“It’s not much at all.”
Kachani agreed. As they drove away from the church, he seethed with anger at himself. He had let his emotions get in the way. The smugness of the archbishop had reawakened old resentments. And when Mpocha had asked how many of his own investigations had been prematurely terminated, he had struck a nerve. Kachani could not deny it. There was a stack of “unsolved” cases. Some of them were horrendous — child rapes and murders of whole families. Yet he had done the cowardly thing. Many of the criminals would never be punished. They had probably left the country by now, no doubt with suitcases stuffed with money.
Kachani barely heard anything Chundira said to him as they drove.
They reached Kudya Inn in the late afternoon.
A scar, even a small one, has a way of commanding attention. People see the scar and they can’t look away. Every time they look at the other features — eyes, nose, lips — it’s a brief glance, and like twirling compass needles, inevitably their gazes return to the scar. Mark Lungu’s scar began beneath his left ear and cut across his cheek in a keloid arc. The rest of his face was angled, immaculate, and refined. Without the scar, he would have had the air of a bothered university professor. With it, he seemed dangerous and unpredictable.
Inside Kudya Inn he was speaking to a group of men and women whose ragged garments were at odds with the inn’s finery. “... Malawi has never been allowed to reach its potential,” he was saying. “The British held us down. Kamuzu held us down. Ebeso was the most recent. Too much of the country’s power has been in the hands of selfish bastards instead of with the people. I will return it to you.” The speech continued for ten more minutes in this vein.
Afterwards, Kachani and Chundira approached him in the foyer.
He greeted them with a jovial ease. “After years of running and hiding, I was so relieved at being able to return home that I forgot how much I hated making speeches.”
“You did a fine job, anyway,” observed Kachani. “You pointed fingers and made promises without explaining how you would do it, a by-the-books political speech.”
The look of reproach Chundira gave him was exhausted. He was starting to accept that it was pointless to try and control what came out of Kachani’s mouth.
Lungu replied in an even but strained tone, “I understand why you’re wary. I’ll have to earn your respect. What newspaper are you from?”
“We’re not from a newspaper.”
Lungu’s irritation was palpable. “I don’t have time for this.”
“We just need to ask you a few questions and that’ll be the end of it.”
“All right.” Lungu poured himself some water.
“Can you briefly explain the things leading up to your murder of Ebeso?”
The rebel’s lips were beaded with tiny droplets of water when he spoke. “We were losing hope. Our activities were having little impact. Whenever we raided one of Ebeso’s bases, he would take it out on the people. More and more rebels were being arrested and executed every week, but to kill Ebeso was a difficult goal because he was paranoid. He was always armed and surrounded by guards. At the big party he threw for his supporters two days ago, we knew he would be vulnerable. I slipped in with the guests.”
“You weren’t recognized? You?”
“There was a huge group. I just pretended to be one of them and waited. There was no opportunity, and when everyone started leaving I hid in the bathroom. You have no idea how long I waited in there, unsure of when I should come out. I didn’t actually expect him to come in, so when I heard someone enter, I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know it was him until I shot him. I was lucky.”
Kachani asked him a few questions to clarify: what color the toilet stalls were, where he had been standing in relation to Ebeso, and other small details.
When they left, Patrick sighed with relief. “That solves it.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“He answered all the questions, but it didn’t seem right. I feel I’m missing something.”
“Why are you making it difficult? This is the best way it could have turned out. Mark Lungu is the best person to lead Malawi, he is a great hero.”
“So was Ebeso,” replied Kachani. “As much as I can’t stand pathetic little cowards like Archbishop Mpocha, when they are in power at least things don’t get radically worse. Occasionally they steal some money and promote a few of their friends, but that is the most they do. Men like Mark Lungu are more unpredictable. He said in his speech that the British kept Malawi down. Who knows if that will mean he suddenly decides to expel all Malawians of British blood? Leading rebels requires extreme thinking; leading a country is not the same. I don’t know if Malawi can survive another hero.”
“You’re such a pessimist,” Chundira accused, and Kachani did not disagree.
“I think we should go see Zikomo now.”
“What? But you said... ”
“I know, but... ” Kachani hated to admit his mistakes, especially to Patrick, who would find ways to bring them back up at inopportune moments. “... I may have been hasty in discounting Zikomo. Zikomo could not have run away before Mr. Ntaso saw him, but maybe he could have hidden in an adjacent toilet stall and slipped away later.”
“That’s far-fetched.”
“We need to check into every possibility.”
Chundira grumbled something and Kachani did not ask for clarification. At the next intersection, however, Patrick turned left — towards Zikomo’s house. After a few minutes of driving they came across a large group of people walking and running in the opposite direction.
“Now what?” Patrick sighed.
They slowed down and asked a bare-chested man who had a blue shirt wrapped around his head.
“We’re going to the palace. At five o’clock Archbishop Mpocha is going to prove he killed Ebeso. It was on the radio.”
Kachani turned to Chundira. “That’s impossible.”
“He wouldn’t announce it on the radio unless he was confident.”
“Why didn’t he tell us?”
“After you insulted him?”
Kachani glanced at his wrist watch. “Hurry. We have to get there.”
“I know,” agreed Patrick, turning the car around.
They reached the palace at 5:26 P.M. Archbishop Mpocha’s revelation was late. Kachani and his boss pushed their way through the amassed crowd. At one point they had to draw their guns and wave them in the air to clear a path. As they neared the front of the group, the archbishop caught sight of them. He gestured for them to approach. “I was hoping you would make it,” he said to Kachani. His irritating smile had returned.
“What’s your proof?” Kachani demanded.
“Have patience.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Them.” The archbishop pointed.
A van from the Malawi Broadcasting Corporation had just arrived. A group of reporters got out, unloading equipment. They approached, clearly bubbling with excitement. After years of being nothing more than a propaganda machine for Ebeso, they were obviously eager to get some real reporting done.
The archbishop waved at the crowd and swaggered into the palace followed by the reporters, Kachani, Chundira, and a few others. He walked down Ebeso’s majestic hallway and then to the bathroom. He waited for the reporters to give him a ready sign and then he began speaking. He enunciated crisply so that no word would be missed in the broadcast. “Malawi, here the Lion of the Savannah was slain. Here his reign of terror ended. I spent my life in the service of God. It meant more to me than anything else, but yesterday, when I saw an opportunity to kill Ebeso, I made a choice. It is not a choice I regret or would undo, but I am still sad because I must now announce that I am withdrawing from my position in the Church. This was a sacrifice I made willingly. It makes me angry that there are people who are telling terrible lies and claiming they killed Ebeso. Malawi cannot survive with the uncertainty, and I think God anticipated this. When I killed Ebeso I wanted to get the gun out of my hand immediately. I thought it was guilt, but now I think it was God who made me leave the gun here. The police searched this place, but God did not allow them to find the gun, though it has been here all along.” The archbishop bent over the bucket in the corner of the room. He rummaged in the water and then rose with a flourish. He lifted a gold-plated gun in the air and held it aloft. Leisurely he walked out of the toilet and out of the palace. Chundira and the others darted after him.