The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu by Michael Stanley

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