Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

Heroic Proportions by Daliso Chaponda

The African continent is featured this month in a story by Malawian Daliso Chaponda. The tale also qualifies for our Department of First Stories, as his first paid fiction (though he is an L. Ron Hubbard contest finalist). Mr. Chaponda is currently living in Canada, where he works as a comic with his own show, Black History YEAR: A Month Isn’t Enough. “My native tongue is Chichewa,” he says, “which I spoke for my first six years of life. But I write in English because years of British education gradually made that the language I am most fluent in.”

“DICTATOR DIES WHILE SITTING ON TOILET.” That was the headline. Beneath it, a full-page photo showed General Ebeso, self-proclaimed “Lion of the Savannah” and “Leader for Life,” sitting on a ceramic throne with trousers pooled around his ankles. As always, he was in full military regalia. The bullet wound in his chest was a crater in his bloated mass.

Detective Kachani leant his head back in an uninhibited laugh.

Govinda Patel’s eyes flickered dangerously behind oversized, pink-rimmed glasses. “This is funny to you? The police not take me serious?”

He pointed at the Malawi News on her counter. “I wasn’t laughing at you.” He reached for the newspaper. The photo was a grainy black-and-white. If ever there was a time when a color photograph would have been appreciated, this was it. Still, the image was sufficiently comical. Kachani mentally picked out a spot on his fridge on which to tape it. Better yet, he’d buy a frame.

The paper was abruptly whipped from his grip. “You can buy your own,” Mrs. Patel snapped. “Do your job.”

This was the last straw. All morning Kachani had been badgered by an increasingly infuriating sequence of proprietors who acted as if their stores were the center of the universe. “Listen,” he said. “I doubt anyone is planning to start a carpet-smuggling ring with four carpets. They were probably stolen by rioters too drunk to know what they were taking. You can take some satisfaction in imagining the moment they wake up and realize that while others took televisions, stoves, and bags of flour, all they stole were some useless rugs.”

Mrs. Patel tensed as though preparing to pounce. “I sell highest quality Persian carpets, imported... first rate... ”

Kachani darted out of Carpet Nirvana before her rage peaked.

Bunda Avenue was crowded. People milled among the debris of the previous night: glass shards, knocked-over billboards, garbage from upturned bins, and the carcasses of battered cars. Beneath, the deeper scars eleven years of Ebeso had left on the city lingered: streets with potholes and ruptured gutters, neglected buildings with collapsing roofs, people so thin their arms looked like twigs. And now, what? Everything would miraculously become better because Ebeso was gone? Kachani could not make himself feel the jubilation he saw in the faces of people he passed. He made his way back to the station slowly. His eyelids sagged and his muscles ached. He was forty-three, but he walked like a much older man. His face, too, had been worn down. His eyes and thick lips were framed by dark lines, and he was balding. A few grey curls flecked his beard.

He had parked a kilometer north of the ravaged city center. He stopped at a newsstand and bought a copy of the Malawi News, and laughed again at the front page. Definitely worth buying a frame.

The police station was almost empty. Kachani found a slip of paper that said “Come and see me” stuck to his desk. No name was needed; Station Commander Patrick Chundira’s messy scrawl was unique. He found him in the middle of what seemed to be a very taxing phone conversation. His tight-boned face was gleaming with sweat. A series of exchanges climaxed in Patrick shouting, “I don’t care if you have to arrest them all, just do it!” He slammed the receiver into its cradle.

“What was that about?” Kachani asked after the commander hung up.

“A crisis at the hospital.” Chundira dabbed his face with the corner of his sleeve. He took off his glasses and wiped them as he spoke. “There are not enough doctors for all the wounded. After hours of waiting, some of them have become violent. I don’t have enough people to send.”

“You want me to go?”

“I need you for something more important. I need you to figure out who killed Ebeso.”

“What?! Did you somehow sleep through last night? We don’t need to waste time trying to find the killer. Everybody’s overjoyed.”

“That is actually the problem. The killer has become a national hero.”

“So?”

“He ran away after shooting Ebeso. I wish he hadn’t. So far, three people have come forward claiming the credit.”

