Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Kubu laughed. He swallowed the steelworks, jumped to his feet, and lifted Joy into the air, against token protest. “My darling, you are the most wonderful woman in the whole world – and that’s counting all the ones in China, too – and I love you desperately. You’ve made me happy since the day we met. Now you give me this wonderful gift we no longer dared hope for. I love you forever!”

  “Kubu, put me down! You’re making me dizzy. Now, how did you know?” Kubu put her down, but squeezed into the armchair with her. This forced her onto his lap, which was fine with both of them. He put his arm around her shoulder.

  “My darling, you must remember that I’m one of Botswana’s ace detectives. It’s my business to sift clues, always be alert, integrate data. Even today I discovered a dastardly plot against a head of state. Now let me explain to you how a great detective deduces the truth from a few scattered clues.” Joy rolled her eyes in mock despair.

  “First, I know you went to the doctor today. Clearly the news was good, but not being seriously ill isn’t cause for major celebration. The best dining service, your husband’s favorite meal, candles, a dress which even now, despite the wonderful aromas wafting from the stove, may force dinner to be delayed.” He kissed her deeply again. “So clearly something’s up. But what? A forgotten anniversary? A hippo never forgets! It must be the news from the doctor. And the ace detective picks up little clues. Why only a sip of wine? You usually have a glass or two. Why would you not wear this dress for a while? Could it be that your figure will change? Even though we were told that it was very unlikely indeed that we’d have children, the ace detective deduces the correct conclusion!”

  Joy, who had gazed appreciatively into his eyes during the first part of this recitation, was no longer looking at him. She had spotted the magazine that she had been reading lying on the floor.

  “Kubu! You saw my magazine, didn’t you?”

  Kubu nodded, gravely. “That, too. Another clue!” The magazine had a smiling cherub on the cover and My Baby in block letters across the top. Joy picked it up and gave Kubu a playful clout with it. “You pig!” she said. “How could you pretend? Ace detective indeed.” But she was laughing so much she could hardly get the words out. Kubu used the moment to start caressing her. The stove had to be switched off, lest the stew burn.

  ♦

  Half an hour later, the stew was even better. Kubu wolfed it with lashings of vegetables and copious glasses of shiraz. Joy ate little and drank less. There was a dreaminess about her.

  “Kubu, you are really happy about this, aren’t you? Our lives will change, you know.”

  “My darling, I’m happy beyond my wildest dreams. How can you doubt it? But how come you didn’t know? I thought women always knew these things.” He sounded a touch embarrassed.

  “But Kubu, you know I’m very irregular anyway, and I’d given up hope after those visits to the specialist and everything. But Dr. Diklekeng said it was all your doing. Trust a man to say that!” She laughed. Kubu was so happy that he almost turned down a third helping. But it was a special occasion so he indulged himself. “I wonder if he’ll be interested in cricket?” he mused, as he helped himself.

  “Kubu, it may not be a boy, you know. You won’t mind if it’s a girl, will you?”

  Kubu laughed. “A girl will be excellent. Think of all the wine we can buy when we get the lobola!”

  “Oh, Kubu, you’re quite impossible! You’ll be a terrible father, getting your children involved with ridiculous sports that no one else understands, and pretending to be ace detectives, and encouraging underage drinking, and I’ve no idea what else, but I’m sure I’ll find out. But I am so glad that you are you.”

  Kubu winked. “Is there any dessert?” he asked.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  76

  Kubu and Joy couldn’t wait to tell his parents. It took restraint not to phone them first thing on Sunday morning, but they decided to wait until they got to Mochudi. Kubu wanted to celebrate at the best restaurant in Gaborone, but Joy cautioned him that his parents would be uncomfortable with both the surroundings and the extravagance. If anything, Wilmon would say, they should cut back on their spending to prepare for the arrival of his first grandchild.

  After much discussion, Kubu and Joy decided to do what they often did – take lunch and eat it on the veranda of his parents’ house. That would be more in keeping with the way his parents thought. The only deviation from the norm was that Kubu stopped at a supermarket on the way out of Gaborone to buy a bottle of sparkling grape juice, nonalcoholic of course. Kubu loved celebrations and couldn’t resist something different, albeit not what he would have offered wine-loving friends. For them it would have been real champagne, and had Wilmon known the cost, he would have been scandalized.

  The trip north seemed interminable. Even Ilia sensed something was different. She kept trying to climb over the back of Joy’s seat into her lap. Even when pushed back, she would put her paws on the back of the seat and lick Joy’s ears. Neither Kubu nor Joy had the heart to stop her.

  When they opened the car doors in front of Kubu’s parents’ house, Ilia streaked up the steps into Wilmon’s waiting arms. It’s sad, Kubu thought, that the old man is able to display more emotion to the dog than to his wife. It’s a generational thing, he thought. People didn’t express feelings openly in the old days.

  After ritual greetings, Amantle brought out a tray of tea, adorned with a gift of mixed biscuits from Joy, rather than the usual Marie biscuits. The time had finally arrived to break the news. Joy glanced at Kubu and nodded.

  “Mother, Father,” Kubu said with a straight face, “I’ve told you that Joy hasn’t been feeling well since they tried to kidnap her. She’s a stubborn woman, so it was only yesterday that she went to the doctor…”

  Amantle put one hand anxiously to her mouth. Wilmon’s impassive face showed the trace of a frown.

  “Well,” Kubu continued, “the doctor told Joy that she wouldn’t be well for several months and ordered her to change her diet. He also ordered her to stop drinking alcohol.”

  Wilmon nodded in agreement. He would certainly give similar advice.

  “What is wrong with her?” Amantle asked. “It is nothing serious, is it, Joy?”

  Playing along with Kubu’s game, Joy hung her head. “Kubu must tell you,” she said demurely.

  “Kubu, tell us. You know we will do what we can to help.” Amantle was becoming impatient.

  “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 qui
ckly 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 Sola Senile. 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.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  77

  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 whe
n 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.