Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  Kubu had tried to console the irate Bushman by reiterating how solid Detective Lerako was. Khumanego was scathing.

  “I’ve checked him out. He’s traditional. Typical Motswana—regards Bushmen as lesser beings. Doesn’t know their language. Doesn’t know their culture. My friends have no chance.”

  Kubu was unable to pacify Khumanego, even when he promised to try to review the case when the paperwork came through to Gaborone.

  “You watch, David! They’re guilty already. They don’t need a trial—just send them to jail.” Khumanego had put the phone down so hard that Kubu’s ear hurt.

  As Kubu drove home that evening, he was so preoccupied with disappointing Khumanego that he didn’t consciously notice the other vehicles, or the pedestrians who sprinted through the moving traffic, or the taxis, which used any lane, including the sidewalk, to get ahead. He didn’t even see the livestock, which were clustering around the roads because of the grass growing in the ditches after the recent rain.

  His spirits lifted marginally as he turned into Acacia Street. At least his other four loves would be there—his beloved Tumi, his wonderful wife, Joy, Ilia, the rambunctious fox terrier, and of course, food and wine. Today, his fifth love, being a policeman, had let him down.

  He stopped in front of the gate and, true to form, Ilia was there, jumping up and down, barking a delirious greeting, stump tail wagging furiously. The moment he opened one half of the wire-mesh gate, Ilia hurtled out and tried to jump into Kubu’s arms.

  “Down, Ilia. Down,” Kubu said halfheartedly. Ilia paid no attention and continued to bounce off Kubu as he opened the second half of the gate.

  “Car!”

  Ilia immediately jumped into the car and sat on the passenger seat, tongue out, panting furiously. After Kubu had driven up the short drive, turned the engine off, and walked back to close the gate, Ilia was much calmer, just getting between Kubu’s feet rather than imitating the pronking of a springbok.

  Kubu smiled, expecting Joy to meet him on the steps of the brushed concrete veranda, but he was disappointed.

  “Hello, dear! I’m home,” he called, as though Ilia’s welcome wouldn’t have alerted her.

  No response.

  “Joy! Where are you?” Still no response. She must be occupied with Tumi, he thought. Then he heard the baby cry. He went into the house, put his briefcase on the couch, and walked to the small room at the back—Tumi’s room—painted with cartoon-like animals on the wall and a bright yellow sun on the ceiling. Joy was changing Tumi’s nappy. Tumi was complaining loudly.

  “Hello, dear.” Kubu leaned over and kissed Joy’s cheek. Joy looked at Kubu and frowned.

  “Let me get you a drink,” he said. “You look as though you need one.”

  He walked to the small kitchen and took a box of inexpensive but acceptable South African sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and poured her a large glass. Kubu was embarrassed to serve box wine, but the financial realities of having a baby and Joy working only half time had taken their toll. Bottles were rare these days, usually only when there were guests.

  He always started the evening with a steelworks. He poured two tots of Kola Tonic into a large glass, added a tot of lime juice, and splashed on a liberal portion of Angostura bitters. Next he filled the glass with ginger beer. Only then did he add ice. He despised barmen who started with ice then added the liquid ingredients. They never mixed properly.

  “I’ll be on the veranda,” he called.

  A few minutes later Joy arrived carrying Tumi, who was now quiet.

  “You hold her,” she said.

  Kubu smiled as he took his treasure—the baby that was never meant to be. He rocked her gently, delighting in the small hands that clutched his fingers. He pulled a face, and Tumi smiled. “We’re so lucky, my dear. Tumi is perfect.”

  Joy didn’t respond, but took a large gulp of wine, closed her eyes, and put her head on the back of the chair.

  “Tough day?” Kubu asked.

  Joy nodded.

  “How was work?”

  Joy still didn’t respond.

  “Well, I had an awful day. Remember my old Bushman friend, Khumanego? I told you about him. We were friends at school in Mochudi. Anyway, he called. Spoke to him last about ten years ago, I guess. He’s now an advocate for the Bushmen, advising them about the relocation plans of the government, helping their teams in the law cases, and so on. He’s become a sort of urban Bushman. It’s a strange mix. You should see him! His little body in Western clothes, all too big. Quite funny actually.” He took a big mouthful of his steelworks, swilling it around his mouth to get the most benefit from the tanginess of the ginger beer.