Kachani grinned.

His boss met this response with a sigh. “I also thought it was funny at first, but I have been talking to the chief of police and this could escalate into disaster. Elections need to happen quickly or the chaos will get worse. Whoever killed Ebeso has an almost guaranteed win. But two of the people who have come forward are just political opportunists. And once their claims spread across the city their supporters will start fighting. Mark Lungu’s have guns and I don’t know about the others.”

Kachani nodded. Mark Lungu was the leader of the Tembelelo rebels. They had been fighting Ebeso for the past three years and were loved by the masses, though Kachani personally felt their acts of dissent hurt civilians as often as they hurt the government. They set fires, hijacked deliveries, and engaged Ebeso’s forces with no thought for people caught in the crossfire. “Who are the other two?” he said.

“Archbishop Mpocha and ‘Lightning’ Kalyati.”

Kachani whistled. The archbishop’s supporters were probably the largest group, but Zikomo “Lightning” Kalyati, Malawi’s most famous ex-footballer, was rumored to have ties to the military. It wasn’t an exaggeration to imagine the situation could lead to a civil war.

Chundira shook his head. “If we could have predicted this, we would have closed the murder scene to the press... ”

“So the impostors had access to the crime-scene details.”

“Exactly why I need your help.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re brilliant. I can count on you for results.”

Patrick was obviously more used to receiving compliments than giving them, because he hadn’t mastered the art of pretending to be sincere.

“The truth,” Kachani insisted. He had always done things his own way no matter what the circumstances, and he knew that this had often complicated his superior’s life.

The left side of Chundira’s mouth rose in his characteristic half-smirk. “All right. It’s because you are notoriously apolitical. You have never backed one group or other. You don’t care.”

Kachani feigned resentment. “Not entirely correct. I simply mistrust all politicians equally.”

“Either way, you’re the only person I can trust.”

Satisfied, Kachani rose. “I’ll head to the palace immediately.”

“Give me ten minutes,” Chundira said, picking up the phone.

“You’re coming with me?”

“Of course.” He began dialing a number. “This is a sensitive situation. You have no tact or respect for people in positions of power.”

Or rather, Kachani realised, there was no way Patrick was going to miss this opportunity. He didn’t want to stay director of a small precinct forever, and one of the three supposed killers was probably going to be the next president...

A little later, they were in Chundira’s Toyota Corolla. The Malawi News article was spread between Kachani’s thighs, shaking with the car’s jerky progress. “Good,” he muttered.

“What?”

“The woman who wrote the article hated Ebeso.”

“Who didn’t?”

“The impostors got all their information from this article. Anything I see at the palace that she didn’t report accurately will show them to be liars.”

“Clever.” Chundira made a sharp turn off the main road. “Who do you think did it?”

“Haven’t got an opinion yet.”

“You must have a hunch. Why don’t we bet?”

“No, thanks.”

Patrick cast Kachani a disapproving look. “I think it’s either Zikomo or Mark Lungu. It can’t be the archbishop.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a man of God, not the violent sort. Also, you’ve seen him. He’s short and weak.”

Kachani almost remarked that his boss was only five foot six. Instead, he said, “You don’t have to be a giant to pull a trigger.”

“You have to be brave, though. A man like that would panic.”

“Have you ever spoken to Archbishop Mpocha?”

“No.”

Kachani let his silence speak.

Patrick let out a frustrated grunt. “You think he did it?”

Kachani closed the newspaper. “I didn’t say that.”

“Zikomo Kalyati, now there’s a man with courage. Did you ever watch him play?”

“I’m not a soccer fan.”

“Something is wrong with you. You’re like a woman. He ran like a cheetah. I promise you, if it hadn’t been for that car accident Malawi would have won the Africa cup. It was a tragedy, a great tragedy.” The policeman’s face collapsed into an expression of earnest grief.

Although he didn’t follow soccer, Kachani would have had to be living in seclusion not to have heard about the Blantyre team’s star player’s car accident. His leg had been mauled by twisted steel. Unable to play anymore, he had chosen to exploit his popularity by running for parliament. Under Ebeso, parliament wasn’t influential, but MPs still got to pose for photographs, attend official functions, and be introduced as “Your Excellency.”

