The Death of the Mantis (44 page)

He threw the eggshells into the rubbish, and paused as he
watched them leak over the scraps of his torn-up resignation
letter. I suppose Mabaku
will
take me back, he wondered. I
suppose I owe him an apology too. But that is for Monday. Today I
have work to do.

He measured out half a cup of corn starch and removed a
tablespoon’s worth, again compromising between a level and a heaped
spoon, which he put in a coffee cup for safe keeping. He poured the
rest on the counter so he could roll the pork in it.

“Kubu! Could we have some more wine, please? And more
snacks?”

Kubu took the wine bottle out of the fridge, emptied a packet of
chips into a bowl and went out to the veranda.

“How is it coming?” Pleasant asked. “I’m starving.”

“Everything is under control. Thank you. I just wish people
would write clear directions!” The two women had noticed that Kubu
had stopped humming about fifteen minutes earlier.

“What’s that on your shorts?” Joy asked.

Kubu didn’t answer and stalked back to the kitchen. Joy and
Pleasant looked at each other and burst out laughing. Kubu was not
amused.

He glanced at his watch. Damn! Ten to seven. He hoped it didn’t
matter if the pork marinated too long. He grabbed a fork, pierced a
piece of pork, dipped it in the egg and rolled it in the corn
starch. He had some difficulty taking the fork out and ended up
using his fingers once again. About five minutes later, he had
finished coating the pork, which was now in a large bowl.

“Let the meat stand until the starch is absorbed.” How long was
that? How would he tell?

How do you tell anything? Kubu mused. How do you tell if someone
is trustworthy? How do you know what is fair and what is unfair
when dealing with criminals? And had they made the right decision
about his job? His stomach began to hurt. It needs food, he
thought. I’d better get a move on.

“Fat for deep frying.” The man at the butchery, noticing Kubu’s
bulk, had told him to use oil instead of fat. “Heat the fat to 360
degrees.” Fahrenheit or Celsius? The recipe came from an American
website. What would they use? It must be Fahrenheit. So what was
360 degrees Fahrenheit in Celsius? Kubu couldn’t remember how to
convert from one to the other, but he remembered that 20 degrees
Celsius was about 70 degrees Fahrenheit. How far off could he be if
he divided by seven and doubled the result? If I make it 350,
dividing by seven gives 50. 50 doubled is 100. Kubu frowned. There
was something wrong. He knew that water boiled at 100 degrees
Celsius. That wasn’t hot enough. Well, if I double that to 200
degrees Celsius it should be hot enough, he thought in
desperation.

He poured some oil into a pot, hoping it was enough. He turned
on the front element of the stove, but couldn’t find a way to set
the temperature. Perhaps he should put the pot in the oven to heat
it – he could see how to set the temperature there.

Kubu was getting flustered. Now he understood why he preferred
sitting on the veranda sipping chilled wine. There he could relax
and ponder his cases. If he cooked every day, he’d have no time to
think.

Where would he find a thermometer? He pulled all the drawers out
but couldn’t locate anything that looked useful. He searched on the
counter and in the cupboards. Nothing. So how did you tell the
temperature?

After a few minutes, he swallowed his pride and went to the
veranda.

“Everything okay?” he asked nonchalantly. “More wine?” Joy and
Pleasant both accepted. “By the way,” Kubu said as he headed back
inside, “where’s a thermometer I can use for the oil?”

“When you think it’s hot enough,” Joy said, “just spit on the
oil. If the spit dances and fizzes, it’s hot enough.” Kubu gaped at
her. Was she serious, or was she having him on? Perhaps he could
use water?

♦

It was twenty to nine when a dishevelled Kubu invited Joy and
Pleasant in to dinner. They had already finished more than a bottle
of wine and were giggling at everything. Kubu, on the other hand,
had not even sipped a drink, though on several occasions he had
wanted to take a large swig from the bottle of brandy in the liquor
cupboard.

When the ladies were seated, he poured red wine into the three
clean glasses on the table and proposed a toast: “To restaurants!
We should visit them more often!” Joy and Pleasant laughed
uproariously.

“To the chef!” Pleasant was getting very loud. The glasses
clinked loudly, and Kubu was worried that they might break.

“To my loving husband!” Joy leant over and kissed Kubu on the
cheek. “I’m looking forward to more of your wonderful creations in
the future.” Kubu glared at her and drained the rest of his wine in
a single gulp.

“Hear, hear!” Pleasant lifted her glass for another toast.

Kubu refilled his glass and raised it once more. “To us,” he
said quietly.

Hunger took over, and the three set about the sweet and sour
pork. Kubu was so ravenous that he was pleased he hadn’t insisted
on chopsticks as the butcher had suggested.

Pleasant looked around the table. “Where’s the rice?”

Kubu groaned. The rice was still soaking; he had forgotten to
cook it.

Joy saw his discomfort and put her hand on his arm. “Darling,
you’ve done a fantastic job. Relax and enjoy yourself. The pork is
delicious.”

Kubu looked at his wife and saw she meant it. He put his hand
over hers. “Thank you, my dear. I didn’t imagine cooking could be
so stressful.”

