Description
The president of the Republic of South Africa, flaming drunk on five star Maceira brandy—a gift from his Portuguese counterpart during a recent state visit—finally buckled beneath a twenty-eight year avalanche of nagging and hectoring, shoved aside a plate of sheep’s head on a bed of mielie pap corn porridge and rose from the dinner table at Genadendal, his official residence in Cape Town, seized a Zulu iklwa stabbing spear from where it hung on the wall beneath a portrait of Queen Victoria (a juxtaposition the statesman had always appreciated) and shoved it between the ribs of his chunky wife who stood bellowing at him like a cow in calf, severing her aorta and silencing her forever, leaving her lying dead on a Persian prayer rug that dated back to the tenure of Cecil John Rhodes.
When Steve Bungu arrived at Genadendal eight minutes after receiving the call from the president’s senior bodyguard—the blue light atop his Mercedes-Benz SUV allowing him to cleave his way through the night traffic, mostly the sleek European cars of affluent whites on their way back to the Southern Suburbs from the cinemas and restaurants at the Waterfront—he found three of the president’s protectors in the antechamber outside the dining room restraining a fourth man with a bloodied lip who was determined to get free and belatedly defend his mistress.
Bungu, who had recruited the man specifically to spy on the president’s troublesome spouse, said, “Easy, Sizwe, easy now,” as if he were calming a skittish mountain pony, his voice a low rumble, like a tremor deep in the earth.
Bungu was a short but very wide man, his shaven head as dented and pitted as an old miner’s helmet, his brow a shelf of bone that shaded a pair of eyes that had seen the worst of men and never blinked. He wore a yellow Lacoste golf shirt that stretched across his barrel chest, his gut swelling over check shorts and his thick feet were squeezed into pair of bespoke Italian oxblood loafers so costly that they could have fed a family of shack dwellers for six months.
He shoved open the door to the dining room and found the drunken president seated at the table, dark face agleam with sweat, his bodyguard hovering over him.
Bungu took in the scene.
The toppled chair.
The plate of food on the floor.
The thickset woman in her floral dress and matching turban—ethnic haute couture—lying on the rug with the spear still protruding from her side like a toothpick from one of the pigs in blankets that were borne around this room on silver salvers during state functions.
“Bungu, I seem to have killed my wife,” the president said.
“Ja, sir, so it seems,” Bungu said.
“But don’t worry, I have seven others.” The president laughed and then his laughter evaporated and he pointed a finger at Bungu. “You’ll fix this, hey bra Steve?”
Bungu didn’t reply, just rolled on a pair of surgical gloves, flexing his fingers like a concert pianist.
He grabbed the spear and pulled it from the woman, hearing the suck of the wound, and stood and trundled over to the president, who watched him blearily.
As he neared the table Bungu raised the spear and launched himself at his leader, the inebriated man raising a hand in defense, taking a cut to the right palm and another to the upper arm, the fabric of his silk shirt gaping beneath the blade.
The bodyguard, panting, had his automatic out, aiming it at Bungu who reached forward, grabbed the barrel and took the weapon from him.
“Get Sizwe in here,” he said. “Go on!”
The bodyguard looked at the president who was mopping his blood on a linen napkin, and the rapidly sobering statesman nodded.
The wife’s minder came hurtling into the room, yelling at the sight of his charge’s body.
Bungu raised the automatic and shot the man twice in the head and once in the chest before he returned the weapon to its owner.
“Shoot him again,” he said. The bodyguard stared at him dumbly. “For the fuckin forensics, man. Do it.”
The bodyguard, his face blank with confusion, raised the pistol and fired at the dead man, the corpse jerking when the round took it in the torso.
Bungu carried the spear across to the body. Grunting as he kneeled, his multitude of old wounds crooning their familiar lullaby of agony, he manipulated the weapon in Sizwe’s hands until he was certain that it bore the dead man’s prints.
He levered himself to his feet, wheezing.
“Okay gents,” Bungu said to his rapt audience, “time to get your stories nice and fuckin straight.”