A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “Tell us about Rra Tinubu’s keys.”

  Enoch looked surprised and hesitated. “He lost a small ring of keys that evening at dinner. He was upset so I helped him look for them. They were under the salad table. He said he hadn’t dropped them there. Maybe Moremi’s bird stole them.” He shrugged.

  Kubu asked a few more questions but learned nothing new. He dismissed Enoch, asking him to call the cook. As Enoch was about to leave, Tatwa casually lifted his cap and placed it jauntily on his head. The Eye glared up at Enoch, who stared and clenched his teeth. Turning, he walked out stiffly.

  “Did you see that?” Tatwa asked.

  Kubu nodded, and Tatwa closed the Eye again, covering it with his cap.

  Suthani Moremi was an enigma. People regarded him as simple, yet he devised and created wonderful meals that were hearty and quite sophisticated, despite facilities that were marginal, and supplies that were anything but exotic. Some people thought him a dolt, yet he had a first-class high-school pass, and read books. Some suspected mental problems. He was always talking or singing to himself or chatting to the gray bird that seemed attached to his shoulder, yet he was content, reliant only on himself and Kweh for company and entertainment. It was this collection of paradoxes that came into the tent humming a melody that Kubu recognized, yet couldn’t place. Kweh looked around with brown eyes.

  “Please sit down, Rra Moremi. This shouldn’t take long. I just have a few questions.”

  Moremi did not reply, but continued humming, distracting Kubu as he tried to identify the melody.

  “Did you have any conversation with Rra Tinubu, Rra Zondo, or Rra Langa?”

  Moremi shook his head in time with his humming. Suddenly he stopped, and said: “Just the keys. He lost his keys, didn’t he, Kweh? Enoch found them for him.” He shook his hand and produced an excellent imitation of keys jingling.

  “Whose keys?”

  “Tinubu. He lost them. Was very upset. Enoch found them at the buffet. But they weren’t there when he lost them.” He started to hum the tune again.

  “Does your bird sometimes pick things up?”

  Moremi glanced up. “Did you pick them up, Kweh?” There was no response, but Moremi seemed satisfied. “He says he didn’t.”

  “Did you see any of them together?” Kubu said, trying vainly to keep exasperation out of his voice.

  Again Moremi nodded, still humming. But Kubu wanted answers.

  “Where were they when you saw them?”

  Moremi nodded, causing Kubu to drag himself to his feet.

  “Rra Moremi,” Kubu fumed. “This is a murder investigation. I need answers.”

  Moremi’s singing stopped. He stared at Kubu. Then, in a strong voice, he said, “Tinubu and Zondo were friends.”

  Kubu blinked and looked over at Tatwa, who shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes.

  “What do you mean they were friends?”

  “I can see friends when I see people. Or I can see not friends. These men were friends.” He pulled a length of wire from his pocket. Grasping it in the middle and rocking it rapidly, he made its ends hit his left and right thighs alternately. As each end hit, he made a clicking sound with his tongue, first a tick, then a tock. It sounded like a ping-pong game—too fast for a grandfather clock. Kubu shook his head to help him refocus on the interview.

  “Zondo wouldn’t kill Tinubu,” Moremi added. “They were friends.”

  “What about Tinubu and Langa?”

  “Not friends. Not friends. Not friends.”

  “Were they enemies?”

  “Not enemies, not enemies.”

  “Did you hear or see anything unusual on the night of the murder?”

  Moremi consulted the bird. “Did we, Kweh? Anything unusual? I can’t remember anything. Can you?”

  Kubu took a deep breath and plunged on. “Tinubu’s throat was cut.” As he finished the sentence, Moremi hissed like a cat.

  “Did you notice if any of your knives were missing?”

  “No knives missing. No knives missing.” He shook his head vehemently and fell silent. Looking quizzically at Kubu, he waited for the next question. But Kubu had had enough. He stood up and said, “Thank you, Rra Moremi. Please stay in the camp until I say you can go.” Moremi stood up, lifted Tatwa’s cap, winked at the Eye, and covered it again. Then he gave the bird a stroke, causing its crest to rise, nodded to Kubu, and backed out of the tent opening, once more humming the familiar tune Kubu couldn’t identify.

