The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (18 page)

“We’ll do a
bobotie
, Kweh. What do you think?” Moremi
asked his feathered friend who was sitting on a kitchen cupboard.
Kweh cocked his head and chortled a reply.

“I knew you’d agree. Everyone likes our
bobotie!
” Moremi
took three medium onions from the wire vegetable rack and two large
garlic cloves. Then he broke off about an inch of fresh ginger. At
the table, he started peeling them all, sometimes humming,
sometimes chatting to Kweh. When he was finished, he used a large
knife to coarsely chop them into pieces.

“There you are,” he said. “Now for the apples.” He took two
green apples from a fruit basket and peeled them too. “This is for
the
bobotie
, Kweh! Not for you. You can have the peel.”
Moremi threw a long strand of apple peel at Kweh, who let it fall
on the top of the cupboard. Then, clutching it in his claw, he
nibbled on it, occasionally spitting bits out.

Moremi poured two cups of milk into a bowl and dropped in a
couple of slices of bread. Then he wandered over to the gas oven,
struck a match, and lit it. “Two thirty C means four fifty F. Two
thirty C means four fifty F,” he chanted. Moremi then took a
two-pound package of ground beef from the fridge. “Better if lamb.
Better if lamb,” he muttered, unwrapping it.

Suddenly he stopped what he was doing and turned to Kweh.
“Solomon’s
mokoro
, Kweh. It was here. The morning after the
murders. Do you remember? We thought Solomon and Beauty were here
to set up for breakfast. But they came later with Dupie. So why was
it here? Solomon’s
mokoro?
” Kweh looked as if he was
concentrating, but didn’t offer any insights. Nevertheless the cook
nodded. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe it was here the day before too. You
could be right. You could be right. We should ask him.”

Getting back to his cooking, he tossed the beef into a frying
pan and browned it, spooning it into a large bowl when done. Then
he threw the onion, garlic, and ginger into the pan.

With a little smile on his face, Moremi picked up a piece of
onion that had eluded the pan and tossed it to Kweh, who caught it
deftly in his beak, but immediately spat it out. “Go away! Go
away!” he cried in disgust.

“Sorry! Sorry! Just a joke!”

Moremi rummaged on a shelf in the cupboard, emerging with a
container of curry powder and spooned a couple of tablespoons onto
the translucent onions and stirred. “Too dry, too dry!” He grabbed
several lemons, cut them in half, and squeezed the juice into the
pan. Now the curry formed a paste. He also added a couple of
tablespoons of brown sugar and a sprinkle of salt. “Stir, stir,
stir the pan. Stir it very well.” Moremi spooned the mix onto the
beef in the bowl. Then he threw in the grated apple. “What’s left,
Kweh?” There was no response. Kweh was finishing off the apple
peel.

“Nuts and raisins! You like them!” After another visit to the
cupboard, Moremi tossed a cup of raisins and half a cup of slivered
almonds into the pot. Then he lifted the bread out of the milk,
squeezing all the liquid back into the bowl. Into the pot went the
bread, followed by a raw egg. With a gleeful look, Moremi plunged
his hands into the pot and mixed all the ingredients, squeezing the
mixture between his fingers. When it was mixed, he licked his
fingers. “Yummy, yummy! Too mild. Too mild.” He washed his hands
and added another tablespoon of curry powder. “Powder too old,
Kweh. We’ll get some more at the Kachikau market.” Again he plunged
his hands in and mixed. This time Kweh flew down onto Moremi’s
shoulder and peered into the pot. Moremi picked out a raisin and
offered it to Kweh, who hesitated before swallowing it. He flapped
his wings. Perhaps the raisin was too spicy.

Moremi found a casserole dish and spooned the mixture into it,
pushing it down so the top was flat. He cracked two eggs into the
milk in the bowl and whipped them with a fork. When the mixture was
smooth, he poured it onto the meat, covering it completely.
Finally, he stuck several bay leaves into the meat.

“Into the oven. Into the oven!”

Fifteen minutes later, when mouthwatering aromas were emanating
from the oven, Moremi lowered the temperature, and let the
bobotie
cook for another half an hour. Then, with a flourish
he delivered it to the guests’ tables, with a large bowl of steamed
rice, colored with turmeric, and a small bowl of Mrs. Ball’s
original chutney.

