Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  He struggled to his feet. Khumanego followed suit, many questions unanswered. Together they walked slowly back to the waiting group.

  Khumanego said a few words to the Bushmen, then walked to the Land Rover. Kubu and Lerako followed. Kubu didn’t know whether he should wave to the group, so he turned and touched his forehead. There was no response.

  They tumbled into the Land Rover, Lerako hesitating only to mark the spot on his GPS. “Shit! We’re only about half a mile from where the body was found. It seemed much further than that.”

  Kubu strapped himself into his seat and prepared for another bout of torture. For the next twenty minutes, they followed Khumanego’s directions, Lerako’s mood deteriorating with each passing moment as he wrestled with the steering wheel. Eventually Khumanego told them to stop. They climbed from the vehicle and carefully made their way to a calcrete ridge. Khumanego searched around, but the ridge appeared solid and unmarked.

  Lerako was hot and irritated, and he lost his temper. “This is all a complete waste of time! There’s nothing up here. They just wanted to get rid of us! Let’s get out of here.” But meanwhile, Khumanego had walked some distance up the ridge and shouted for them to join him. He was pointing at the ground.

  There, between two ridges of hard calcrete was a small island of sand. In it were two prints, clearly of a hiking boot or something similar. They were pointed away from where Monzo had been found—about two hundred yards to the east.

  “Could they be Monzo’s?” Kubu asked.

  Lerako shook his head regretfully. “The print of the sole is different. Monzo’s boots had a distinct pattern. This one is smooth.”

  “So there was someone else here,” Kubu said, pulling a camera from his pocket.

  “You know prints can stay in the desert for a long time,” Lerako growled. “We’ve no idea whether they are linked to the murder.”

  “True,” Kubu said.

  “And why weren’t any of these prints close to the body? My tracker didn’t find prints like this anywhere.”

  Kubu shook his head. “If you look carefully, you can see there are long ridges of calcrete on either side of the prints. Someone could walk all the way to the edge of the donga where the body was found, without leaving a trace. We’re lucky there was this patch of sand.”

  Lerako clenched his teeth. He knelt on the edge of the sand and examined the prints carefully. After a couple of minutes, he stood and shook his head, but said nothing.

  He walked back to the Land Rover and settled behind the steering wheel. Kubu climbed in, not looking forward to the upcoming journey. Khumanego followed.

  “You’ll let the Bushmen go now?” Kubu asked Lerako as they pulled off. Eventually Lerako gave a curt nod. “What do two footprints by themselves mean? I still believe they did it. But I don’t have the hard evidence to hold them.”

  Kubu turned to Khumanego. “Your brothers will be freed tomorrow. Detective Sergeant Lerako will arrange for them to be dropped back near here.”

  Back at the ranger station, they splashed their faces and rapidly downed several tepid cold drinks. Then Kubu prowled around looking for something to eat. It was well after lunchtime, and he was getting desperate. Eventually his hunger overcame his judgment, and he poured pula into a vending machine, ending up with a pile of junk food.

  Not what I’d call lunch, he thought. And I’d better not tell Joy.

  He found an empty desk and settled down to appease his hunger. Lerako was not a happy man and paced while Kubu methodically worked his way through the rustle of wrappers. Khumanego sat silently, shaking his head at offers of the junk food. When Kubu had finally consumed everything, he and Lerako went to talk to the head ranger, Vusi, and office manager, Ndoli, leaving Khumanego staring out at the desert.

  Despite Kubu’s thorough probing, Vusi added nothing to what they already knew. However, it was obvious that Vusi wasn’t greatly upset that Monzo was dead.

  “Monzo could be difficult,” he said when pushed. “Did whatever he liked, when he liked. Problem was he was good at what he did. Otherwise I’d have fired him.”

  Kubu wondered whether that was the only reason Vusi didn’t like him. He turned to Ndoli.

  “How did you find Monzo? He was quite far from the road.”

  “I saw his bakkie and stopped to take a look. He wasn’t there, but I found his footprints. I followed them to the top of the donga. Then I saw him with three Bushmen.”

  “Was the engine of Monzo’s bakkie running?”

  Ndoli frowned. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Well, if it was running, he didn’t expect to be away for long.”