Chundira rambled on. “Mark Lungu is the obvious one, though.”

“Why would Mark Lungu take the risk instead of sending one of his rebels?”

“He’s not that sort of man. He’s a man of action.”

Again, Kachani was sure his boss’s speculations were based on nothing but hearsay. He reached out and his fingers sandwiched the knob of the car radio.

There was a large crowd outside the palace. They had probably been there since the night before. Once-jubilant faces were now showing signs of exhaustion. Their voices, still screaming and chanting, were now raw and hoarse. Still, they remained gathered — almost as though they feared it was a dream and if they went back to their houses, they would wake to find Ebeso alive. Patrick mentioned that it had been hard to stop the crowds from rushing the palace the day before. Now, policemen stood lazily in front of the residence’s gates watching the mollified masses. There was still some life in the weary multitude. It was localised around one man who stood on a makeshift podium of upside-down crates. He gesticulated ferociously as he shouted.

“Who’s that, some community leader?”

Chundira didn’t know, either.

They entered the palace. It was huge — excessively so. Eleven years earlier, when Ebeso had come into power, he had felt that the old presidential residence in Lilongwe was an inadequate representation of his heroism. He had demanded that a palace “of heroic proportions” be built for him. He inspected the plans drawn up by several architects and ordered them executed for insulting his magnificence. Eventually, one architect satisfied him and the Blantyre palace was built. It had cost more than Malawi’s annual domestic budget. It stretched out over twenty-one acres and had twelve floors and elevators on opposite sides. The ceilings were high, and elaborate crystal chandeliers hung from them. The corridors were long and paved with ornate carpets that reminded Kachani of the wares of Mrs. Patel’s Carpet Nirvana. Every few meters there was a tribute to Ebeso’s magnificence: paintings and photographs of the dictator, wooden carvings of lions, and a large mirror (in front of which he would undoubtedly pose).

“Didn’t the man ever get tired of looking at himself?” Patrick mused.

Kachani stopped to look at a nine-foot-tall portrait. Ebeso was always taller, thinner, and more handsome in his portraits. This one barely looked like him. He was identifiable only because of the array of medals for valor pinned to his chest. Ebeso had awarded them to himself. Military might had been essential in Ebeso’s vision of Malawi, even though it had never been at war with another African country. It had no raw materials to be coveted, and its land mass was sparse. Hardly worth the effort of invasion. But then again, Kachani considered, how many African countries have ever been at war with another country? Still, all of them spend money and resources on the military. The armies, of course, never go to waste. They are inevitably used on the domestic population.

The bathroom was at the far end of the corridor, a bald policeman standing outside it chewing gum noisily. Like everything else in the residence, the bathroom was huge. It had four stalls and the tiles on the floor were a mosaic of a lion. The image was barely visible now because the floor was covered in a layer of grime. “Did you let every policeman in Blantyre in here to contaminate the evidence?”

“No,” Chundira defended himself. “Ebeso had one of his big parties two nights ago.”

Everybody who had attended that party, every guard who used to patrol the palace, and everyone else remotely linked to Ebeso had probably fled the country by now. The few followers of Ebeso who had been found by the mobs the night before had been beaten to death. Kachani walked about the bathroom taking meticulous note of everything he saw: three sinks, three urinals, a mop in a bucket, a large fan in the roof, a portrait of Ebeso on the wall... By the time he had made a complete survey, he was disheartened. Even with her bias, the Malawi News reporter had been very accurate. “I need to speak to the man who found the body,” he told Patrick. “Did he leave his address?”

“He’s right outside, sir,” said the bald policeman.

“Great. Can you get him?”

A nod and a brisk march down the corridor followed.

“He’s actually military,” said Chundira, pointing at his back. “We didn’t have enough police to keep control yesterday so we gave some soldiers police uniforms. Couldn’t have them in military uniforms because of the stigma.”

