empty. “See if you can add to what Banda’s
discovered about Tinubu. Who were his friends? Did he have any
enemies? Anything suspicious about his finances? The usual. Report
back to me tomorrow at two.” He paused, then continued, “When
you’ve finished at the school, stop in at your parents. I’m sure
they’ll want to see you.”
He waved a dismissive hand and pressed the intercom button.
“Miriam, please phone Director Van der Walle in Johannesburg. Tell
them it’s urgent. I want to speak to him now.”
Walking out, still holding the last biscuit, Kubu wondered what
was going on between Mabaku and the South African police.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
15
K ubu was hungry. The
summons to see the director immediately after landing nearly four
hours after leaving Jackalberry Camp meant he could not stop for
food en route to the office.
Now he needed to get to Mochudi for a 4:00 a.m. appointment with
the deputy headmaster, leaving insufficient time to debrief Edison
and also have a decent lunch. The only solution was to eat at the
fast-food Wimpy hamburger joint with Edison. Fortunately for Kubu,
since he was not fond of their hamburgers, the Wimpy offered its
steak-and-eggs breakfast throughout the day. As he ate, he
questioned Edison about Mochudi.
“I found very little,” Edison replied between mouthfuls. “We
searched Tinubu’s house. Very modest place right next to the
school. Bare minimum of creature comforts. Only a few old
black-and-white photos on the wall. They looked like school class
photos. And one of what must be a young Tinubu and two friends. Not
even a television. No personal letters. No sign of a girlfriend.
I’ve asked for all his telephone records for the past year. Should
have them tomorrow morning. We can see if there’s been anything
unusual lately.”
“What about his bank records?”
“I’ve got them. Nothing unusual. Certainly no big amounts of
money ever went in or out. There’s a monthly stop order for a
hundred pula. I’m waiting for the bank to let me know where that
goes. Teachers aren’t the best paid people in the world. There was
very little money in his account.”
“What was the reaction at the school when you told them he was
dead?”
“I spoke to the deputy headmaster, a man called Madi. He was
clearly shocked. No acting there. He said Goodluck Tinubu was the
kindest person he had ever met. I also spoke briefly to an
assistant and one teacher who happened to be at the school. It’s
school holidays, you know. They both had the same response. Shock
and sadness. They both said the school would never be the
same.”
Kubu finished his steak. He had better get going. “How do I get
to the school?”
“On the way into Mochudi, turn left at Rasesa Street. The school
is on the left just past the Welcome Bar Part 1. Strange name!
Where’s Part 2?”
“Oh, that’ll be at the high school,” said Kubu, leaving Edison
to work out if he was serious. Most of the way out of Gaborone he
needed to steer the vehicle through the apparently random behavior
of traffic, pedestrians, and animals, even though the road was a
modern highway. The greatest threat came from taxis. Their drivers
obviously thought that having the word TAXI hand-painted on their
vehicle bestowed unlimited privileges, including exemption from all
the rules of the road.
After about fifteen minutes, the traffic thinned and moved more
quickly, giving Kubu a chance to call his parents for the third
time since leaving the director’s office. Every morning Kubu’s
father, Wilmon, turned on the cell phone Kubu had given him,
convinced it would waste money to leave it on overnight. And every
Saturday night he charged it with due ceremony, but he had never
used it to make a call. He was proud of the phone and showed it to
his friends. “A present from my son, David,” he would say, chest
puffed out. “My son is an important man in the police.”
Kubu was concerned. Wilmon’s phone
discovered about Tinubu. Who were his friends? Did he have any
enemies? Anything suspicious about his finances? The usual. Report
back to me tomorrow at two.” He paused, then continued, “When
you’ve finished at the school, stop in at your parents. I’m sure
they’ll want to see you.”
He waved a dismissive hand and pressed the intercom button.
“Miriam, please phone Director Van der Walle in Johannesburg. Tell
them it’s urgent. I want to speak to him now.”
Walking out, still holding the last biscuit, Kubu wondered what
was going on between Mabaku and the South African police.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
15
K ubu was hungry. The
summons to see the director immediately after landing nearly four
hours after leaving Jackalberry Camp meant he could not stop for
food en route to the office.
Now he needed to get to Mochudi for a 4:00 a.m. appointment with
the deputy headmaster, leaving insufficient time to debrief Edison
and also have a decent lunch. The only solution was to eat at the
fast-food Wimpy hamburger joint with Edison. Fortunately for Kubu,
since he was not fond of their hamburgers, the Wimpy offered its
steak-and-eggs breakfast throughout the day. As he ate, he
questioned Edison about Mochudi.
“I found very little,” Edison replied between mouthfuls. “We
searched Tinubu’s house. Very modest place right next to the
school. Bare minimum of creature comforts. Only a few old
black-and-white photos on the wall. They looked like school class
photos. And one of what must be a young Tinubu and two friends. Not
even a television. No personal letters. No sign of a girlfriend.
I’ve asked for all his telephone records for the past year. Should
have them tomorrow morning. We can see if there’s been anything
unusual lately.”
“What about his bank records?”
“I’ve got them. Nothing unusual. Certainly no big amounts of
money ever went in or out. There’s a monthly stop order for a
hundred pula. I’m waiting for the bank to let me know where that
goes. Teachers aren’t the best paid people in the world. There was
very little money in his account.”
“What was the reaction at the school when you told them he was
dead?”
“I spoke to the deputy headmaster, a man called Madi. He was
clearly shocked. No acting there. He said Goodluck Tinubu was the
kindest person he had ever met. I also spoke briefly to an
assistant and one teacher who happened to be at the school. It’s
school holidays, you know. They both had the same response. Shock
and sadness. They both said the school would never be the
same.”
Kubu finished his steak. He had better get going. “How do I get
to the school?”
“On the way into Mochudi, turn left at Rasesa Street. The school
is on the left just past the Welcome Bar Part 1. Strange name!
Where’s Part 2?”
“Oh, that’ll be at the high school,” said Kubu, leaving Edison
to work out if he was serious. Most of the way out of Gaborone he
needed to steer the vehicle through the apparently random behavior
of traffic, pedestrians, and animals, even though the road was a
modern highway. The greatest threat came from taxis. Their drivers
obviously thought that having the word TAXI hand-painted on their
vehicle bestowed unlimited privileges, including exemption from all
the rules of the road.
After about fifteen minutes, the traffic thinned and moved more
quickly, giving Kubu a chance to call his parents for the third
time since leaving the director’s office. Every morning Kubu’s
father, Wilmon, turned on the cell phone Kubu had given him,
convinced it would waste money to leave it on overnight. And every
Saturday night he charged it with due ceremony, but he had never
used it to make a call. He was proud of the phone and showed it to
his friends. “A present from my son, David,” he would say, chest
puffed out. “My son is an important man in the police.”
Kubu was concerned. Wilmon’s phone
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