our comrades
are fighting and dying. I am not a man of war but a teacher. This
is my calling. When the pupils come back, I will be ready with
their lessons.” That was all he said. He did not call on us to join
him. He just said he would be there. Then he let the talk fly
around him like a swarm of desert locusts
.

When the new term started ten of the twelve teachers were
there. We had our lessons ready. No pupils came, and a few days
later they sent the police under the charge of a black sergeant.
The government did not even think we were worth a white officer.
The sergeant assured us that the pupils were all being well
educated in Nsiza, and that jobs would be found for us. He had
trucks to take us and our belongings to Nsiza. He would wait while
we packed. We were no longer safe where we were. The army could no
longer protect us
.

We turned to George; the headmaster was one of those who had
not returned after the break. He explained that we were waiting for
the children. That they would come back. In the meanwhile we would
wait at the school. There was no need for concern about our safety.
The sergeant was quiet for a few moments. Then he told us that his
orders were that we be taken to Nsiza. We could pack and his men
would help us load the vehicles. But we had to leave in two hours
time. George just looked at the sergeant. Then he said, “I need to
finish marking my test papers.” And he turned away
.

After two hours, none of us had packed. The sergeant came
into the staff room and started reading the emergency regulations
that had been promulgated after the Unilateral Declaration of
Independence. When he was finished, he told us we must now all get
onto the trucks or we would be in conflict with the regulations.
George told him that these regulations were illegal, for they had
never been signed by the Governor General who was the only
legitimate legal authority in the country. It was the only time I
heard him say anything to the sergeant against the regime of Mr.
Ian Smith and its Unilateral Declaration of Independence
.

The sergeant came back after ten minutes with all his men
with night sticks. Afterwards they said we ‘resisted arrest,’ that
we ‘punched police officers carrying out their duty,’ that we
‘incited disobedience against the government.’ I hope that we did
all of these things, but I cannot say. Almost at once I was hit on
the head by a policeman, who seemed to enjoy ‘carrying out his
duty,’ and I regained consciousness in a cell at Nsiza police
station
.

They held us for three months, but we were never charged with
anything. We discovered that our colleagues had been released
almost immediately, and they had been given postings in other parts
of the country. We were the ringleaders, it seems, and had led the
others astray. After our release, we looked for jobs for the next
teaching year. I wanted to get back to work, George wanted to get
back to teaching. But soon we realized there were no teaching jobs
available. Not for dissidents and agitators. I found a job at the
Wankie coal mine doing clerical work, but, for George, they had
taken away his life
.

After I moved to Wankie, we lost touch, but I heard through
the grapevine that he had gone over the border. That could only
mean one thing, but I found it impossible to imagine George as a
freedom fighter. Perhaps it was Peter Jabu-lani who recruited him.
If so, he should have known no good could come of it. About
eighteen months later I heard that George was in a group involved
in an attack on a farm and had been killed in a skirmish with the
Selous Scouts afterwards. I mourned the man, and I mourned the
waste. The world seemed dulled, covered with a layer of the gray
coal dust of Wankie. Shortly after, I found a school which would
have me as a teacher near what was then called Fort Victoria. I
took the job and moved away from the coal and the past
.

That, dear ladies, is what I recall of those best and worst
of times. Things are different now, and all the things fought for
are lost. In those days we thought that the British Government
supported us because it felt that freedom was right and that Mr.
Smith’s government was wrong. But now we get no support from
Britain against a government even worse. I wonder if all along it
was Mr. Smith’s disobedience that the British Government could not
tolerate, rather than his policies
.

There is one more thing to add, perhaps the most important
for you, and a happy ending. About a year after the end of the war,
I received a telephone call at my home near Bulawayo. It was George
who phoned. I have no doubt of that because the things he told me
only he could know. He did not say how he found me, only that he
wanted me to know that he was alive and teaching in Botswana,
somewhere near Gaborone I think he said. He asked me to tell no
one. I said I thought he was dead, that he had been killed by the
security forces. He did not laugh. “Yes,” he said, “that George
Tinubu died there. I nearly died, but a good couple nursed me till
I was better. When I could travel, I crossed into Botswana.” So
that was the death and rebirth of George Tinubu
.

I never heard from him again, and he gave me no address or
phone number. I think he wanted me to know that he was alive, and
as happy as possible for a man cut off from his friends and
country, but he did not want me to be in a position to say where he
was. But that was many years ago
.

I wonder if you will find him or even if now you will look
for him. Does he even wish to be found? But if you do meet him, and
the moment is right, remember me to him. I will give this letter to
a friend who will post it in South Africa. If God is willing, you
will receive it. I wish you good fortune with your efforts
.