Kachani barely heard him. He was looking intently down the corridor himself.

“What is it?”

“Maybe nothing,” replied Kachani.

The man who had found Ebeso’s body was brought back in a few minutes. It was the man they had seen giving a speech outside. His suit was immeasurably old, with split seams about the shoulders and numerous stains. It was draped over his skinny body like a tarpaulin. He had a veritable glow about him; his smile was huge and his head was held aloft. “I am Arthur Ntaso.”

“You found him?”

“Yes,” was the proud reply. “I was mopping upstairs when I heard a loud bang. It was like thunder. It made my body shake. I know now that it was the sound of God’s vengeance. I ran downstairs, and when I got here I found him gasping for his life. He was holding his wound and coughing blood. As he was dying he held out his hand and said, ‘Forgive me, Malawi.’ I told him, ‘It is too late for you.’”

Kachani stifled a smile. Mr. Ntaso was obviously embellishing to make himself out to be a hero. Who could blame him? Here was a man who had probably been a servant all his life. Serendipity had suddenly placed him at the center of attention and he loved it. The untruths in his story were obvious. Even from looking at the photograph in the newspaper Kachani knew that Ebeso’s hands had not been bloody. And the notion of Ebeso begging Malawi for forgiveness was laughable. Kachani kept these thoughts to himself. He could get the information he needed without tearing away Mr. Ntaso’s moment of glory.

“Could you show me where you were when you heard the gunshot?”

Ntaso took Kachani and Patrick up a short flight of stairs. “Here. Just outside his study.”

“And you ran?”

“As fast as I could.”

“You didn’t see the killer?”

“No, the instrument of God’s fury was already gone by the time I got there.”

Kachani had a few more questions and then he made for the car.

“That was a waste of time,” grumbled Patrick.

“Why do you say that?”

“He was obviously lying.”

“I know, but he still helped. Now, to the two suspects.”

“You mean three?”

“Two,” he insisted. “As much as Mr. Ntaso was adding to the story, you can be sure that if he had seen the killer he would have told us about it. He may have added a few things like a halo glowing around the killer’s head, but he would have mentioned it. You saw how long the corridor was? The killer ran all the way down it in the time that Mr. Ntaso took to run down the stairs. With Zikomo’s limp, he couldn’t have run that fast.”

Chundira opened his mouth, then shut it. “You’re right.”

Kachani smiled with satisfaction, then added, “St. Paul’s Church is ten minutes away.”

When Kachani was younger, he had been deeply religious. A crucifix had dangled from his neck and a Gideon’s Bible in his back pocket had frequently been consulted. His religious and political disillusionment had occurred simultaneously. After Malawi’s first dictator, Kamuzu Banda, had been removed from power, Kachani had been one of the most hopeful. He had praised God and thrown himself into trying to serve his people as a policeman. But in the face of poverty, AIDS, and harsh droughts, none of the presidents who followed Kamuzu helped Malawi. Neither had God.

When Kachani stepped into St. Paul’s Church, he felt none of the awe he would have twenty years earlier. A lone figure knelt in front of the crucifix at the far end of the church. Kachani and Chundira approached Archbishop Mpocha. His skin was an inky black that seemed to blend into the suit he wore. His priestly collar was a thin white island in an opaque sea. He did not respond to their approach. His head remained bowed, his expression solemn. His mouth moved soundlessly.

It was a long prayer. Eventually the archbishop’s eyes opened and he rose. His wrinkled face, greying beard, and penetrating stare made him look impossibly old. “I was praying for forgiveness.”

Chundira jumped at the bait. “A great man like you doesn’t need forgiveness.”

“I took a life,” Archbishop Mpocha announced. “Even a man as vicious as Ebeso was a child of God.”

“You did Malawi a glorious service. It was a—”

“Why were you at the palace?” Kachani cut in.

“I had a meeting with Ebeso about the demonstrators he imprisoned last week.”

