Juba Good Read Free

asked.
    My toast popped up. I began spreading a thick layer of peanut butter. Love peanut butter.
    The door opened. Orange dust blew in along with Nigel, a Brit. A short, bald, pasty-faced guy, arms and chest thick with muscle.
    Nigel grunted greetings and headed straight for the fridge. He pulled out a can of Coke. “A killing last night,” I said, answering Peter’s question. “A woman. Down by the river.”
    Joyce looked up. “Raped?”
    â€œNo sign of it. It’s the fourth one like it this month.”
    Her mouth twisted and she shook her head. She glanced at her watch.
    â€œI gotta go. Fill me in later.” She folded down the corner of a page and got to her feet. She stuffed the book into her pocket.
    â€œHooker?” Peter asked as the door slammed shut after Joyce. His eyes remained fixed on the TV .
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œOccupational hazard.”
    I felt a tightening in my gut. “Even a cheap hooker doesn’t deserve to be slaughtered like a pig.”
    â€œThen she shouldn’t be hooking.”
    â€œThey don’t always have a choice, you know.” Nigel took out a second can. “Husband dead, family to support.”
    â€œSave it, mate,” Peter said. “I’ve heard it all before. Hooking’s easier than working in a shop or washing dishes. Pay’s better too. I’ve got no tears for them.”
    I’d heard it all before too. The threat of rape or murder shouldn’t be part of the job. No matter what type of job it is.
    But I didn’t feel like arguing. I ate my toast.
    I went back to my container. I had a long-standing tennis date with a Dutch diplomat named Donald.
    I grabbed my racket and headed out.
    My room was next to Sven’s, a cop from Sweden. Sven was sitting on a plastic chair in the shade of a mango tree. Barely past noon and he was already sucking on a brown bottle.
    But he wasn’t working, so not my concern.
    â€œMorning,” I said. Just to be friendly.
    He grunted. Typical.
    I stopped in front of him. I told him about the killing the night before. Asked him to keep an eye out when he was next on patrol.
    â€œNever would have thought of that,” he said. “Is that what they consider in Canada to be an original idea?”
    I didn’t rise to the bait. “Just mentioning it. Ask your partner to be on the lookout too.”
    â€œYeah, we’ll look out for hookers. Keep them all nice and safe.” He took another slug of his beer.
    I walked away. I sometimes wondered why Sven had taken this post. He hid it well, but he didn’t seem overly fond of Africans. Nor of women, come to think of it.
    Most of the guys and the few women posted here get on fine. They’re a good bunch of people. Gave up career and family for a year to try to help a struggling country. We’re all far from home, living in rough conditions. We try hard to make it work. But there’s one in every bunch. Sven was ours.
    As usual, Donald whipped my ass at tennis. Instead of our usual beer after the game, Donald had to leave for a meeting. I planned to head back to the UN compound. I’d grab an early supper and read for a while. Then it would be time to meet Deng for another night on the streets.
    Instead, I found myself driving to the police station near the water tanks.
    The place was barely controlled chaos. I’d found in my time here that things might look out of control, but somehow they made it work. Juba good, we call it.
    I knew the clerk at the front desk. He sat at a large black ledger, making note of anyone who came in with a complaint or an inquiry. Not many did.
    â€œHi, Edward,” I said. “Busy?”
    â€œYes,” he replied. There wasn’t a civilian in sight. Most of the police here knew me, and they paid me no attention.
    â€œA woman was killed last night,” I said. “Has anyone come in asking about her?”
    Edward shrugged. I glanced at his