  Joy’s head was still laid back, eyes closed.

  “Anyway he called and asked for help. Some of his friends have been arrested for murder in the southern Kalahari. He swears they would never kill anyone—against Bushman values. He thinks the police are out to get the Bushmen because they’re easy targets. I spoke to the director. He told me to mind my own business—that the situation was under control. It was embarrassing to tell Khumanego that I couldn’t help. I’d all but promised.”

  Joy opened her eyes and sat up. She took another drink, this time more of a sip than a gulp.

  “Kubu, dear, please don’t go out of town unless it is absolutely necessary. You’re going to have to spend some more time with Tumi. I’m really struggling. I’m tired the whole time. When I thought we couldn’t have a child, I went to work at the crèche to be with kids. But now they’re too much. Too many questions, quarrels, demands. And I don’t have the patience I used to. It’s the broken sleep. I always wake when Tumi cries. I don’t know how you sleep through it.”

  “My darling, you know I’m always happy to help. Wake me during the night, and I’ll give her a bottle.” He tickled Tumi under the chin. Joy sighed. She’d tried to wake Kubu many times. It was easier to deal with Tumi herself.

  Kubu asked if she wanted another glass of wine, and she nodded. A few minutes later he returned, two glasses in hand. He handed one to Joy and raised the other. “To the best mother in the whole world! Thank you my dearest.” Their glasses touched with a clear ring. They had learned long ago to hold their glasses at the bottom to get the best sound. “Tonight, let’s go down to Wimpy. You won’t have to cook, and they’re having a special on T-bone steaks.”

  Joy nodded. Wimpy was fine, and they could take the baby.

  The next morning, as Kubu walked into the office a few minutes late, Edison pulled him aside and said quietly, “The director wants to see you. Right away.”

  “I’ll get myself a cup of tea then go and see what he wants.”

  “I think you’d better go right away. He’s been into your office several times, looking like a thunderstorm.”

  Kubu wondered what was on the director’s mind as he knocked on the door and pushed it open.

  “About time! Why are you late again?” Kubu recognized Mabaku’s voice of anger. Before he could answer, Mabaku had pointed to a seat. Kubu sat quickly and tried to look as nonchalant as possible.

  Mabaku just stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Kubu didn’t even want to wriggle in the chair to make it more comfortable.

  Mabaku started quietly. “Kubu, yesterday I told you not to get involved with your Bushman friend.” He paused and raised the level. “And when you made a snide remark about the police not wanting to help the Bushman people, I told you not to be clever.” Kubu nodded. Mabaku jumped to his feet. “When I tell you not to get involved, I mean DON’T . . . GET . . . INVOLVED!” Each of the last three words was accompanied by a loud crash as his fist hit his desk.

  “But, Director . . .”

  “You can’t sneak around and try to embarrass me into changing my mind!”

  The whole of the Criminal Investigation Department was now privy to what was happening in the director’s office as his voice echoed through the building.

  “I will not have you subvert my authority! What do
you think you were doing?”

  Kubu didn’t move. He was stunned.

  “But, Director . . .”

  “What do you think you were doing?” Each word was uttered like a separate sentence.

  “You’ve always been fair to me, Director. What have I done? I’ve never let you down before.”

  Mabaku glared at Kubu.

  “Cindy Robinson!”

  Kubu frowned. “Director, I don’t know anyone by the name of Cindy Robinson.”

  “Bullshit! If you don’t know her by name, you certainly know who she is!”

  “Cindy Robinson?”

  “At eight oh five this morning, I got a call from a Cindy Robinson—an American reporter. She’s been working on a series of articles on the Bushmen. But now she smells news. Why are the Botswana police persecuting the endangered Bushman peoples again? she asks. How can the Botswana police hold three Bushmen in Tsabong on a charge of murder without any evidence?” He paused still glaring at Kubu. “She’s heading to Tsabong right now. Someone tipped her off. Well? Do you deny it?”