“So after years of standing silent while he imprisoned and executed thousands, what was it about the latest incarcerations that moved the Church to action?”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said desperately. “Please excuse him, he—”

“Do you think this is the first time I have heard insults like that?” The archbishop was unruffled. The only part of him that moved were the fingers of his left hand. They played absently with the hem of his suit. “Blaming the Church is an easy thing for frustrated people to do. We did not stay silent.”

“You’re right,” Kachani replied. “The Church was very vocal in supporting Ebeso. Whenever he ordered a judge removed or one of his rivals disappeared, the Church would denounce that person and every congregation in Malawi would hear how that man had been a sinful Judas.”

Archbishop Mpocha’s gaze still had a calm, superior veneer. He smiled as one would to a silly child. “So you are so much more righteous? While Ebeso was in power, how many murder investigations did you end prematurely when the evidence led to Ebeso’s cabinet? And what did the police ever do when the people committing violence were Ebeso’s followers?”

Kachani opened his mouth to reply but the archbishop held up his hand. “On some level, everybody collaborated with Ebeso. It is easy to say, ‘You should have stood up to him, you shouldn’t have been silent,’ but we were all afraid. Of course we were. We did not want to be the next one eliminated. The most anyone could do was find ways to do some good within the restrictions. I was guilty every day because the Church had to support Ebeso and turn a blind eye to his deeds. Yesterday I had been pushed too far. When Ebeso went to the toilet, I knew he was vulnerable for once.”

Kachani struggled to control his anger and think logically. “You were carrying a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Why? If you didn’t plan to kill him, why would an archbishop be carrying a gun?”

“Malawi is not as safe as it once was. I am ashamed to admit it, but I sometimes have to carry a gun.”

“Weren’t you searched when you arrived at the residence?”

“The guards who let me through were Catholic. My word was enough for them.”

“Where is the gun now?”

“I panicked. I threw it away.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere on my drive back here.”

Convenient, thought Kachani. “Where did you meet him?”

“In his study.”

“And how did he react when you brought up the incarcerations.”

“He told me he did not care what I thought. That’s why when he got up to go to the toilet—”

“You followed him down the corridor and shot him. In the toilet.”

“Yes.” The archbishop’s restless fingers were now threading the rosary around his neck.

“Think about this. Are you saying that’s what happened? You walked down the corridor after him, and shot him in the bathroom.”

“Yes.”

“We’re done,” Kachani said to Patrick and began to walk away. “He didn’t kill Ebeso.”

“What?” the archbishop objected. He finally sounded angry, and this pleased Kachani.

Chundira remained in the church for a few minutes more — probably apologising and grovelling. He was enraged when he exited. “You can’t talk to him that way.”

“It’s how he deserves to be talked to. Have you seen the house he lives in? He has a legion of servants, a pool, and a satellite dish. Many Malawians share a loaf of stale bread with their whole family for dinner, but still give money to the Church every week. This is what it’s used for.” Kachani pointed at a large red Volvo parked behind the church.

“You called him a liar with no basis.”

“He said he followed Ebeso down the corridor and shot him in the bathroom, but he also claims to have met Ebeso in his study. You were there, Patrick; Ebeso’s study was upstairs but the bathroom he was shot in was downstairs. The archbishop didn’t mention the stairs.”

Patrick thought about it. “That’s hardly enough.”

“I know, but every important thing about the murder is in the paper. Only the tiny details can reveal the liars.”

“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.

Kachani stayed in the bathroom, transfixed to the spot. He cursed himself for being so stupid. He had allowed his dislike of the Church to cloud his judgment. For all his claims to Chundira of not making up his mind, he had been convinced the archbishop couldn’t have done it. And the gun — there was no excuse for that oversight. In the bucket, of all places. He walked up to it and pushed it forward with his foot. It rolled. He looked down at the parallel wheel marks, cutting across the grimy floor like railway tracks. He stared at them intently. There was something that bothered him but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

From outside he heard a wild cheer. As much as he disliked the man, he had to recognize the archbishop’s finesse. Resigning from the clergy so dramatically opened his way to running for president perfectly. Archbishop Mpocha was definitely a master of spectacle. He was probably holding the gun up to the crowd right now, like a holy relic. The image of the gun flashed in Kachani’s mind and then he looked at the tracks left by the bucket again. “Of course,” he muttered, and rushed out of the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later, he was knocking on the door of an apartment in Ndirande. A little boy of about five or six answered the door. He had a curly mat of black hair and large oval eyes.