  Kubu sent Tatwa to the lookout to retrieve the Boardmans. They had their binoculars out still trying to spot elusive birds, but their hearts were no longer in it. They came down without reluctance. Kubu asked William to wait in the dining area.

  “Can’t you interview us together?” William asked.

  “It will only be a few minutes,” Kubu replied.

  After the three of them were seated, Kubu got straight to the point. “Mrs. Boardman, before this trip, did you know either of the two victims, or Mr. Zondo?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Did you speak to them over the past few days?”

  Again she shook her head. “Just the usual pleasantries. We usually sit by ourselves because we always talk about birds. Most people get bored pretty quickly.” Kubu nodded. He could believe that.

  “Did you see or hear anything after you went to bed? A scream or shout? A thud? Talking on the path? Anything unusual?”

  “No,” she said. “We went to bed early because William wanted to be up early.”

  “Did you leave your tent at all during the night?”

  “No. I didn’t even go to the loo. I think William did though. I woke up in the middle of the night, and he wasn’t there. I thought he’d gone to look for a Pel’s fishing owl—we’ve heard them call almost every night—but his binocs were still on the table. I must have been asleep when he got back.”

  “Did you notice what time it was?” Kubu asked hopefully.

  She shook her head. “Ask William. He should know. He wears his watch the whole time.”

  Kubu glanced through his notes. “One other thing. Detective Mooka told me you have a Bushman hunting outfit with you. Are you a collector?”

  “Oh, yes!” Amanda brightened. “The Bushmen are wonderful people. We bought it from Dupie. We’ve been buying stuff from him for years.”

  “So this isn’t your first time at the camp?” Kubu asked.

  “Oh, no. We’ve been here several times over the past few years. Five or six, I would think.”

  “Have you bought stuff each time?”

  “I think so,” Amanda said. “We’re lucky to know someone who has spent time around the Bushmen and can buy their artifacts.”

  “Are they genuine?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by genuine,” Amanda said. “If you mean were they made by Bushmen, then they are genuine. If you mean are they more than fifty years old, then they are likely not. If you mean were they actually used for hunting, I don’t know. All I know is that they are authentic hunting outfits from a group of incredible nomads, who are in danger of extinction.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Boardman. That’ll be all. Tatwa, please ask Mr. Boardman to join us.” Kubu did not want any exchange of information between Amanda and her husband.

  A few minutes later, William Boardman was seated in front of Kubu.

  “Did you talk to either of the deceased or to Mr. Zondo?”

  “No, other than to say good morning or good evening.”

  “Had you met them before this trip?”

  “No.”

  Kubu glanced at his notebook. “Did you hear or see anything on the night of the murders? Anything unusual? Any shouts or grunts or thuds?”

  “No, I didn’t,” William replied. “We got to bed early.”

  “Did you leave the tent at any stage?”

  William hesitated momentarily. “Yes. I heard a Pel’s fishing owl calling and went to look for it.”


  “And what time was that?”

  “I’m not sure. Just after midnight, I think.”

  “Did you find the owl?” Kubu asked, looking up. “Did you see anyone while you were out?”

  William shook his head. “No, I didn’t see anyone.” He sighed. “Nor did I see the owl. So close. It would be a lifer for me!”

  “How well do binoculars work at night?”

  “Oh, they work okay, as long as you can find the bird in your lens. That’s the hard part. Finding the bird. They don’t stick out as well as they do in daylight.”

  “Your wife told me that you left without your binoculars.”

  William hesitated, a slight frown on his forehead. “I must have been so excited hearing the Pel’s that I forgot them.”

  “You were up early in the morning to go bird watching. Did you see Zondo before he left?”

  William frowned. “I didn’t talk to him, but I saw him with Dupie on the motorboat crossing to the mainland. Zondo was wearing his guineafowl feather hat. He was never without it. That was about six thirty. Enoch took me out about half an hour later.”