  “Director,” Kubu said quietly, “I’d never do that. I never spoke to anybody at any newspaper, let alone an American newspaper. I promise.” He paused, then anticipated Mabaku’s next question. “And I didn’t suggest it to anyone else either.”

  Mabaku sat down and rubbed his chin.

  “Then it must have been your Bushman friend. He’s using you, Kubu. Good friend indeed! He set you up.”

  Kubu flushed. The director had to be right.

  “I’ll call him right away. Tell him to back off.”

  “Too late. This Robinson woman is writing an article—backing off won’t help. I’ve changed my mind. You’ll have to go to Tsabong. Tomorrow. Make sure that Lerako is on top of everything. That it’s all up front and transparent. Keep me informed.”

  But Kubu wasn’t going to leave it at that. He wanted Mabaku on his side. “Director, do you remember the Maauwe and Motswetla case?”

  “Of course I remember it. It was a disaster for the whole country. Going to trial without the two Bushmen having any idea of what was going on. Outrageous. Convicted of a capital crime with no adequate defense. Embarrassing. Made us look like racists.” Mabaku paused in his tirade. Kubu said nothing.

  “You think it could happen again?” Mabaku stared at Kubu.

  “I don’t know what to think, Director. Lerako is solid but unimaginative. If he’s satisfied with the evidence he’s got, he won’t look any further. But why would my friend Khumanego come to me after all this time unless he was very concerned? Let me help Lerako. You can remind him of the Maauwe and Motswetla case and say you are making sure everything is in order. We can’t take the chance of this blowing up in our faces.”

  Mabaku stood up and gazed out of the window at Kgale Hill, which formed the backdrop to the Millenium Park office complex, where the CID was housed. None of its resident baboons was visible. Neither man said anything for several minutes.

  “All right,” Mabaku said pointing his finger at Kubu. “But it’s still Lerako’s case. You are his backup, checking all the facts. I’ll tell him that it’s nothing personal, but the government can’t afford another scandal. I’ll make sure he knows he’s still in charge.”

  “Thank you, Director. I should only be away a few days. None of my cases here are so urgent they can’t wait.”

  Mabaku wagged his finger at Kubu. “Make sure you don’t stir things up. Check back with me before you say or do anything that runs against Lerako. And don’t talk to that reporter woman.”

  Kubu nodded and left with a mixture of emotions. He felt Khumanego had let him down, and he knew Joy would be upset that he’d be away. And Lerako was a tough man, hard to deal with. But Kubu was intrigued. If the Bushmen were innocent—as Khumanego averred—then who was behind the killing? Lerako wouldn’t have missed obvious clues, so it was a puzzle. And Kubu loved puzzles.

  Chapter Five

  Joy had reacted very badly to the news that Kubu would be away for several days, and the atmosphere was still strained the next morning.

  Breakfast was rudimentary. Joy again had not slept well, and Tumi was very demanding. Joy sat breast-feeding the infant as Kubu helped himself to two bananas and a cup of tea. Joy accepted tea, but didn’t want to eat. Kubu made himself four sandwiches: two were savory, with cold meat and mustard, two were sweet—for dessert—with strawberry jam.

  He filled a thermos with water and ice, collected several cans of ginger beer, packing it all in a cooler, and took his luggage to the police pool car. He’d tested the air conditioner the day before, so he was confident he’d have a comfortable journey.

  Preparations finished, he went inside to say good-bye to Joy and Tumi.

  “I have to go, dear,” Kubu said brightly.

  Joy turned around, tears running down her face.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?” Kubu sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. Tumi sucked contentedly at her nipple. Joy just shook her head.

  Kubu pulled her closer, but she resisted.

  “You’ve got to go,” she mumbled. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll call you every evening, and I’ll be back in no time at all.”

  He leaned over to kiss her, but she turned her head. Kubu was gripped with uncertainty. He’d never felt so isolated from Joy. Not once since he’d met her.

  “Go!” she said. “Drive carefully.”

