The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (2 page)

“Good morning, dear,” he said brightly, putting his hand
affectionately on her shoulder. He was rewarded with a warm smile.
“I saw a finfoot and a malachite kingfisher this morning. Enoch saw
the finfoot a hundred meters away. He’s a great spotter! We must
get him to take us out this afternoon.” He leaned forward and
whispered, “I also chatted to him about getting curios. Dupie’s
been a bit slack on getting decent stock recently. Maybe Enoch can
help us out.”

A few moments later the cook, Suthani Moremi, wandered from the
kitchen tent to ask William for his order. As always, on his
shoulder Moremi sported a large, gray, crested bird with a long
tail – a common go-away-bird. Each visit, the Boardmans enjoyed a
private joke involving the bird. William always insisted that since
it was indigenous and not caged, they could add it to their bird
list. Amanda pointed out that it was obviously tame – and so,
ineligible. Fortunately fate inevitably intervened as wild
go-away-birds would descend on nearby fig trees to enjoy the fruit.
Over the years, the Boardmans had developed a soft spot for Kweh,
who made frequent sorties onto their table at meals, waiting
patiently for a treat. His inquisitive eyes and cocked, crested
head made him irresistible.

Kweh was Moremi’s best friend. The cook constantly spoke to him,
sharing observations and asking advice. “Do you think we should
serve mango with the fish or just lemons?” Or “I think that
everyone has had enough dessert. Or should I make some more
pancakes?” For his part, Kweh appeared to listen intently,
sometimes squawking an answer, sometimes nibbling Moremi’s ear.
Occasionally, if disturbed, Kweh would let out a raucous shriek
that sounded like a shrill “go away.” The call also sounded like
“kweh,” so that became the bird’s name.

At the table next to the Boardmans, a black man sat alone,
working his way through three fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and
chips. He wore sunglasses, jeans, and a Hawaiian shirt complete
with palm trees at sunset. Sun spots danced across his tablecloth,
reflections from a heavy gold chain hanging around his neck. With a
nod he acknowledged William as he sat down. William wondered why
this man had chosen Jackalberry Camp for his holiday. He did not
seem interested in birds, declining yesterday afternoon’s motorboat
trip up the river. But after a few drinks he became the life and
soul of the party, even outdoing Dupie. William had discreetly
asked Dupie about the man. His name was Boy Gomwe, his South
African passport well used throughout southern Africa. He had given
his profession as salesman.

Vaguely, William wondered whether the other three black guests
had already finished breakfast. But the expectant tables suggested
otherwise. Had they gone for a walk together? Up to now they had
not seemed particularly friendly.

Trying to be affable, William asked Gomwe if he had enjoyed the
morning so far. The man shrugged. “Slept late.”

“There were wonderful birdcalls at sunrise,” offered Amanda.

“I’m really only interested in birds I can eat,” said Gomwe.

“Let me tell you a story about eating birds.” The voice came
from a heavily tanned man with a straggly gray beard and hair to
match. He wore an old khaki shirt, patched in several places. His
shorts, made from canvas, sagged down to his knees. Brown
knee-length socks disappeared into worn leather boots. Everyone
knew him as Dupie. Few people even knew his real name was Morne du
Pisanie. He was solid and strong and had a stomach that protruded
dramatically. It was a sight to behold – the result of thousands of
liters of beer. The best view was from the side, which allowed for
the proportions of his belly to be properly appreciated.

He walked from the kitchen tent, glass of mango juice in hand,
and sat heavily on a chair at Gomwe’s table. One leg of the chair
sank several inches into the ground, causing the onlookers to
wonder hopefully if it might tip over as had happened the previous
evening after dinner.

“When I was in the Scouts,” Dupie began, wriggling to find a
comfortable position in his chair. “When I was in the Scouts,” he
repeated, looking around at Amanda and William. “That’s the Selous
Scouts, not the bunch of cute boys who wear uniforms, collect
badges, and sleep together.” He winked at Gomwe. “Well,
anyway…”

But Dupie was never to finish his story. He was interrupted by a
piercing scream that catapulted dozens of birds skyward. The scream
came from behind the kitchen. The three guests leaped up, looking
around anxiously. A second scream. Dupie lumbered into the kitchen,
returning with a heavy stick. Before he could head toward the
sleeping area, Beauty appeared, running, stumbling, hands to her
mouth.

