A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  But the experience was not what he expected. It soon became apparent that being fat was a hazard. He was teased unmercifully and often bullied by older kids. Despite efforts by the teachers, Kubu could not escape the taunting. Lying in bed at night, he hid his tears, determined to make his parents proud. He would never tell them.

  As a consequence of his isolation, Kubu sought activities avoided by the bullies. Although he did not have a great voice, it was good enough for him to be in the school’s informal choir. This bestowed respect and the start of friendships. In addition to the African songs he already knew, he also learned songs from all over the world. And then he discovered the soaring choruses from monumental works called operas and oratorios. Some had translations into English, but most were in languages he did not understand but still had to sing. His soul was captured, never to be released.

  The other benefit was that there were boys of all ages in the choir, with interests beyond physical prowess. Kubu was soon making friends with boys several years older than himself. He got on better with them than with those of his own age. And they had better things to do than tease him.

  Kubu also loved books. By the end of his first year, he was two grades ahead of his classmates in reading. The teachers allowed him to progress rapidly and encouraged him to spend time in the library. He read incessantly.

  One day, he picked up a book entitled Teddy Lester’s Schooldays. He loved it. But more important, he read about cricket, a game he saw the older boys play on Wednesday afternoons, but about which he knew nothing. The book’s descriptions captured his imagination. And so started a love affair with a game he would never play. From then, he absorbed everything he could get his hands on and became a walking encyclopedia. He started watching the school teams play and privately kept score. Then one day the cricket coach walked over.

  “Hello, Bengu.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” replied Kubu, standing up.

  “I see you here every game. What are you doing?”

  “I love cricket,” Kubu said sheepishly. “It’s wonderful. I try to keep score, but I keep getting details wrong.”

  The coach took Kubu’s scraps of paper. “You’re doing a fine job, but you need some help. Let me show you.” They walked to the little pavilion where the players sat waiting for their turn to bat. One boy was keeping score in a large book. The coach showed Kubu how each page was printed to make scoring easier. There was a place to keep track of how many runs each batsman had scored, a place for the total, and even a place where you could keep track of each ball bowled. Kubu was fascinated.

  “May I have one of those pages?” he asked eagerly. “It makes it so much easier.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” the coach replied. Kubu was crushed. His hopes had been high. “After the game, take the whole book. Next game I want you to score. You’ll be our official scorer.”

  For the first time at school, Kubu was happy. Elated was a better way to describe what he felt. The other boys slowly got to know him and to appreciate his skills. He never became “one of the boys,” but he no longer bore the brunt of teasing. For the rest of his time at Maru a Pula, Kubu was the scorer, eventually becoming the scorer of the school’s First XI at a younger age than anyone before.

  Kubu shook his head, bringing himself back to the present and the buildings to their true size. He found the school administrator, who took him to Joshua Madi, the deputy headmaster. The man who rose to greet Kubu was tall and slim with athletic movements. But there was uncertainty to his step, and his face was troubled.

  “Superintendent. Thank you for coming. This news is a great shock to all of us. Rra Tinubu did so much for this school. He was its soul. The school will never be the same without him.” He sounded as though he meant it. “Forgive my rudeness. May I offer you tea, or rooibos?” Despite his recent visit to his parents, Kubu accepted tea, but it came without biscuits.

  “When did you last see him, Rra Madi?”

  “It was last Friday. He said he was going on a short holiday. A week in the Okavango Delta, I think. He’d been working particularly hard on the new curriculum, and we—the staff—encouraged him to go. He said he’d be back for the start of the new term, next Monday.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to kill him?”

  Madi shook his head firmly. “He came to Mochudi with nothing but the clothes he wore. He was a temporary teacher at a school in town. People were suspicious. They don’t like strangers in a small town like this one, let alone foreigners. But he said his mother was a Motswana, and he spoke our language well. When this school opened, he obtained a very junior post and worked without rest to make it the best primary school in the area. These days, parents fight for their children to come here.” Kubu thought of his father’s words. Wilmon had known and respected Goodluck.