  “So he thought he would be away for a while?”

  “Looks like it. How did the Bushmen react when you appeared?”

  “No reaction. One was squatting next to Monzo, trying to get him to drink. The others were watching.”

  “That doesn’t sound as though they were trying to kill him.”

  Lerako interrupted, his frustration showing. “But he wasn’t giving him water when you arrived at the top of the donga, right? When they saw you, they probably decided they needed to look friendly. Water was the only thing they could do.” He glared at Ndoli.

  “They weren’t hostile at all.” But now there was a shade of uncertainty in Ndoli’s voice.

  Kubu asked Ndoli a few more questions, but learned nothing new. He turned to Vusi.

  “Rra Vusi, before we head back to Tsabong, can you take us to Monzo’s wife? I’d like to talk to her.”

  Even though the house was several hundred yards away, Kubu thought it preferable to walk rather than spend more time in the Land Rover.

  “That’s Monzo’s house,” Vusi said pointing ahead. “Her name is Marta.”

  “How long had Monzo been here?”

  “Two years in May, I think.”

  “How long had he been married? Did he have kids?”

  Vusi hesitated. “They weren’t married, but they had two kids. Apparently his real wife is in South Africa somewhere.” Kubu wondered why Vusi looked so uncomfortable.

  A handsome woman, traditionally dressed, answered the door. She smiled warmly at Vusi, but her faced closed when she caught sight of Kubu and Lerako.

  Vusi introduced them. “Marta, this is Assistant Superintendent Bengu. He wants to ask you some more questions. Is that all right?”

  Marta nodded, but looked unsettled. Nevertheless she answered Kubu’s questions confidently and nothing unexpected emerged. She confirmed everything that Lerako had told him. Kubu noticed that from time to time she would look to Vusi for confirmation or support. It seemed there was some connection between them. Leaving, Kubu wondered about that. Was Vusi just being opportunistic after Monzo had died? Taking advantage of the presence of a now single woman? Or did they have a relationship before Monzo died?

  That was worth pursuing.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning Kubu and Khumanego went to the police station to check on the release of the three Bushmen. All three were already out of the holding cells, waiting for their lift back to their group. They greeted Kubu respectfully, and there was much enthusiastic discussion with Khumanego in their own language. Kubu stood back, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of righting injustice. There was no sign of Lerako; his office door was closed.

  Eventually the three climbed into the back of a police Land Rover. The driver was a uniformed constable, and a man, another Bushman, sat next to him in the passenger seat. Perhaps an interpreter? Kubu wondered. Was Lerako coming around? It seemed a sympathetic gesture.

  At last they were ready to go and the vehicle pulled away. Khumanego was still talking to them, laughing and waving as they left. He came inside looking happy for the first time on the trip.

  “Look, David. See what I have here.” He opened the palm of his hand revealing a large desert-brown praying mantis sitting there. It seemed content and quiet in the darkness of his hand.

  “Where did you find it
?”

  “No, I didn’t find it. It flew to me and settled on my hand. It is a great sign, a wonderful thing!” Khumanego’s face glowed. “The Mantis created the world and all its people. But we don’t think of him as a god. He is sort of a good friend to the Bushmen. He’s always playing practical jokes. He makes us laugh.

  “He created us first,” Khumanego continued. “That is why we call ourselves the First People. We were here before the Hottentots, before the Batswana, before the whites. Before everybody.” Suddenly his face fell, and bitterness was in his voice again. “Now it seems we will be the first people to disappear.”

  Kubu could see why the Bushmen had chosen the mantis over the lion or elephant as their creator. It was small, like the Bushmen, and its little triangular face resembled a Bushman face. Even the light brown color was similar.

  “It’s wonderful he came to you himself,” he said, trying to help Khumanego recover his earlier joy.

  Khumanego shook his head. “She. Too big for a male.” He hesitated. “David, you have done a wonderful thing for our people here. I thank you, and my people give you their thanks. You are our friend, indeed.” He held out his hand, and Kubu took it.

  “I just did my job.”

  Khumanego nodded. “But many don’t. Some just go with their prejudices. Like him.” He nodded toward Lerako’s closed door. Kubu said nothing.