“He dead,” she whimpered. “Someone kill him. Blood all over his
throat. Ears gone! He dead!” She threw herself into Dupie’s arms
and burst into tears.

“Who’s dead, Beauty?” Dupie asked, patting her on the back.
“What did you see?”

“In Kingfisher tent. Dead man. Murdered!” Her body shook.

“Get her some water,” Dupie said, passing Beauty to Moremi, who
had emerged from the kitchen. “No, hot tea would be better. I’ll be
right back.” He ran surprisingly quickly into the reception tent,
emerging seconds later with a rifle in hand, an old bolt-action
Lee-Enfield .303, probably World War I surplus. He headed toward
the last in the line of well-separated tents, perhaps three hundred
yards from the reception area, rifle at the ready. When he reached
Kingfisher tent, panting, he brushed one flap aside with the rifle
barrel and glanced in. Immediately he shouted, “Enoch! Quickly!
Come here!” As he closed the tent flaps, zipping them from top to
bottom, the Munro sisters ran up from their tent.

“What on earth’s going on, Dupie?” asked Trish.

“We heard somebody screaming,” said Judith, clutching her
sister’s arm.

Dupie ushered them down the path to the silent group in the
dining area.

“He’s dead. Looks as though someone slit his throat,” Dupie told
them.

“Who’s dead?” William demanded.

“It’s Goodluck. Goodluck Tinubu.”

“Maybe he’s not dead. I’ve had first-aid training,” William
said. “Let me take a look.”

“He’s dead all right,” Dupie responded. “No one goes into that
tent but the police. I’ll call them now. Enoch, you stay outside
and guard the body.” He handed the rifle to Enoch, who nodded and
set off toward Goodluck’s tent.

“Are you sure it’s Goodluck?” Gomwe asked.

Dupie nodded. “Seems his name wasn’t very appropriate.”

Gomwe shook his head. “Seems not. I think I’ll go to my
tent.”

William stopped him. “We’d better stick together till the police
come. We don’t know if the killer is still around.” Gomwe began to
protest, but then shrugged, collapsed back into his chair, and
retreated behind his sunglasses.

“Oh God, was he murdered?” Amanda asked, then blushed as
everyone looked at her incredulously. “Difficult to cut your own
throat,” said William. Beauty started to cry again, clinging to her
husband, Solomon. She calmed down when she got her tea, dutifully
delivered by Moremi. Now he stood, Kweh on his shoulder, clutching
a carving knife in his right hand and muttering to himself.

“Where’s Langa? And Zondo?” asked William.

“Dupie took Rra Zondo to airstrip early this morning,” Solomon
said. “He said Rra Zondo had emergency at home.”

William looked surprised. “But…” he began, but Gomwe
interrupted. “What about Langa? Has anyone seen him this morning?
Was he at breakfast?”

“He didn’t come to breakfast,” Solomon said.

“He didn’t come to breakfast!” Moremi stabbed with his knife
toward the neatly set table. Amanda gave a small scream, and
Solomon remonstrated with the cook in Setswana, banishing him to
his kitchen domain. Moremi left muttering under his breath. Kweh,
however, objected and flapped noisily around Moremi’s head.

“Langa,” Gomwe reminded. “We should check his tent.”

“
We
won’t.
I
will!” Dupie said, returning from the
reception tent.

At that moment, a woman, anxious and flustered, ran up to the
group. “Oh God, what’s happened?” She was tall, with hair
sun-yellowed rather than blond, done up in a bun; her arms bare and
brown. She wore a khaki top and slacks to below the knee. Tanned
and scratched legs ended in worn, flat sandals. Her face, safe from
the Botswana sun thanks to a straw hat, looked younger than her
forty-three years. Worry now lined it. “What’s happened?” she
repeated. For a moment no one said anything, then Dupie told
her.

“One of our guests is dead, Salome. Goodluck Tinubu. Someone cut
his throat. And we’re not sure where Sipho Langa is.”

Salome shook her head. “Murdered? What are we going to do?’
‘I’ve already contacted the police. They should be here in a couple
of hours if they can get a plane. Otherwise it’ll take all
day.”

Dupie put his hand on Salome’s arm. “Take the guests to the bar.
Drinks are on the house. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m going
to check Langa’s tent.”