♦

“What is it, Moremi? It’s delicious! All the different tastes;
different textures! It’s wonderful.” These guests obviously loved
the
bobotie
because the casserole dish was empty.

Moremi wandered from the kitchen, enjoying their pleasure.
Several guests clamored for the recipe. “Will I be able to get all
the ingredients in the States?” one asked.

“Of course,” Moremi answered with authority, although he’d never
left Botswana. The discussion about
bobotie
continued for
some time until curiosity had been satiated. Finally the guests
retired to their tents to rest through the heat of the day, and
Moremi proudly returned to his kitchen. In the glow of his culinary
success, the issue of Solomon’s
mokoro
was completely
forgotten.

♦

Salome had watched a married couple at lunch. She envied their
closeness, the shared glances, and mutual comfort. After lunch, she
spent an hour alone in her tent thinking. After the attack on the
camp, she knew she had to leave as quickly as possible. Fear was
everywhere. She had to battle to stop herself grabbing the Double
Cab keys and driving as far away as quickly as possible. Anywhere!
As long as it was away from the police and away from Madrid and
Johannes. All the ghosts of the past had resurfaced. How could they
now be exorcised? Options rattled about in her mind as she stared
out at the lagoon. When she came to a decision, she went to find
Dupie.

He was in his office. Once more the desk had been cleared of
papers – and the Watching Eye was nowhere in evidence – but the
table was covered with gun parts, squeeze bottles of light oil, and
brass ammunition cartridges covered with moldy verdigris. She hoped
they were safe to handle, because Dupie was polishing them with
Brasso. His Lee-Enfield rifle was spread in pieces on the desk as
was his illegal Rhodesian Army issue revolver. They were cleaned
and polished and shone with gun oil.

Dupie looked up at her. “They took me by surprise,” he said as
though in reply to a challenge. “That won’t happen again. This is
an island. Islands are hard to conquer. Ask Winston Churchill.”

Salome shook her head. “I’m terrified to stay, Dupie. The attack
was the last straw. I have to get out.” Dupie touched her gently on
the arm.

“Anyway, I’ve been looking at the accounts. It’s not going to
work.”

“What’s not going to work?”

“The camp was already in trouble before the murders,” Salome
continued. “But now I simply don’t have enough to cover our
expenses. You sent Enoch to get supplies. Thank God we’ve got
accounts with the shops in Kasane, But when those accounts come in,
I’ll be hard-pressed to cover them. And as for the renewal of the
concession next year, we won’t come close.”

“Don’t worry, Salome. Things will look up. We’ll be okay.”

She was touched by the ‘we,’ but didn’t want reassurance. She
needed to leave. She shook her head without replying.

“We can use the rest of the money in my savings account. That’ll
keep us going for the moment. Till things turn around.”

“That’s finished, Dupie. After paying the accounts and the staff
wages this month, there’ll be just a few hundred pula left.”

Dupie pouted and pushed his chair away from the desk to allow
his stomach more space. “Well, maybe we need a change.”

She noted the ‘we’ again.

“There are other opportunities,” he continued. “Maybe we need to
try something else, do something new, go somewhere new. We’ve got
lots of options.” He started assembling the revolver, clicking the
chamber into place, and loading it with freshly polished
ammunition. Then he shoved it into his belt.

Salome looked at the solidity of him, the size of him. It was as
though the cramped office with its crude furniture was a theater
set, two-dimensional. Dupie was the only substantial thing. He has
always been the only substantial thing, she thought, surprised.
Ever since that night. But as always her mind shied away from the
horror of that one particular night in Rhodesia, dragging her
attention back to the present, away from the ghosts. For twelve
years he’s been the anchor here, asking nothing. Hinting, yes,
wanting, perhaps, but not asking. And twelve years later it’s still
‘we.’ Suddenly she wanted to tell him how she felt – not suddenly
felt, but suddenly understood. But she wasn’t sure what to say, or
even if he’d want to hear it ten years on. Well, she decided, start
and see where you finish.

“Dupie, I…” But she was interrupted by the sudden crackle of the
two-way radio coalescing into Enoch’s voice. At once Dupie jumped
up and adjusted the volume.

