Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “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 ∧

  46

  Trish 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 cal
l 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 ∧

  47

  Dear 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.

  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 wa
s 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.