  “Rra Madi, I have to remind you that this wasn’t an accident or a mugging. Rra Tinubu was viciously murdered. We believe it was premeditated. Are you sure you’ve told me everything you know?” Kubu deliberately provoked the deputy headmaster, but the reaction was calm and regretful.

  “He was a man much loved and respected. Even though he was originally from Zimbabwe.”

  Kubu tried another tack. “What did Rra Tinubu think about the situation in Zimbabwe? He must’ve been concerned about the poverty and misery in his homeland.”

  Madi thought for a while. Then he said, “I’ve often heard him asked that question. Sometimes he just shrugged and praised our government for its policies and kindness to refugees like himself. But if he felt the questioner really cared about the answer, he would respond by telling this story about himself.” He took a sip of tea before continuing.

  “When he was young, he had an uncle who lived alone with his dog, near the university in Bulawayo. Sometimes Goodluck would visit him because he told good stories and offered food and drink to his poor student-nephew. But the uncle was too fond of brandy mixed with Coca-Cola. Sometimes he ran out of Coke, but he never ran out of brandy. His dog was a huge mongrel, part rottweiler. It could fit Goodluck’s thigh in its mouth. But it was a good dog and loyal, if not fierce enough to suit its owner, who complained of the cost of feeding it. He tried to train it, and would beat it with an old belt if it didn’t behave as he thought it should. Once it caught a neighbor’s chicken in the road and ate it, so it deserved a hiding. But sometimes Goodluck found his uncle beating the dog for no reason other than too much brandy. Goodluck was sad. He liked the dog, but couldn’t take it to his student lodging.” Madi stopped.

  “And what happened?” Kubu prompted.

  “One day they found the uncle dead. The dog had gone for his throat and torn it out. He was still holding the old belt, and the dog lay next to him, guarding his body.”

  Kubu nodded, getting the point. After a moment he said, “What happened to the dog?”

  Madi looked up surprised. “I never asked him that.”

  “They would’ve destroyed it,” said Kubu, rising to leave.

  Madi, also rising, replied, “Yes, I suppose they would.” He walked with Kubu to his car.

  As they shook hands, Kubu said, “Rra Madi, I’ll need to talk to as many of the teachers as I can. I’ll come to the school around nine tomorrow morning. Please try to have as many here as possible. I realize it’s the holidays, but do your best. And please try to think of anything that may help us solve this murder of a good man.”

  Madi nodded and watched the large detective drive slowly away.

  Chapter 16

  As Kubu negotiated the traffic back to Gaborone, his thoughts turned to his parents. They were so kind, wanting everything of the best for him. Yet, he felt a growing distance, not because he loved them less, but rather because they didn’t really understand what he did, or the way he and Joy lived in Gaborone. Other than family matters and local gossip, there was little for them to share. Kubu wondered whether all children found this happening to them. Joy had noticed it too, although she was better at maintaining a dom
estic conversation. Perhaps if there were grandchildren there would be a different focus for the family, but it seemed that was not to be.

  As he turned into Acacia Street, Kubu smiled in anticipation. He had managed to get home without delaying dinner. He and Joy typically enjoyed a leisurely drink after work, catching up on each other’s day. It would not be too much of a hardship today to cut that time short. As for wine, his small stock would have to provide for whatever Joy was serving.

  As he pulled up at the front gate, he felt a mild twinge of regret. He and Joy were not going to be alone. Her sister, Pleasant, was there, too. Her ancient Toyota Corolla was parked outside. He got on well with Pleasant, but he had been away from home for nearly two days and had a lot to tell Joy. He would be careful not to let his disappointment show.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Ilia’s frenzied barking, determined to show her pleasure at Kubu’s return. She jumped at the gate, yapping furiously. Kubu knew what was to happen next. Before getting out of the car, he opened the passenger door and put his briefcase on the floor. He got out, lifted the latch on the metal gates, and opened the left half. The fox terrier flew into his arms, licking his face. Kubu knew he should not allow such uncontrolled behavior, but did not have the heart to stop it. It gave him too much pleasure. After a few moments he spoke in his sternest voice.