“Is your father home?”

The boy welcomed Kachani into a small, single-roomed apartment. Arthur Ntaso was reclined on a sofa listening to the radio. He got up and flicked the radio off.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Kachani said. “I forgot to ask a few things this morning.”

Ntaso pointed at the radio. “It’s over.”

Kachani continued as though he hadn’t heard. “You said you were mopping upstairs when you heard the gunshot and you ran downstairs immediately. Why, in your extreme hurry, did you carry the bucket and mop with you? There is no way you could roll the bucket down the stairs anyway. You must have used the elevator.”

Ntaso opened his mouth, and then hesitated. He turned to his son. “Go play back there,” he said, and the little boy ran out onto the balcony.

When the boy was gone, Kachani added, “The gun Ebeso was killed with was gold-plated. I didn’t get to examine it, but I’d be willing to bet it had lions engraved on its barrel. You killed him.”

“No, no, no,” Ntaso replied, shaking his head vigorously. “I didn’t kill him.” He paused and considered whether or not to continue. Finally, he shrugged and sat back down on the sofa. “I found Ebeso in his study. I thought he was asleep, but when I came closer I realized he was dead. He had died naturally. Like that, so easily, after all the people he had killed.” He pointed at a framed picture on the wall in which he was standing next to a woman. “Miriam died in prison for encouraging her students at the high school to commit treasonous acts. All she did was help some students write letters to Amnesty International, and for that she died alone after God only knows what had been done to her. And Ebeso died peacefully in his sleep. I was so angry. At least if he had been killed by a rival or suffered in some way it would have been bearable. Standing there, I got the idea of how to humiliate him. I could make sure I was the only one who ever knew how he had died. I loaded him onto the bucket and wheeled him to the elevator. I took him down to the toilet and—”

“Shot him in the chest with his own gun,” Kachani finished. “Why didn’t you just come forward and say you had killed him?”

“Who would believe that I, a cleaner, had killed him? They would ask too many questions and maybe find out how he had really died.”

“But now the archbishop is taking the credit.”

“I’m the one who told him where the gun was.”

“What?!”

“When I found out he was claiming to have killed Ebeso I realised he would make it perfect. If people thought Ebeso had been killed by a man of God, the message would be clear.”

Kachani could not find anything to say in response. He had totally misjudged Arthur Ntaso. “Don’t you wish people could know what you did?”

“A bit,” admitted the cleaner. “But this is the best way, and if I ever feel bad, I have these.” He reached under his shirt and pulled out a selection of gold and silver stars. They were the medals for valor Ebeso had awarded himself. “I took them from his body. I’ll give you one if you keep quiet about what I did.”

“No need,” replied Kachani. “You deserve them.”

“Well then, maybe I can ask you to stay and eat with us. We are about to have dinner.”

“Thank you,” Kachani said.

Sometime later, Kachani was sitting at the dinner table with Arthur and his son Bidwe. Dinner was just cobs of maize and boiled cabbage. Not much of a meal, but Kachani looked at Bidwe. The boy had plump cheeks and a strong body. His clothes were faded to the point that Kachani couldn’t make out the words printed on his shirt, but they were clean and ironed. Arthur clearly did what he could to be a good father. Kachani’s eyes were drawn to the photograph Ntaso had pointed to earlier. How many other families were incomplete because of Ebeso? But then Kachani remembered the portraits of Ebeso in his palace. And of all the other portraits Ebeso had insisted grace the walls of every bank, school, and store in Malawi. In a few days they would all be torn down, defaced, and burnt. In a few years, none of those portraits would be remembered, but no one would ever forget the image of Ebeso’s corpse on the toilet.

“Thank you,” Kachani said to Arthur, taking a bite out of a cob. He could not remember maize tasting quite as good as it did at that moment.

Copyright © 2005 by Daliso Chaponda.