I went to my car, and drove a short way further up the road, turned around, switched off the engine and the lights, and waited. After half an hour, I heard the sound of an engine starting, and then lights came on and what I presumed to be Ogomo’s Toyota headed off back in the direction of Windhoek. I threw the syringes and the cloth out of the window into a thick clump of bushes. Ogomo, I figured, would have a pretty thick head at the moment, and be wondering just what on earth had been happening. He would have a pretty good idea and wouldn’t be feeling too happy about it all. He wouldn’t be able to remember much about what he had said, but he would remember enough to know that he had probably said a damned sight too much. He needn’t have worried, however, about whatever anyone was going to say to him.

I looked at my watch. Four minutes had passed; that should be about right. I started up, but did not switch on the lights. My eyes were well accustomed to the dark now. I drove about a quarter of a mile, and came up over the brow of a hill. There, some way in front, were the tail-lights of a car that was certainly Ogomo’s. I drove down into another dip, and put my headlights on. When I came to the next brow, the Toyota was only a few hundred yards ahead. It was at the side of the road and leaning slightly to the right.

I could see a figure kneeling by the front off-side wheel, winding up what looked like a jack. One hundred yards and there was no mistaking it was Ogomo. I kept my speed steady. He turned to look at me for a moment, then turned back to his jack. Then he turned to look at me again, and must have wondered why I wasn’t giving him a wider berth, in fact, why I wasn’t giving him any berth at all. By the time he realized that I was coming straight at him at sixty miles an hour and tried to do something about it, he had left it too late. The near-side section of the Datsun’s bumper hit him straight in the chest, and the headlight hit him full in the face; the car shook, there was a sharp report, no louder than the sound of a light bulb popping, and Ogomo’s smashed body was catapulted through the air.

Although I stopped to check, I knew he would be dead before he landed. I left him where he was, and climbed back into the Datsun. It was half past eleven. At nine o’clock in the morning, I would be on a plane heading back to London. I had a heavy heart. Yet again, a white man had come to Namibia and killed.

Chapter 19

19