The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (12 page)

♦

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.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

A
s 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 domestic 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.”

Toy’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 what 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.”