  “Well, David, I must go too. There is a truck taking water to the settlements in the Kalahari leaving today. I’d like to visit the people there, hear what they know, see if they are all right. I need to be ready soon.”

  This was a surprise to Kubu. He had assumed that his friend would return with him to Gaborone. He had looked forward to the company now that things were resolved.

  “How will you get back to Gaborone?” he asked.

  “Oh, there are minibus taxis, but I’ll probably get a lift with one of the aid workers or someone else. There’s a lot of traffic.” Kubu hadn’t noticed that, but it seemed Khumanego’s mind was made up. He gave him a playful shove which nearly knocked the Bushman over. “Go well, my friend,” he said. Khumanego nodded and was gone as suddenly as a ghost.

  Kubu turned and headed for Lerako’s office. With the Bushmen out of the picture, the case would need to be solved from scratch. Kubu felt a prickle of excitement.

  Lerako was nowhere to be seen, so Kubu took advantage of the privacy of his vacant office to call Joy. He didn’t expect her to be happy that he was staying on in Tsabong, and he was right.

  “Kubu, I really need you home. It’s hard enough to cope when you’re here! Now I have to do everything myself. I can’t manage. I can’t.” She sounded close to tears.

  “Darling, I’ll be home as soon as I can. Soon, I promise.”

  “But when will you be back?”

  There it was again. How could he possibly be expected to answer that? “Why don’t you take some leave? Stay at home with Tumi. Get some rest.”

  “I used up all my leave after she was born. There’s nothing left.”

  Kubu grasped for a straw. “Well, when I’m back I’ll take some leave. Stay at home with Tumi. Then you can get out with your friends in the afternoon. See Pleasant.”

  “You should save your leave for when we . . .” But Joy seemed to lose that thought. “I’d still have to cook for us as soon as I get home anyway.”

  Kubu had an inspiration. “That’s what I’ll do with the leave! I’ll take up cooking. You know how interested I am in food. I can choose a cuisine. Maybe Chinese. I’ll enjoy it, and you will have free time.”

  Joy thought about it, seeing a glimmer of hope. “Would you really enjoy cooking?” she asked hesitantly. Cooking wasn’t traditional male behavior among the Batswana.

  Kubu had never thought about it before and had no idea if he would enjoy it. “Absolutely! It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but there’s never been time. And you cook so well I thought you might be offended if I even suggested it.”

  “Oh, Kubu, I don’t know. But if I had some time. Not to see friends, but perhaps to visit Pleasant. And rest a bit. I would be so grateful.”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage. I’ll cook the very day I come home.” He felt he was laying it on a bit, but his enthusiasm was building up. He loved Chinese food. How hard could it be? Everyone in China cooked it, and there were billions of people there. And, after all, Mabaku couldn’t refuse Kubu some leave. Compassionate leave. For Joy.

  “So when will you be home?”

  “I’m sure it will only be a few days. What about getting Pleasant to stay over till then? She can help. She loves Tumi.”

  For the first time Joy sounded enthusiastic. “Oh, Kubu, I’m sure she would. Just for a couple of days till you come back. I’ll ask her. I think she’ll come. She knows I’m struggling.”

  “Then, when I’ve cooked a delicious Chinese meal—the whole thing—sweet-and-sour pork with pineapple and rice with all the trimmings, washed down with a Riesling perhaps, and I’ve cleaned everything up while you put Tumi to sleep, we can go to bed. And you’ll be fresh and enthusiastic. I’ve heard Chinese food contains things that increase desire. We’ll have a wonderful time!” Kubu’s mouth was watering. He wasn’t sure if it was the thought of Joy—always tired lately—in his arms, or the sweet-and-sour pork. Joy too sounded enthusiastic, and the conversation finished on a happy note. Kubu sighed with relief. He was a little tentative about his promises, though. The Riesling was fine, and so was the lovemaking—more than fine, he thought rather smugly—but he had undertaken to cook a full meal and clean up. More or less the day he got back. And perhaps for several days thereafter. And get leave from Mabaku, who was not in a particularly good mood at the moment. Well, I should have paternity leave, Kubu thought, feeling a most liberated man.