“Yes, hello, Enoch. I can hardly hear you. Say again.” There
followed a broken discussion of mechanical matters concerning the
trailer. Enoch was at the extreme range of the radio, and sometimes
his voice was swamped by interference. After frustrating dialogue,
Dupie said, “Okay, just get back to the trailer and hang on there.
Wait. With. The. Trailer. Just stay where you are! I’ll come out
with my tools. Over and out.”

Dupie turned to Salome. “The trailer’s broken down. Sounds like
the wheel bearings have seized. Just what we need right now. Enoch
wanted to leave the trailer there and pick it up on his way back!
That would’ve been the end of it! Don’t worry. I’ll get it rolling.
I’ll need tools.” He was already on his feet, heading for the
office to collect the keys to the vehicle and to the storage shed
on the other side of the river. Salome followed him, but she
realized that her moment had passed.

“I’ll get Solomon to take me over in the motorboat. Tell him to
meet me at the jetty. Pack me some drinks, would you?”

She nodded and started for the kitchen, but he stopped her.
“We’re not expecting anyone else. Don’t let anyone come across
until I’m back. No one comes onto the island.” He pulled the
revolver out of his belt and offered it to her. “No one. Okay?”

She nodded and took the gun, liking the feel of it, and
appreciating the mixture of his concern and his confidence. “I feel
as though I’m in the Scouts,” she said, smiling.

“That’s the Selous Scouts,” said Dupie, and laughed.

She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek, avoiding the
frontal defense of his stomach.

He looked surprised, pleased.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t worry.” He gave her a
hug and hefted a jerry can of fuel for the motorboat. There was a
jauntiness to his step as he headed for the motorboat, whistling
something he’d picked up from Moremi, but out of tune.

Salome hid the gun before organizing the drinks and snacks. When
she got back to her tent, she listened to the fading sound of the
motorboat crossing to the mainland.

♦

When Dupie got back, the sunset was swimming in the lagoon.
Salome went to meet him at the jetty. He was sweaty and had taken
off his khaki bush shirt to expose a net undershirt, originally
white but grayed by repeated washing, and now smeared with grease
and dust. He was surprisingly cheerful and complimentary of Enoch.
“Did a good job. Had the trailer up and the wheel off when I got
there. But it was nearly two hours up the road.”

“What’s wrong with the trailer?”

“Wheel bearing. Couldn’t fix it properly, so I improvised. Used
nylon rope and grease. I was able to tow it back. Enoch will try to
get parts in Kasane tomorrow morning. It was too late to go on
tonight. Told him to sleep in the vehicle and head in tomorrow. He
can cram what we need into the Double Cab. He should be back here
by afternoon.”

Salome nodded, accepting all this as in his domain. “Moremi is
expecting you to do a bush
braai
for the guests. I thought
we could all eat together since there’re only four of them. He’s
made a great marinade. Good rump steak too from that new butcher
you found. And salads.”

Dupie nodded and smiled at her, flushed by the sunset. “I’ll
take a shower. We’ll open a bottle of wine on the house. And some
beers. Shit, I could handle a beer. Tell some stories while we
cook. Get everyone happy.”

She knew he would. She knew the alcohol would relax her too. She
would find her moment after all. Not to tell him her feelings. Just
to ask him to come back with her to her tent.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

W
illiam Boardman left
the lounge bar of the Maun Toro Lodge disappointed, and strode
angrily outside into the cool air. It was after ten! He had been
waiting for over an hour, his voicemail messages unreturned. He had
been looking forward to an interesting and lucrative evening. He
had imagined that certain pieces of African art he wanted badly
were within his grasp. Either the price would be right, or they
could be obtained by less upfront means. But the meeting had not
taken place, and the whole trip was largely wasted.

However, tomorrow there would be hell to pay. He would make
absolutely sure it was understood that nothing was negotiable. He
clenched his teeth and started drafting a letter in his head as he
walked. A letter he had no intention of sending, but which he could
use to get what he wanted. “Dear Superintendent Bengu,” it would
begin. “I have spent some time thinking about the events of that
awful night and the following morning. Playing it over in my head
like a videotape. Trying to ensure that the shock and denial had
not caused me to forget something of importance.”