  “Car! Car, Ilia!” He put Ilia on the ground. Without hesitation, she jumped onto the passenger seat and sat panting.

  Kubu swung the second gate open and drove the few yards up to the house. Ilia waited for Kubu to get out, then sprang out of the car, barking again as Kubu closed the gates. No one would dare to rob my house, Kubu thought. Ilia would tell the whole neighborhood!

  Joy was waiting barefoot for him at the top of the steps to the veranda. He looked at her appreciatively. Of medium height, she had the full figure admired in Batswana culture. Her twinkling eyes were set in a round, happy face, and colorful, beaded ornaments dangled from her ears. Lovely legs showed beneath a pair of maroon shorts, and a white tennis shirt strained over ample breasts. Kubu smiled, fully approving of this decidedly nontraditional attire.

  “Welcome home, stranger!” She gave him a hug and kissed him. “It’s good to have you home. I’ve missed you.”

  “My dear, you know how I hate to spend a night away from home.” He turned to Pleasant, who was relaxing in a comfortable, riempie chair, glass of white wine in hand. “Hello, sister-in-law,” he said. “Nice to see you. Pleasant surprise!” Pleasant smiled at the perennial jest.

  “Well, it is a special occasion, dear,” Joy said teasingly.

  Kubu mentally ran through his list of important dates. Joy’s birthday? Pleasant’s birthday? Wedding anniversary? Today was none of those. What could it be? Should he try to brazen it out? Or should he admit ignorance and take his medicine?

  “You don’t remember, do you?” Joy said. Pleasant giggled from her chair.

  “I have to admit, I don’t,”

  “How could you forget?” Joy said with mock anger. “A most important day in your life!”

  Kubu squirmed. He was sure it wasn’t his wedding anniversary. Then it dawned on him. It was nine years ago today that he had first gone out with Joy. He was new to the Gaborone police, having paid his dues at various small towns around the country. She worked as an administrator in the office, dealing with the mountains of paperwork that were inevitable in police work, mountains that had not yet been leveled by the police computer network. He needed some details on a suspect’s previous convictions and was told that Joy was the person to help him. He was immediately attracted to her twinkling eyes and efficiency.

  Kubu had little experience dating. He had always doubted that women would find him attractive, given his size. But Joy was different. She made him feel comfortable, even while teasing him for being so serious. A few days later he found an excuse to visit her again. He was surprised that she remembered his name.

  “What can I do for Detective Bengu?” she asked. Before he could answer, she continued, “What does the notorious Kubu want today?”

  He gaped. He hadn’t told her his nickname. She had obviously asked around. His heart pounded. Was she attracted to him too? Suddenly his reserve left him.

  “This Kubu wants to ask a certain beautiful police administrator out to dinner. Tonight, if possible. At the Mahogany Room at the Sun.”

  Joy had feigned shyness.

  “Are all detectives this forward?” she asked. “They must know you well at the Sun.”

  Kubu felt his confidence slipping. “You would be the first person I’ve ever taken to the Sun.” He hesitated, then continued quietly, “The truth is, I’ve never eaten there myself. I just wanted to impress you.”

  Joy’s heart melted. “I’d love to go out for dinner tonight. But I insist on paying for myself. I can’t afford the Mahogany Room, and I’m sure you can’t. So let’s find a place we can both afford.”

  Kubu’s mind snapped back to the present. “My dear, I could never forget the first time we went out together. I was so embarrassed! Not being allowed to pay for my guest. I was mortified for weeks!”

  Joy and Pleasant laughed.

  “Good recovery,” Pleasant said. “Joy told me she was going to make you suffer if you didn’t remember!”

  “How could I forget?” Kubu replied smugly.