William watched Dupie walk off, thoughtful. Then he put his arm
around Amanda’s shoulders. “Are you all right, darling? I guess I
could handle a stiff brandy at that.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

“T
here isn’t enough
blood,” said Detective Sergeant Mooka, known as Tatwa to his
friends. His slender body, just shy of six feet six inches, was too
tall for the bush tent, forcing him to stoop to look down at the
corpse. He held a handkerchief over his mouth; the smell of body
waste pervaded the tent.

Dupie, not short himself, looked sharply up at him. “There seems
more than enough to me.”

“I suppose so,” the detective replied, regretting his
involuntary remark. He squatted to get a closer look at the body
and to relieve the pressure on his neck and shoulders. The victim
was a black man, probably in his fifties. He was dressed in a
T–shirt and underpants and lay on the floor on his back. There was
a bruise on the side of his head with the skin broken. An awful
purple slash of congealed blood disfigured his throat, and on his
forehead were carved two slashes in the form of a cross. Both ears
had been hacked from his head, then rammed into his mouth to stick
out like nasty fungi growing from rotten wood.

“It’s that stinking mob in Zimbabwe,” Dupie said suddenly. “I’ve
seen this done before. In the bush war.”

“To a black man?”

“Black, white, the terrorists weren’t particular. They’d kill
and mutilate anyone who stood up to them. Still do. And they run
the place now,” he concluded with disgust.

“You think this could be politically motivated?”

“Hell knows what motivates those people. Tell you what, when
you’ve finished measuring the amount of blood, come up to the bar,
and I’ll tell you who did this. Then you can find out why.” He
pushed his way through the tent flaps, leaving the detective with
the dead.

Tatwa had seen a man with his throat cut before. Then it had
seemed as though every drop of blood had been pumped out through
the wound. Now, there just wasn’t enough blood for that. He sighed.
He had better wait for the pathologist before he disturbed the
body. He should be here soon, flying by light plane from
Gaborone.

Tatwa looked around the tent. Army-style, it was comfortable in
a bushy way. Two single beds with cane pedestals on which stood a
storm lantern, a candle, two glasses with drops of liquid still in
them (why two?) and a half-empty bottle of mineral water. To one
side, there was a hanging area for clothes and a folding stool
holding a brown suitcase, on top of which was a black briefcase.
They’d need to go through those in due course. There was an
adjoining toilet and a shower with a floor mosaic of a
kingfisher.

He decided he had better take Du Pisanie up on his offer. He
seemed to be in charge of the camp, and probably knew most of what
happened in and around it. Perhaps he did have an idea who had
murdered this man. He got to his feet – instinctively ducking, as
he did even in friends’ houses – and backed out of the tent. The
zipper must have been left open when the cleaning woman found the
corpse. The fat bush flies had already found their way in.

As he walked toward the bar, he motioned to his two colleagues
from Forensics. They would scour the tent and surroundings for
clues.

♦

Tatwa found the entire complement of the camp gathered in the
bar. Obviously lunch had been delayed until after his meeting.
Dupie introduced him to Salome McGlashan, the owner of the camp
concession. Then the guests: Amanda and William Boardman from South
Africa, Boy Gomwe also from South Africa, and Trish and Judith
Munro, sisters from England. Finally, Dupie got to the staff: Enoch
Kokorwe, the camp manager, Suthani Moremi, the cook, Beauty, who
did the cleaning, and her husband Solomon, the waiter. Tatwa
greeted them all with respect and thanked them for their
patience.

“Regrettably I have to confirm what Mr. Du Pisanie has already
told you. One of the guests, Mr. Goodluck Tinubu, has been
murdered. We have a pathologist on the way from Gaborone, but my
guess is that Mr. Tinubu was murdered sometime late last night.” He
paused, looking around the group.

“I know you must be shocked by what has happened. But there’s no
need to worry. I’ve two armed men with me who are searching the
area. If the killer is nearby we’ll find him. If he’s left, which
I’m sure he did many hours ago, there’s no danger. I’ll need to
interview all of you later, so I’m afraid I have to ask you not to
leave the camp until I give permission. Also, we’ll need to take
fingerprints from all of you.”

“Are we being treated as suspects then?” Gomwe asked. “Why do
you need fingerprints?”