and
consumed several rusks that he had successfully dunked without
losing any into the tea. He briefly told them about the murders in
the north.
“Father,” Kubu said. “One of the victims is from Mochudi. A man
called Goodluck Tinubu.”
Wilmon’s normally impassive face registered shock. “Goodluck
dead? How can this be?”
“You know this man?” Kubu was astonished.
Wilmon snorted. “Everyone in Mochudi knows Goodluck. I am
surprised you do not. He came here many years ago from Rhodesia. He
is the headmaster of the Raserura Primary School. A good man, even
if he is a foreigner. But then his mother was a Motswana. She
married an Ndebele in Bulawayo,” Wilmon concluded with a touch of
disapproval. “But we all liked him. He cared about the
children.”
“Do you know if he had any enemies?”
Wilmon shook his head. “Everyone liked him.”
When Kubu took his leave, his father’s final words to him were
“Why would anyone kill Goodluck Tinubu?”
♦
“Why indeed?” Kubu muttered as he searched for Raserura Primary
School. He missed Rasesa Street and had to ask the way. He turned
around, drove a short way, and turned left into a road without a
street sign. Kubu wondered whether other countries had street signs
that mysteriously disappeared.
Parking and leaving the car windows slightly open to let the
heat escape, he walked through the main entrance. Classrooms were
scattered around the property, each colorfully painted with a
variety of cartoon characters, as well as letters of the alphabet
and numerals. For an instant the buildings towered around him, the
perspective of the small boy who had made his way from Mochudi to
Maru a Pula school in Gaborone. How lucky he had been. His parents,
uneducated and poor, had dreamed of their son being the first in
the family to complete secondary school. Their priest, who liked
Kubu’s soprano hymn-singing and spotted his unusual intelligence,
persuaded the headmaster at the recently opened Maru a Pula school
to give the young Bengu a scholarship. No doubt Wilmon had
something to do with it too.
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
consumed several rusks that he had successfully dunked without
losing any into the tea. He briefly told them about the murders in
the north.
“Father,” Kubu said. “One of the victims is from Mochudi. A man
called Goodluck Tinubu.”
Wilmon’s normally impassive face registered shock. “Goodluck
dead? How can this be?”
“You know this man?” Kubu was astonished.
Wilmon snorted. “Everyone in Mochudi knows Goodluck. I am
surprised you do not. He came here many years ago from Rhodesia. He
is the headmaster of the Raserura Primary School. A good man, even
if he is a foreigner. But then his mother was a Motswana. She
married an Ndebele in Bulawayo,” Wilmon concluded with a touch of
disapproval. “But we all liked him. He cared about the
children.”
“Do you know if he had any enemies?”
Wilmon shook his head. “Everyone liked him.”
When Kubu took his leave, his father’s final words to him were
“Why would anyone kill Goodluck Tinubu?”
♦
“Why indeed?” Kubu muttered as he searched for Raserura Primary
School. He missed Rasesa Street and had to ask the way. He turned
around, drove a short way, and turned left into a road without a
street sign. Kubu wondered whether other countries had street signs
that mysteriously disappeared.
Parking and leaving the car windows slightly open to let the
heat escape, he walked through the main entrance. Classrooms were
scattered around the property, each colorfully painted with a
variety of cartoon characters, as well as letters of the alphabet
and numerals. For an instant the buildings towered around him, the
perspective of the small boy who had made his way from Mochudi to
Maru a Pula school in Gaborone. How lucky he had been. His parents,
uneducated and poor, had dreamed of their son being the first in
the family to complete secondary school. Their priest, who liked
Kubu’s soprano hymn-singing and spotted his unusual intelligence,
persuaded the headmaster at the recently opened Maru a Pula school
to give the young Bengu a scholarship. No doubt Wilmon had
something to do with it too.
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
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