The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu Read Online Free Page A

word thutlwa , Setswana for giraffe,
from his very tall, slim build and occasional slightly surprised
look. Because Tatwa was gentle and quiet unless threatened, the
name suited him remarkably well and had stuck. And David Bengu was
nicknamed Kubu, Setswana for hippopotamus, for his impressive
girth, appetite, and, until roused, his deceptively ponderous
approach. Even the usually humorless Mabaku had commented that the
CID was becoming a menagerie instead of a police department. Then
Tatwa had been posted to Kasane, and they had lost contact.
    “Why doesn’t Assistant Superintendent Dingalo take charge? He’s
based in Kasane,” Kubu asked.
    “He’s got another bout of malaria. Kasane is becoming as bad as
Victoria Falls. Several CID people are down with some nasty,
drug-resistant strain. You’ll have to go up and take over.”
    “Isn’t it time Tatwa went solo on a case? Won’t he be
demoralized if I take over?”
    “Kubu, you’re not listening. I said there were sensitive
aspects. You know how much the country relies on tourism. The first
victim’s name is Tinubu. He lived in Botswana. But he’s ex-Zimbabwe
according to his identity document, and he gets himself killed not
far from Zimbabwe. The obvious suspect registered under the name of
Ishmael Zondo, but the Zimbabwe police tell me that the Zimbabwean
passport he used is a fake. I think we can take it that his name is
also false. At the moment, there’s no trace of him. A second man,
Sipho Langa, who’s South African and apparently unrelated to the
first victim, is also dead. All this happens in front of a group of
international tourists who want to get on with their holidays.
MacGregor is already up there taking care of the bodies. We need
this tidied up quickly. And there’s the African Union meeting
coming up in Gaborone in about four weeks, remember? We don’t want
to be embarrassed. The manager up at the camp is a chap called Du
Pisanie, another Zimbabwean turned Motswana, believe it or not.” He
grimaced. “Catch the Air Botswana flight to Maun in the morning,
and have Miriam contact the Defense Force about getting from Maun
to the camp. That’ll be the third flight we’ve asked the BDF for
today. I hope they don’t refuse, otherwise you’ll have to
hitchhike.” He turned back to his paperwork. “Give my regards to
Joy.”
    Kubu sighed as he left. He wondered if the food at the camp was
any good.

∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
4
    K ubu looked down at
the patchwork landscape of the Linyanti. As they flew over the web
of waterways, the pilot pointed out various geographic features and
several groups of elephant. It was hard to tell where the water
stopped and the land began. Fingers of water moved into channels
and then overflowed, silently with no waves; the flood came like a
thief in the night, gently stealing the land.
    What snake has slithered into this Eden? Kubu wondered.
    In an unusual change of perspective, they looked down on two
huge lappet-faced vultures gliding in an updraft a thousand feet
above the ground. The pilot pointed out a pod of hippo basking on
the bank of one of the channels. Kubu nodded, enjoying the aerial
views of his namesakes, and was struck by the dramatic contrast of
this water world to the arid dryness of the country’s heart. Then
the Islander banked, following one of the larger channels to the
airstrip near Jackalberry Camp.
    The pilot did a low pass over the airstrip. A family of warthogs
rushed off with flagpole tails. Satisfied that the runway was free
of game, the pilot turned, aligned the Islander with the dirt
strip, and brought it down in a cloud of dust and a succession of
bumps.
    Kubu unloaded his luggage and, after a brief check, the pilot
was ready to return to Maun. Kubu moved his bags off the runway and
turned his back as the plane taxied for its departure. For a minute
it was a dot heading south, then it was gone.
    The camp had been informed that Kubu was coming, but he