The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

Michael Stanley

The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

Detective Kubu #2

2009, EN

Aka
A Deadly Trade

Detective Kubu faces his most disturbing
investigation yet when he finds himself caught up in a case of
betrayal and mistaken identity on the outskirts of northern
Botswana.

Goodluck Tinubu, an ex-Zimbabwean who has taught in
Botswana for many years, is viciously murdered at the Jackalberry
bush camp, situated on an isolated peninsula in northern Botswana.
Peter Sithole, a guest at the camp, is found bludgeoned to death a
few hours later. Detective ‘Kubu’ Bengu is sent from Botswana’s
capital, Gaborone, to assist the local CID in this puzzling
investigation. Meanwhile, another guest at the camp – Ishmael Zondo
– leaves the camp suddenly the next morning and disappears without
a trace. The Zimbabwe police are unable to trace him. And, as
fingerprints are matched, records reveal that Tinubu was killed in
the Rhodesian civil war thirty years earlier…

Table of contents

AUTHOR NOTE

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Part One: THINGS TOLD

1
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2
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3
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4
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5
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6
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7
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8
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9
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10
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11
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12
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13

Part Two: BORROWED TROUBLE

14
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15
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16
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17
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18
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19
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20
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21
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22
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23
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24
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25

Part Three: UNFORGIVING MINUTE

26
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27
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28
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29
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30
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31
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32

Part Four: A WOMAN’S GUESS

33
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34
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35
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36
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37
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38
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39
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40
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41
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42

Part Five: RUNG BY RUNG

43
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44
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45
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46
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47
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48
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49
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50
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51
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52
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53
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54
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55
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56

Part Six: NO ROAD THROUGH

57
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58
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59
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60
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61
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62

Part Seven: The Thing Which Was Not

63
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64
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65
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66
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67
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68
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69
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70
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71
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72

Part Eight: ONE MAY FALL

73
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74
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75
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76
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77
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78
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79

Part?: ALL ALIKE

80

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

GLOSSARY

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

O
n November 11, 1965,
the white minority government of Rhodesia under Ian Smith
unilaterally declared independence from its colonial parent, the
United Kingdom. This triggered a bitter struggle between the forces
of the government and the black freedom movements operating from
the surrounding black-controlled countries. At first the government
soldiers (who were black as well as white) had the upper hand but,
as international sanctions started to bite in the land-locked
country, it became clear that they would not be able to hold on to
power. As in all guerrilla wars, the liberation movements resorted
to terrorist tactics that were soon matched by those of the
government forces.

Eventually an internationally supervised election was held
leading to the government of Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe African
National Union. The newly named Zimbabwe seemed to have a promising
future fueled by mineral and agricultural wealth, infrastructure,
and wonderful tourist attractions. But in recent years draconian
laws ruined agriculture, destroyed the economy, and beggared the
people. With their currency valueless, many Zimbabwean families
survived on small amounts of money sent home by relatives working
in the surrounding countries, particularly the economic powerhouse
of South Africa.

To the west, Botswana, too, faced pressure from illegal
immigrants. Situated on the Chobe River, Botswana’s northernmost
town, Kasane, has grown to a tourist Mecca. Dramatically different
from the desert regions in the south of Botswana, it has lush
vegetation, perennial water rich in hippos and crocodiles, and
elephant herds that occasionally wander into the town from the
neighboring Chobe National Park. But it is an outpost: from a point
near the town one can see Namibia, Zambia, and Zimbabwe.

Like all wars, the Rhodesian bush war forged strange
relationships, both good and evil. This story, set in present-day
Botswana, is about the dissolution of two such bonds.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

W
ords in square
brackets are approximate phonetic pronunciations. Foreign and
unfamiliar words are in a glossary at the back of the book.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

THINGS TOLD

There’s more things told than are true,

And more things true than are told.