  Kubu nodded and made a note. “Just a few more questions, Mr. Boardman, and you can go and have your gin and tonic.” Kubu smiled. “Tell me about the Bushman artifacts that you have with you. What are they? Where did you get them?”

  William raised his eyebrows at this unexpected question. Kubu wondered whether he caught a hint of concern in Boardman’s eyes.

  “Oh, we like Bushman art. Those are just cheap tourist pieces. Amanda bought them in Kasane, I believe.”

  Kubu’s mind went back to his youth and times spent with his Bushman friend Khumanego. It was on their excursions into the scorching desert that Khumanego had taught him how to see not just what was in front of him, but also beyond the obvious. To see clusters of stonelike succulent plants hidden in clusters of real stones. To see the trapdoor of the trap-door spider’s lair hidden in the shifting sands. To see what he wasn’t meant to see. It was really Khumanego who was responsible for Kubu’s becoming a detective.

  “Have you been to Tsodilo?”

  “Oh, yes,” said William enthusiastically. “It’s a must. It’s brilliant.”

  Kubu thought back to the reverence with which Khumanego talked about Tsodilo. He called it the birthplace of mankind, believing that was where humanity had begun. Hence the thousands of paintings on the four rock masses that rose incongruously from the Kalahari Desert. Kubu remembered Khumanego telling him of a painting of a whale, even though the hills were hundreds of kilometers from the Atlantic Ocean. How had those people traversed such great distances across some of the most inhospitable land in the world? And found their way back?

  “Did you know that there are over three thousand paintings there?” William’s question brought Kubu out of his reverie.

  “And the hunting outfit? Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “From Dupie. He’s been supplying us for years. He’s sourced some wonderful stuff for us. We keep the best pieces for our own collection. The rest we sell in our shop in Cape Town. Did you see the pieces Dupie has in the lounge? Fantastic! They’re really old, impossible to get these days.”

  Kubu was curious. “So where did Dupie get them?”

  “Must have been gifts from elders. They’re priceless. He’d never sell them, of course,” William finished regretfully.

  Kubu looked at him for several seconds of silence. “Are you sure you saw no one? Heard nothing while you were out?”

  “Absolutely sure,” William said emphatically. “Nothing at all.” He held Kubu’s gaze. As if he’s afraid I’ll suspect he’s dishonest if he drops his eyes, Kubu thought.

  “Very well. Thank you for your time.” With that Kubu let William go.

  Kubu leaned back and wondered. On a quiet night in the bush, no one at the camp had heard anything while two men were violently murdered. Nothing except the sound of a zipper at about eleven.

  William and Amanda walked toward the bar.

  “I’m sorry I mentioned the binocs,” Amanda said. “It slipped out. Did you have to explain that to the fat policeman?”

  William shrugged and smiled. He seemed in good spirits and pleased with himself. “No problem. It didn’t bother him. Just going through the motions, I think. Silly to go looking for owls with no binocs, though.”

  “This business has really spoiled our trip,” Amanda replied. She winced, thinking of how much more it had spoiled the victims’ trips.

  “Oh, don’t worry, my dear. I think we’ll be able to afford another trip out here quite soon. And some other things! I’m going to have a double gin and tonic. What would you like?”

  Chapter 13

  Kubu and Tatwa spent the next fifteen minutes comparing notes. The only new information was the story of the lost keys and William Boardman going bird watching at night without binoculars.

  Kubu sighed, turning to Tatwa. “I have to say that Zondo looks like the only real suspect. I agree with you though. There’s something else going on here. And I felt that Enoch, Moremi, and Boardman were all holding back. Not lying necessarily, but not volunteering. We’re missing something. There must be a connection between Tinubu and Langa. The two murders can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Unless, of course, Langa was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “But he was at the opposite end of the camp from Tinubu. It seems very unlikely he’d be killed just because he saw Zondo near his own tent late at night.”

  “Why did Langa have binoculars around his neck in the middle of the night?” Tatwa asked. “Several people said he’d no interest in birds.”