  Dinner was leisurely, and afterward the women retired to the living room while Kubu washed the dishes—something he disliked, but which he did occasionally when they had guests to show his status as a liberated male. He hadn’t told Joy that he was setting money aside for a dishwasher. She had a birthday coming up.

  Joy and Pleasant chatted about what was happening at their respective workplaces. Pleasant was concerned whether her travel agency would survive.

  “It’s very difficult now that the airlines are reducing the commissions they pay to agents,” she said. “Some tour operators are following suit. The Internet is killing us. People can find out so much by themselves, even if they spend much more time doing so. They boast about their good deals, but ignore the time it took to find them. I’m not sure what I’ll do if we close shop. All the agencies are in the same boat, except those that service Debswana and other big companies. Or the government, of course.”

  The conversation turned to the day-care center where Joy worked. She related horrifying statistics about babies born with HIV to parents who would soon die. The numbers of orphans had skyrocketed as AIDS ravaged the country. Botswana had fewer than two million people and one of the highest HIV infection rates in Africa. It was estimated that about a quarter of the adult population was infected. It was a national crisis that the government was attacking with free antiretrovirals and widespread campaigns advertising responsible sexual behavior.

  “In some ways,” Joy said, “I’m pleased that Kubu and I can’t have kids. It must be a nightmare bringing them up in these times.” Pleasant was surprised at the comment because it had been so painful for Joy to learn that she and Kubu had little chance of becoming parents. Joy rarely mentioned this situation.

  “Of course, you’ve nothing to worry about, Pleasant. You have to find a man first. You are so picky, you’ll be a spinster all your life.”

  “I’m not worried yet,” Pleasant responded laughing. “Besides, I do see Kubu’s friend Bongani every now and again. I like him, but he is so serious about his work I’m not sure he ever thinks about me. Even when we have dinner, I get the feeling his mind is elsewhere.”

  Joy moved closer to Pleasant and whispered, “Have you been to bed with him yet?”

  Pleasant looked at her wide-eyed. This was not traditional Batswana small talk even between sisters.

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Joy, eyes twinkling. “Haven’t you heard of sex?”

  Pleasant giggled, and the two of them huddled together to devise various not entirely serious plans to get Bongani into Pleasant’s bed. Or vice versa.

  In the kitchen, Kubu wondered wha
t was causing the low voices punctuated by squeals of laughter. Must be girl talk.

  Half an hour later, Kubu was telling Joy and Pleasant about the murders at Jackalberry Camp.

  “It’s so weird,” Pleasant said. “He can’t have been dead all these years and still be teaching!” She noticed Kubu’s quizzical look.

  “You know what I mean! There must be some mistake. They must’ve got the fingerprints mixed up. Not the ones you took the other day. The ones on their records. You should send Joy up to Zimbabwe to sort them out.”

  “I agree,” Kubu said. “It’s the only rational explanation. I’m not as surprised about Zondo. If he’s a hit man, he’d cover his tracks pretty well. A false passport and name are easy pickings these days.”

  “You mean I could get a passport in someone else’s name with my photo in it?” Pleasant asked.

  “I could have you one in twenty-four hours. Fake passports are as plentiful as quelea these days.” Pleasant visualized a flock of false documents settling from the sky like the greedy seed-eating birds.

  “What I don’t understand is why anyone would want to kill Tinubu,” Kubu continued. “I could understand it if he was killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the markings on the body suggest he was the target, although the Langa guy may have been killed because he saw something. He was just bonked on the head and thrown into a gully. The mutilation of Tinubu’s body was meant to send a message. To who and about what, I haven’t a clue.”

  The three sat in silence.

  “Do you think you’ll find that Zondo guy?” Pleasant eventually asked. “Will the Zimbabwe police catch him?”

  “Unfortunately, the Zimbabwe police know Zondo under a different name. They tell us he’s a dissident. That means he’s against the president, and if they catch him, he’s in for a hard time. He wasn’t supposed to be outside Zimbabwe.”

  Kubu paused, ugly images flooding his mind.

  “If they get him first, I don’t think we’ll see him alive.”