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Goodluck Tinubu has been viciously murdered at Jackalberry bush camp
in Botswana. A few hours later, another guest at the camp is also found
dead. Assistant Superintendent David ’Kubu’ Bengu is sent to assist the
local CID in tracking down the killers. At first, it seems like a cut
and dried case: a drugs deal gone bad, but then he discovers that not
only was Tinubu an upstanding and honest citizen, he was also declared
dead 30 years before. Bengu also finds his own family threatened in the
process of trying to get to the bottom of the mystery.
Recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am somewhat spoilt, or if
is that too strong a word, just too well read. I mean, I’ve read each
end of the talent in crime fiction, the very best, and frankly, very
dire, and a fair few that fall comfortably in between. All this reading
causes you to set a level of expectation, dependant on your moods and
preferences, that may be higher or lower than anyone else’s, but leaves
you wanting nothing less than a thumping good read.
So what have we? A detective (okay), short and fat (familiar) working
out of Botswana (even more familiar), pretty sharp on the uptake, has an
amusing nickname, and a sidekick (yes), tall and thin (still listening),
a bit wet behind the ears, (hmm..) and..has an amusing nickname. Still
reading? I haven’t started on the plot, yet, alleged drug deals, dirty
money, kidnapping, a conspiracy to assassinate the President of…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
You just know you’re going to be in trouble when two of the blurbs refer
to The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, and although seemingly favourable,
if I were an author, the last thing I would want is a review that likens
my book to another. Trying to be unique is the age old yearning of
immortality. If I had read this book ten years ago, I would have thought
it maybe just above my own personal benchmark. All the ingredients of a
good detective novel are there, but later I would have read Reginald
Hill and the book would have sunk to the point of floundering just
underneath it. Since I have only read one (the first) of Ladies
Detective Agency, I’m not in the position to compare, other than to say
they seem to be set in the same country.
But familiar plots or settings are not the basis for bad novels. There
may be too much emphasis nowadays on the need for originality, and like
various musical composers have repeated each other since time
immemorial, so authors will repeat themselves, after all, you’re only
limited to your readers long term memory and the hope that you aren’t
copying someone really famous. No, what’s important is the execution of
the plot and how you unravel it in front of the reader. This can turn
the very ordinary into the very good.
I’m sorry to say that the book doesn’t quite do this properly either.
You can see the twists and turns coming a mile off; okay, so you have
the luxury of seeing the scenes that Bengu doesn’t, but these are
supposed to merely add a hint of mystery, but frankly, you pick your
killer at the very beginning and when you get to the end and find you
are right, you think yourself a great trainee detective. Not. Bengu is
meant to be one of the best in the force, yet he seems to be oblivious
to the suspicious behaviour of various characters, and the suspects are
dealt with sloppily and somewhat predictably. As are the good guys. For
instance, early on you learn that Tatwa is morbidly fearful of
crocodiles. Don’t let him fall in the water, will you?
Better plot execution, with less clues for the reader would have made
this tale so much more enjoyable, for there are some beautifully vivid
descriptions of the African bush, and the personalities of the
characters shine through frequently; some authors, and good ones, are so
focussed on the plot they forget that their key players are human.
This isn’t the worst book I’ve ever read, not by a long shot, but it is
disappointing. |