  “Hmm. I had forgotten about that,” Kubu said sheepishly. “Maybe he was spying on someone? But who? And why?” The two men sat in silence, trying to solve this puzzle.

  Tatwa eventually spoke. “Maybe we’ll learn something when Kasane gets back to us with the background checks. Maybe one of our charming tourists is a killer.”

  “Even so, we’d still have to find a motive.” Kubu paused. “We don’t have one for Zondo either for that matter.”

  “Should we get someone from Kasane to drag the water around here?” Tatwa asked. “We may be lucky and find whatever was used to knock Tinubu out and kill Langa.”

  “Get Enoch to show you their tools. Send the bigger ones to Forensics for testing. It’s a long shot, but if we find nothing we can consider dragging the water around the island. That’ll take a lot of manpower, and I’d rather do it as a last resort. Mabaku is always on my case for using too many resources. Speaking of the devil, I’d better phone him and let him know what we’ve found out. I’ll see you at the bar in an hour.”

  At that, Kubu stood up, took his notebook, and walked up the path to the lookout point. He needed to gather his thoughts before phoning his boss.

  “Mabaku!”

  “It’s Bengu, Mr. Director.”

  “Yes?”

  Kubu groaned silently. Mabaku had such a way with words!

  “Mr. Director, Tatwa and I have interviewed everyone here a second time. There is no evidence to suggest involvement in the murders. The only strange thing is that Tinubu and Langa apparently met for the first time on the road from Gaborone to Kasane. Tinubu’s car broke down, and Langa stopped to help. I don’t believe in coincidences. Two men meet for the first time in the middle of the desert. Then they go to the same bush camp—one of dozens. Then they are both murdered. There’s something else going on here.” He waited for a comment from his boss, but none came.

  Kubu continued, “I haven’t heard back from Kasane on the background checks. They all seem reasonable people, highly unlikely to be murderers.” Kubu paused again, waiting for a reaction from Mabaku. There was none.

  “Anything from the Zimbabwe police about tracing Zondo?” Kubu asked to force a response.

  “Nothing more about Zondo. We’ve sent them the fingerprints we believe to be Zondo’s, as well as those of Langa and Tinubu. Who knows
if we’ll hear from them either way?”

  “You mean they may not tell us even if they find him?”

  “They have their own agendas. The rule of law isn’t exactly alive and well in Zimbabwe.”

  Kubu sighed. It was difficult enough trying to keep law and order in the mishmash of countries of southern Africa, but when the police themselves could not be counted on to cooperate, it made things impossible.

  “Mr. Director,” Kubu said. “Please call me anytime if you hear anything about Zondo. It seems he must be the culprit although we don’t know why he did it. The way things stand, I don’t have any reason to detain the guests here beyond tomorrow morning.”

  Mabaku did not respond right away. “You’re right. I don’t think we need to detain them,” he said eventually. “But make sure you get contact information for each of them for the next few days, as well as their home details.”

  After wrapping up a few final points, Kubu hung up.

  “I don’t think we’re going to find Zondo or whatever his real name is,” Kubu thought. “Africa has swallowed him.”

  Kubu sat for another twenty minutes gazing out at the beautiful waterways and islands, listening to the background of evening birdcalls. He pulled out his notebook and looked at the cryptic message that had been written on Langa’s Zeerust receipt.

  BJW 191 GP

  B 332 CAX

  LC*

  WB1

  1L

  KGH-A19.

  The first two were obviously car registration numbers, but the rest made no sense to him. He closed his eyes, hoping to clear his mind, and encourage insight. After a few minutes, he opened them. He sighed. There had been no inspiration. Maybe my subconscious will take care of it when I’m asleep, he thought.

  Remembering his earlier promise, he phoned Joy, and they spoke of private things. Then he sat back, relaxed, with a gentle smile. He tried a Mozart aria softly under his breath, but it seemed out of place, and he stopped. In the distance he could see a lechwe doe edge toward the water to drink, fearful of a crocodile that could hurtle from the water and pull it to a drowning death, or of a leopard that might appear from nowhere, cling to its throat, and suffocate it.