The Death of the Mantis (11 page)

“I think you’re being too hard on him, he – ” But Joy
interrupted.

“He won’t learn how to do up the nappies properly. It’s as if he
does it wrongly on purpose, so I’ll have to do it all over again.
Basically he’s just lazy when it suits him!”

Pleasant decided that the chaotic traffic of Gaborone deserved
her attention, so they drove in silence until they reached her
apartment.

“It was a lovely day. Thanks for inviting me,” she said, getting
out of the car and walking around to the pavement.

Joy climbed out of the passenger side, clutching Tumi, who had
slept the whole trip. She walked over to Pleasant, hugged her and
started to cry.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to snap at you. You know I love you.
It all just gets me down sometimes.”

Pleasant held the embrace, patting Joy comfortingly on the
back.

“Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. You’ll see.”

The sisters kissed goodbye. Pleasant watched as Joy drove
away.

It’s true, she mused. Kubu can be lazy. I’m lucky. Bongani may
be quiet, but he gets things done.

They’ll work it out, she thought. I’ve never seen two people so
much in love.

But for the first time, she felt a twinge of concern.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

F
or Kubu, Sunday was
a relaxing day. He rose quite early as usual, dressed in a
colourful shirt and shorts, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast
involving porridge with butter and sugar, followed by eggs, bacon,
fried tomato and toast with marmalade. While he kept an eye on his
diet, he felt he had some slack available on a tiring trip. Then
while it was still reasonably cool, he relaxed on the veranda of
the hotel with a glass of iced water and thought about the case. It
seemed that he was imprisoned in Tsabong until the murder – if
indeed it was murder – of Monzo was resolved. So he closed his eyes
and mentally reviewed the case.

What were the facts? There was the calcrete chunk that had
apparently been used to bash in Monzo’s skull. How had that
happened? Could it have been thrown? Almost certainly not. The
force might have knocked Monzo out and injured him, but it was very
unlikely to have enough energy to break his skull. Did someone
creep up behind him? Possible. But it would need to be a tall and
powerful man to do that sort of damage with such a clumsy weapon.
Certainly not a Bushman. Perhaps Monzo had been attacked in some
other way first? Knocked out and then dealt a heavy blow from the
rock once he was on the ground. That seemed more likely. He would
need to ask the pathologist if there was anything in the autopsy
that either supported or negated that idea. Why had the murderer
thrown the stone away? It was too far away to be the result of
Monzo’s fall from the cliff. And why not remove it completely?

It must be homicide, Kubu decided regretfully. But perhaps not
premeditated, since the disposal of the murder weapon seemed poorly
planned. And how could the killer have known that Monzo would go to
that particular area that particular morning?

The waiter topped up Kubu’s water quietly, suspecting that Kubu
was dozing.

“Thank you,” said Kubu, startling the man.

Then there were the footprints. Plenty of Bushman footprints,
but just the two large boot prints. It appeared that someone had
walked along the calcrete ridge presumably until he was out of the
area where the murder had been committed. Perhaps after covering
his other tracks? But where had the man come from? How had he left
the area? On foot, in the heat of the desert day? Kubu shook his
head firmly. There was more to find around the scene of the crime.
There must be. He would have to get Lerako to help. They had only
two footprints, but they could lead to the murderer.

And what of motive? None of his co-workers seemed to have much
time for Monzo. He had been difficult and unpopular. And he
appeared to have an ambivalent relationship with both his boss and
his wife. But there was nothing obvious right now. Nothing that
would lead to a murder. So there must be darker undercurrents.
Someone with reason to hate Monzo, or with something to gain from
his death. That’s where I’ll need to start, Kubu thought.

He sighed. He had a plan for the next day, but it meant more
travel, more heat, more dust, and more Lerako. He would have been
happier to have none of them. Still, the decision relaxed him, and
he drifted into sleep.

He woke to the tinkle of ice cubes entering his water glass and
a smile from the waiter. It was getting hot again, and Kubu decided
that a swim was in order. He was not by nature a lover of cold
water, but he felt that the exercise would prepare him for lunch.
So he changed into swimming trunks and wallowed in the pool for
half an hour, even managing a few lazy lengths. Joy is right, he
thought. This exercise is good for me. I have worked up an appetite
for the chicken curry and
sambals
that make up the hotel’s
Sunday lunch.

Back in his room, he showered and got back into his shirt and
shorts. He phoned Joy and was delighted that she was having a good
time with his parents and everyone was fussing over Tumi. It seemed
that everything was working out after all. He sang his way through
several arias from
Don Giovanni
, striking appropriate poses
in the dresser mirror. When he had completed those to his
satisfaction, he headed back to the dining room.

Since he was restricting himself to just one helping, Kubu piled
his plate with rice and curry, balancing sliced banana, desiccated
coconut and sweet chutney on the top. In the absence of steelworks,
he ordered a light beer to wash it down. And after that I will be
ready for a serious nap, he thought.

So it was disappointing that a day that had started so well was
to end so badly. For just as he was settling to his nap, his mobile
phone rang. He was surprised to hear Lerako’s voice.

“Bengu? It’s Lerako here. I have some news for you.”

Kubu grunted.

“Well, I sent my Bushman tracker out with those three suspects
yesterday morning. The three you were so sure were innocent. I
thought he could follow the trail from those two footprints, see
where they led.”

He paused, and Kubu commented that he had been thinking along
the same lines.

“They don’t lead anywhere,” Lerako stated.

“What do you mean?”

“The tracker followed them back to the
donga
, and he did
find signs that someone had been walking along the calcrete. Not
footprints as such, just smudges and slip marks. Also, he thinks
something big was dragged to the
donga
edge and probably
pushed over.”

“So there was someone else there!”