♦

Yours faithfully
,

Endima Shlongwane
,

B.Ed
.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu carefully folded
the letter and closed it in his file. So Moremi had been right.
Goodluck and Zondo were friends. That was surely important. He came
to a decision. The question was whether he could get his boss to go
along with it. There was only one way to find out.

“What progress?” asked Mabaku by way of greeting.

Kubu shrugged, looking as depressed as he felt. “Edison traced
the Zimbabweans. They went through Tlokweng, all right. False
documents. No car. Someone probably met them on the South African
side of the border, and after that they disappeared. They could be
anywhere. Joshua Bembo’s been very helpful and seems to have the
whole South African Police force looking for them. But I suspect
they may already be back in Zimbabwe. And we only lifted partial
fingerprints from the automatic Joy took away from them. We’ve sent
those to Zimbabwe and South Africa, as well as details of the
pistol. Nothing back yet. And I’d be surprised if we ever get
anything.”

“Well, we made some progress with Beardy. I’ve no doubt it’s
this Madrid character who was behind the kidnapping. Beardy said it
was drug money, but I’m not a hundred percent sure.” The director
filled Kubu in on the interview. After a short discussion, Mabaku
changed the subject.

“Anything on Zondo?”

Kubu shook his head. “Nothing. I’m sure he didn’t come back to
Botswana. Joshua’s trying to get a higher profile for the search in
South Africa, but they’re already taking it seriously. One of their
men was killed, after all. Director, it’s impossible that Zondo
vanished. I think the Zimbabwe police may have him. Maybe the
secret police.”

Mabaku did not like that idea. “Well, what about Gomwe? Surely
he hasn’t also disappeared into thin air?”

“He checked out of his hotel on Monday morning of last week and
then vanished. There’s no record of him leaving the country. I’ve
asked Notu to look for him in Maun, but Notu wouldn’t find someone
hiding in his office without help. And Gomwe would be crazy to hang
around in Maun if he did kill Boardman. If he went to Maun, he must
have driven or flown under an assumed name, because there’s no
record of a Gomwe flying there that weekend. We’ve alerted all
stations to keep an eye open for him.”

Mabaku looked at Kubu, waiting. The detective hadn’t come to his
office to tell him this. There must be something else coming.

Kubu looked uncomfortable. “Jacob, I’m worried sick about
Joy.”

Mabaku, whose eyebrows had risen at the use of his first name,
started to reassure Kubu saying that he could have the constable
with her as long as necessary. But Kubu brushed it aside.

“She doesn’t want that. I don’t know what’s got into her. One
minute she’s hoping that the thugs will try again so she can try
out her latest karate chop, the next she’s in tears that they’ll
murder Pleasant. And it’s affecting her physically too. This
morning she was throwing up again. Said it was the strain of the
last few days. I’m really concerned. Pleasant seems okay, but she
sticks as close to Joy as her shadow.”

Mabaku started to say something, but Kubu rushed on.

“I want them to go to their brother in Francistown until we
catch these bastards. They’ll be safe with him, and the local
police can keep an eye on them. They won’t be going to work,
following their usual routines, doing all the things that make it
easy for kidnappers.”

“Well,” Mabaku commented, “it’s up to you and them. But it’s not
a bad idea. Will Joy go?”

Kubu nodded. “Yes, because she’s worried about Pleasant, who’s
as stubborn as she is and wants to go back to work!”

“Fine. I’ll arrange the surveillance with Francistown CID.” He
pulled the telephone toward him, but Kubu had more to say.
“Director, I’ll take them myself.” Mabaku nodded. “And then I’d
like to spend a couple of days in Bulawayo. Private trip.”

Mabaku’s eyebrows rose again. “Oh, a private trip like the late
Sipho Langa’s, perhaps?”

“I want to find out some more about Tinubu. His background’s got
to be the key. Where did he come from? What made him leave
Zimbabwe? How did he get sucked into all this?” He decided it was
time to play his trump card. He shoved the letter from Endima
Shlongwane across the desk to the director. Mabaku read it
carefully. For a few minutes he said nothing. Then he handed it
back to Kubu.

“It won’t hurt to stir the Zimbabweans up a bit with a visit,”
he said unexpectedly. “But it’ll be aboveboard, official permission
for everything you do. No cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

“Exactly as you say, Director,” said Kubu demurely. Mabaku tried
to look stern, but his lower lip was giving him away. “Do what you
have to, Kubu, but watch yourself. The Zimbabwe police won’t
respond well to anyone stamping around on their patch. And they’re
not quite as strict about habeas corpus as we are.”