—
RUDYARD KIPLING, ‘THE BALLAD OF MINEPIT
SHAW’

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
he farewells had
been said many years ago, so Goodluck hugged his old comrade and
left without a word. He zipped the tent door closed and started
along the path to his own bush tent. The waning half-moon had
risen; he was glad he did not need his flashlight. Goodluck came to
a fork. Straight ahead the path led past the center of Jackalberry
Camp to the guest tents on the other side. The right branch turned
up a small hill to a view of the lagoon. It was a spectacular spot
at sunrise, popular with early risers. Now it would be deserted,
and on a whim he climbed the short distance. The moon silvered the
lagoon, making him think of the great river that downstream defined
his homeland. One day he hoped to end his self-imposed exile and
return with dignity.

He heard a noise – rustling leaves? But there was no wind.
Despite the many years since the war, his bush-craft took over, and
he faded into the thick brush with no hint of shadow or silhouette.
A moment later a man appeared, walking along the main path almost
silently. He seemed to be looking for something. Or for someone. He
glanced up the path to the lookout, hesitated, but then continued
straight. From Goodluck’s position in the thicket he couldn’t see
the man well, but his face was black, and he was heavily built. As
he moved the moonlight caught white sneakers. Goodluck sucked in
his breath, let the man pass, and then followed soundlessly.
Shortly afterward the man turned off toward the main area of the
camp. Goodluck was puzzled. Was it coincidence, or had he been
followed? If so, for what reason?

Arriving at his tent, he saw flickering light within. He had
left the storm lantern alight on the bedside table. Suspicious now,
he peered around the edge of the fly-screen window so that someone
inside wouldn’t be able ‘to see him. But the tent was empty.
Everything seemed exactly as he had left it. Satisfied, he entered,
zipped the flap door closed, and got ready for bed. He was tired
and tense, but long ago he had learned to sleep quickly and deeply,
even under threat.

About two hours later he was wakened by the sound of the door
zipper. In his war days he would have been instantly alert, but he
awoke momentarily confused and blinded by the beam of a strong
flashlight, and it took him a few seconds to react.

That was much too long.

♦

The next morning the camp staff went about their business as
usual. The cook lit the wood stove, clattered about with his pans,
and chatted to his pet bird. The cleaner, Beauty, helped her
husband Solomon set up for breakfast. The wooden tables, clustered
under two ancient jackalberry trees, needed to be wiped down,
spread with tablecloths, and laid. Then Beauty would clean the
central camp area and, after that, would get to the tents of the
guests who were up and about. By habit, she would start with the
one furthest to the east and work back toward the main camp
area.

The outdoor dining area overlooked Botswana’s Linyanti River to
a hazy Namibia on the far side. It was a mesmerizing expanse of
water, lilies, papyrus, and reeds. Hundreds of birds hugged the
water’s edge, sometimes rising in flocks, other times lunging to
catch unwary fish or multicolored tree frogs. Across the water, six
majestic fish eagles perched in a tree, occasionally shrieking
their haunting cry. Black egrets in abundance, darters and
cormorants, jacanas, black crakes, and pied kingfishers hovering
above the water. In the trees nearby, cheeky drongos imitated other
birds, weaverbirds flew to and fro selecting grass to thread into
their intricate nests, and clouds of red-billed quelea occasionally
obscured the sun. Across one of the channels, four large crocodiles
lazed on the white sand, pretending to be asleep, but cannily
watching for prey through nearly closed eyes. Farther downstream,
in a deeper pool, the ears of several hippos twitched, their noses
barely breaking the water for air. Terrapin swam across the calm
water and climbed onto hippo backs to sunbathe.

A few hundred yards to the right of the dining area, three
mokoros
, coarsely hewn from the trunks of sausage trees,
were pulled up on the grassy bank between acacia bushes. Another
glided silently across the shallows toward the bank. A white man
with a sunburned face sheltering under a floppy hat, binoculars
slung around his neck, perched on a pile of dry reeds in the front
of the boat, and scribbled notes in a spiral-bound notebook
protected by a waterproof cover. At the back, a man, past middle
age but wiry, with a sweat-stained shirt, stood propelling the
mokoro
with a long pole. When the
mokoro
reached the
water’s edge, William Boardman wobbled to the front and jumped
ashore. After thanking Enoch, the poler, he walked over to the
outdoor dining area and joined his wife, Amanda, who had already
started breakfast.