  Kubu turned and walked out to the veranda, down the steps and to the car. Out of character, Ilia didn’t dash around barking loudly. She lay on the cool veranda floor, head between her paws, and watched Kubu leave, moving only her eyes.

  When he’d told Khumanego that he would be visiting Tsabong after all, Kubu was surprised—and not entirely pleased—that Khumanego asked to come along. With some misgivings, Kubu agreed. Khumanego could be his translator, and it was a chance to clear the air over the reporter. It meant a detour to pick him up in Lobatse, but it wasn’t far out of the way.

  As he drove, Kubu mulled what was happening to his marriage. He had to keep working and be on top of his job, but he loved Joy and Tumi with all his heart. He’d been ecstatic when Tumi was born, but ill-prepared for what he perceived as Joy’s distancing herself from him. All his life he’d yearned for a family. Now he felt his dream was slipping from him. He was glad to reach Lobatse and find Khumanego waiting for him.

  However, the trip began in a tense atmosphere aggravated by the usual traffic problems around Lobatse and Kubu’s worry about Joy. Khumanego admitted that he’d contacted the reporter. He had met her previously to help with her research and had called her when Kubu had said he wouldn’t help. Kubu corrected that to “couldn’t,” but the Bushman just shrugged. The effect was the same. Perhaps he had overstated the case, Khumanego admitted, but what was he to do? It was the last card he had to play.

  “You don’t have any idea how we react when a Bushman is imprisoned for murder,” Khumanego said quietly. “You know about the Maauwe and Motswetla case, but it is only the Bushmen who really feel it. You know the story. Several men including Maauwe and Motswetla were desperate for food in the midst of a drought in 1995. They saw a stray ox and killed it. The next day the owner challenged them and was killed. How did he die? Who was responsible? We don’t know. It’s what happened afterwards that’s important.

  “Maauwe and Motswetla were Bushmen. The police arrested them, beat them, and forced them to sign confessions written in a language they didn’t understand. They only spoke a Bushman dialect, not Setswana. And they were illiterate. Then they went to trial. They had no money, no education, nothing. How could they understand what was going on?” Khumanego gazed out the passenger window into the distance. Kubu let the silence be.

  “So the government appointed lawyers for them. It was a sham. They never consulted the accused, never spoke to anyone about the case, and then they let the confessions stand. Maauwe and Motswetla never spoke in their own defense. Of course they
were found guilty.” Khumanego paused. “Then came the clemency hearings. Nobody was asked to vouch for them, and a letter they sent, asking for better lawyers, was never put in their files. It was hidden away. So the court found no grounds to be merciful and sentenced Maauwe and Motswetla to be hanged. But no one knew when, not even their families. It was all secret. Then in January ’99—almost two years later—by luck someone saw a little notice in a newspaper that the execution was going to take place the following day.” Suddenly Khumanego swung round to Kubu, agitated. “Nobody was told, David! Nobody. Not their wives, parents, friends. Nobody.

  “There’s a human rights group in Gaborone—Ditshwanelo. They applied for an urgent injunction to delay the execution, and amazingly they succeeded. Eventually, thanks to the efforts of many people around the world, a mistrial was declared. The government appealed and won the right to retry. That was at the end of 1999, nearly five years after the initial incident. The government kept dragging its feet, and six years later nothing had happened. But Maauwe and Motswetla were still in jail. They’d been there for ten years! The government tried everything to make it difficult for them. At first Ditshwanelo lawyers weren’t even allowed to see the two. When the courts forced the government to allow visits, there were always warders within earshot, so there was an atmosphere of intimidation.”

  Khumanego looked away and continued more calmly. “That’s our wonderful government, David, the model of democracy in Africa! Protector of all its citizens. It’s a farce. It despises the Bushmen and will do anything to get rid of us, to get rid of our culture. The only good news is that the courts eventually said enough was enough and freed Maauwe and Motswetla, never to be tried again. What you would call a victory. But the two men are lost souls. Bewildered by ten years in jail and a system that failed them. That’s why I’m going to Tsabong, David. This smells of another case of injustice. Another effort to get rid of my people.”