Sanity restored, the three ate in silence, the only sounds those
of cutlery on plates. And an occasional growl from Ilia to remind
them that she too liked Chinese.

♦

It was now after ten p.m. Pleasant had left for home, sternly
admonished to drive carefully, the table had been cleared and the
dishes stacked in the kitchen. Kubu and Joy strolled on to the
veranda.

“Come and sit on my lap, dear.” Kubu patted his leg as though
Joy didn’t know where his lap was. “Are you sure we’ve made the
right decision, my darling? No second thoughts?”

Joy shook her head. “I watched you as we discussed it, Kubu.
We
can’t be happy if
you’re
unhappy. Apart from Tumi
and me, your whole life revolves around being a detective. You love
your work. And when you started talking about working in security
for Debswana, I could see how much you’d hate that. The routine,
the boredom, the admin! After all, I don’t want you to change. I
want you as you are.”

“You are the most amazing woman in the world,” said Kubu,
wanting to say something much less trite, but finding himself
suddenly tongue-tied.

Joy curled up, put her arms around Kubu’s neck and gave him a
deep kiss. “You are amazing too,” she whispered. “I never thought
you would do it. Cook a whole complicated meal. And it was so good.
Thank you, my love.”

Hmm, thought Kubu. This cooking business has some pay-off after
all. With one hand he stroked her back; with the other he pulled
her head towards him. As their tongues explored each other, their
breathing became short. Kubu shifted his hand to stroke her
breasts. Joy groaned softly and pushed herself against him. She
kissed him on his cheek, on his forehead, on his eyes.

“I love you,” she murmured.

Kubu felt his eyes moisten. He loved her so much. He took her
face between his hands and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Let’s
go to bed. The dishes can wait.”

They stood up, held hands and walked inside.

They stopped just inside the bedroom for their third long kiss
since leaving the veranda. When they could stand it no longer, they
separated, giggled and headed for the bed, shedding clothes.

At that moment, Tumi started to cry.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

A
lthough this is a
work of fiction, we have tried to depict traditional Bushman
cultures accurately. This has not been easy. Much about the Bushmen
is uncertain. The cultures are difficult to research, partly
because the Bushmen have oral histories and, in some cases,
contradictory traditions, so that even authorities disagree on many
points. Furthermore, these are diverse cultures with their own
languages. Some of the languages are similar; others are not
mutually understandable. The multiple clicks and tonal emphases
make the languages very hard for outsiders to learn, and thus much
of the information obtained by researchers is through interpreters,
opening the possibility of questions (and answers) being
misunderstood.

We have chosen to use the word ‘Bushman’ for the people of our
story. Even this decision was not easy, because all the names used
for the Khoisan peoples are controversial. ‘Bushman’ has been
commonly used for many years and is derived from a Dutch phrase,
but some people regard it as pejorative. In academic circles, ‘San’
is widely accepted, but it derives from a derogatory word used by
the farming Khoi groups to describe their hunter-gatherer cousins.
And ‘Basarwa’, which is commonly used in Botswana, also has
negative connotations.

Unfortunately the Bushmen seem to have no specific name for
themselves; they refer to themselves just as ‘the people’, and all
other groups are ‘the others’, whether white, black or even
Bushmen.

Political groups have sometimes used the term ‘First People of
the Kalahari’, alluding to the Bushmen’s long tenure in the
area.

In the end we settled for ‘Bushmen’ simply because it is easier
for the Western reader, and because no other name is broadly
accepted.

An important personality in Bushman mythologies is Kaggen
(sometimes written /Kaggen), a god with awesome powers but with the
character of a trickster. In some stories, Kaggen is described as a
mantis, giving the latter a special role in Bushman mythology. The
face of a mantis is said to resemble that of a Bushman.

We found the Bushman quotes at the beginning of each part in
Customs and Beliefs of the IXam Bushmen
, edited by Jeremy C.
Hollmann (Wits University Press). The quotes themselves are
originally from the remarkable work of Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy
Lloyd, who recorded the stories of /A!kunta (Klaas Stoffel),
//Kabbo (Oud Jantje Tooren), Dialkwain (David Hoesar), /Haπ≠kass’o
(Klein Jantje Tooren) and ≠Kasin (Klaas Katkop) between 1870 and
1880 in Cape Town.

The story that Khumanego tells of the arrest of Maauwe and
Motswelta is essentially true, although presented from his
perspective, of course. The case is described in detail in
In
the Shadow of the Noose
by Elizabeth Maxwell and Alice
Mogwe.

The story of Hans Schwabe’s search for diamonds and his lonely
death in what is now the Kgalagadi Transfrontier National Park is
also true, and provided the idea for one of the strands of the
plot. However, there was no suggestion of foul play or that he left
behind a map.

Berrybush is a real bed-and-breakfast near Tsabong and Jill
Thomas is its amazing proprietor. The camels live there in
peace.

The Place is completely fictitious. However, if it existed as
described, it might well have become a sacred site. Tsodilo is just
such a collection of
koppies
rising from the desert. It
contains a rich variety of Bushman art – even including a drawing
of a whale, although the nearest coast is hundreds of kilometres
away – and is venerated by the bushman as the place of creation. It
is a wonderful and moving place to visit.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