Lerako ignored him. “But when he followed the boot prints in the
direction away from the murder scene, he found nothing. No smudges,
no slip marks, nothing.”

“Maybe he missed them, or the man was moving more
carefully.”

“Actually there was no point in being careful. About five
hundred metres further on, that ridge peters out into the dunes.
And there are no footprints in the sand there. So where did he go
after that?”

There was a suggestive pause, and Kubu feared that there was
worse to come.

“The tracker is a good chap. Shows you can make something of a
Bushman if you get him out of the bush and train him. He went back
to the footprints the Bushmen found so conveniently for a more
careful look. He thinks they’re fakes. The weight isn’t distributed
the way you would expect if a man – a big man with big feet – was
walking along the ridge. And they are too close together for the
stride of a big man. He thinks the prints were deliberately set;
maybe the boots were just pushed into the sand by hand.”

Kubu’s heart sank. Mabaku was not going to be pleased with this
development. Had he allowed himself to be fooled into believing the
Bushmen were innocent because that was how he wanted it to be? On
the other hand, why would a murderer leave a few isolated boot
prints? If they were fakes, could it be misdirection?

But Lerako wasn’t finished.

“He headed back here yesterday afternoon and reported all this
to me this morning. So I got on to Vusi at the ranger station and
told him to send someone out to keep an eye on the Bushmen until we
could interrogate them again. He was irritated but eventually sent
someone out there.”

Kubu bit his lip. He guessed how this was going to end.

“They’re gone, Bengu. They probably left as soon as the three of
them were dropped off. There aren’t clear tracks either; obviously
they don’t want to be followed. We won’t catch them now. Monzo’s
killers have vanished into the Kalahari.”

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

T
he group had
travelled far in the day and a half since the three men had been
released by the police. But they had gone carefully, avoiding any
unnecessary trace of their progress. Now they huddled around a
small pile of barely glowing ashes. Unlike most nights, when the
men told stories of great hunts or tales of the gods, this night
was without entertainment. Unlike most nights, usually filled with
jokes and laughter, this night was sombre.

It was a night to end an era, to mark a passing, to begin a
future.

“My people,” Gobiwasi said quietly. “Many times I have watched
the sun chase the moon from the skies. And seen the moon sneak back
and grow bolder, until it thinks it can challenge the sun. Only to
be chased away again. I have seen summers when I thought we would
all die, and times when Rain jumped on the ground and made the sand
green. The ancestors have smiled on me while I have been here. I
have enjoyed a good life and have a fine family.” He peered at the
figures around the fire, not able to distinguish one from the
other. All were quiet.

“But now I am old. I cannot hunt and cannot run, and I walk too
slowly. Today I could hardly keep up. I cannot provide for you. I
cannot provide for myself. I am a burden.”

Everyone stared into the embers, even the children knowing where
this was going.

“You will have many challenges ahead.” Gobiwasi cleared the
phlegm from his throat and spat into the fire. “The world is
changing too fast for our people. We cannot keep up, and when I
talk to the ancestors, they do not tell me what to do.”

The children huddled against their mothers.

“Our people believe the earth is for all, for humans, for
animals, and snakes, and insects, and plants. But those who came
after us believe the earth is for them. That it is there to be
owned. That they should not share the land with others. And so it
is that our people are treated like thieves and robbers. Because we
hunt to survive. And sometimes what we hunt no longer belongs to
the earth, to all, but to one man who has thunder in his head and
fire in his hand. And he hunts us, as we hunt the eland. Or he ties
us with rope and drags us to look after his animals, which he
treats better than he treats us.”

No one saw the tears leaking from Gobiwasi’s eyes.

The group sat in silence, waiting.

Eventually Gobiwasi spoke again.

“It is easy to be angry. To want to fight. But that is not the
way of the Mantis. The Mantis tells me that we must remain who we
are. We must become invisible to the men who want to change our
ways just as we become invisible to the animals we hunt. Standing
up and fighting will not work. We have survived from the beginning
of time because we understand the world around us. We must do the
same now, even though what we see is not what we know. If we are to
remain true to the First People, we must be clever and disappear
even further into the place of the great thirst.”

“Grandpa!” One of the children could contain himself no more.
“Where will you be in the sky? Tell me, so I can look at you every
night.”

Gobiwasi smiled. “Only the ancestors know that. They will tell
me soon.”

He stood up and gazed at the upturned faces.

“The Mantis will look after you!”

He turned, collected his few belongings and walked into the
night.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

A
s Kubu drove the
slow trip from Tsabong to the Wildlife offices at Mabuasehube, he
decided that his view of the Monzo case hadn’t changed. He still
couldn’t believe that a group of peaceful Bushmen had set upon and
killed the ranger. He remained convinced that the missing clues
were at the ranger station, with the people who had known, but
mostly not loved, the prickly man.

He started with Marta. She seemed surprised to see him again,
but was pleasant and offered him coffee and a slice of bread and
jam, which he accepted. While he ate, they spoke of her plans. The
older boy would be going to school next year, so she would look for
work in Tsabong. She had a relative there and would be able to stay
until she had some money and found somewhere of her own. Kubu made
a few suggestions about work prospects. He was in no hurry, and
wanted to see how the conversation would develop. At last, after he
had finished his bread and had drained the coffee, he looked at
Marta and asked, “Do you know if Monzo had any enemies? Not people
he rubbed up the wrong way, but real enemies? People who might have
wanted to do him harm?”

She shook her head. “A lot of people didn’t like him much, but
there’s no one who would have wanted to kill him.”

Well, Kubu thought, someone did.

“Was Monzo good to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did he provide for you and the children, was he a good
father? Did he love you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Kubu shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry to ask you these questions,
but I’m trying to find his murderer. It’s not curiosity.”