  When he returned to the Mokha Lodge, Kubu found Cindy waiting for him. She wanted to say good-bye. “There’s nothing more to follow up here, Kubu. I’m happy that you saved the Bushmen. I’ll put it in the story.”

  “Detective Sergeant Lerako will love that!”

  “I want to thank you. For helping them. And for spending time with me.” She leaned forward seemingly to peck him on the cheek but, turning her head, kissed him on the lips. It was a sisterly kiss, but Kubu was surprised, yet not displeased. She wiped his lips with her fingers. “Lipstick,” she said.

  Kubu smiled. “Do you know anything about cooking Chinese food?”

  She laughed. Her laugh always seemed ready. “You’re going to cook for your family?” Kubu nodded. How did she guess? Was she related to Mabaku?

  “Well, no, not actually,” she continued. “I’m not into Chinese. But all you need is a cookbook. And the ingredients. I’m sure you can get those. Otherwise you’ll have to improvise.”

  A cookbook! Of course. “Thank you very much. A cookbook. That’s the answer.”

  Cindy gave him her card, on which she’d written a local cell phone number. “Will you call me when you get back to Gaborone? Please. I’d like to see you again, Kubu.”

  Kubu promised to do that, and held out his hand. She shook it with a slight smile. Then she let him go.

  Chapter Eight

  Joy was delighted that her sister could accompany her to see Kubu’s parents. It wasn’t that they’d grown apart, but for the past three months she’d been so tired attending to Tumi that they didn’t get together as frequently as before.

  Pleasant had jumped at the chance to visit Wilmon and Amantle, Kubu’s charmingly old-fashioned parents, and insisted that Joy drive so she could hold and pamper the baby.

  After Joy had negotiated the maelstrom of traffic, people, and animals that populated Gaborone’s streets, she relaxed a little and felt able to give some of her attention to Pleasant.

  “So how are you and Bongani getting on?” she asked, twisting to look at Pleasant, who was sitting behind her. Kubu insisted that Tumi should always be in the backseat, which disrupted years of habit for Ilia, who had to learn to sleep on the passen
ger seat. Ilia still was unsettled by the change and occasionally sought reassurance from Joy by jumping up and licking her on the ear. “I hope you’re prepared for Amantle’s cross-examination! You know how she feels about women your age being single!”

  Pleasant laughed at the memory of previous visits. “I always think I’m ready, but when I get there she finds all the chinks in my armor. How about you? How are you doing?”

  “Other than being exhausted all the time, I’m well. I just wish Tumi would sleep through the night sometimes, but I suppose it’s too much to expect after only three months. But even once a week would be good. I need the sleep.”

  “Is Kubu still not helping?”

  “I really don’t know what to do. He says he wants to help, but he never hears Tumi crying, and he’s almost impossible to wake. I just don’t have the energy to get him up. It’s seems easier to deal with Tumi myself. It’s beginning to affect our relationship.”

  “Too tired even for sex?” Pleasant’s eyes twinkled.

  “Yes, and I miss it. But more important, we don’t have the same relaxed time together in the evenings. If I’m not dealing with Tumi, I’m too tired to listen to him like I used to. I’m not sure what he’s up to anymore. And I don’t tell him much about what’s going on at the school.” Joy took a deep breath, feeling tears welling up. “And I feel resentful when he has to go away. I know it’s not true, but I feel sometimes that he’s happy to go away to get some peace for himself.”

  “Kubu wouldn’t do that! He’s the most devoted husband I’ve ever met.”

  “What if he meets someone on one of his trips? It seems like ages since we had sex.”

  “Kubu never looks at anyone else. You’ve got to trust him.”

  Joy didn’t respond, but focused on the road ahead, trying to banish the tears and the doubt.

  Pleasant loved the stalls that populated Botswana’s roads, with their creative names. As they drove down Kgafela Drive in Mochudi, only a mile or two from the Bengus’ house, they passed the More and More Tuck Shop, the Taliban Haircut and Car Wash, and the dubious Jailbird Security Company. She laughed out loud, startling Ilia, who uncurled, stood up, and looked out of the window. Suddenly her stumpy tail wagged furiously. She knows where she is, Pleasant thought. She knows she’s about to be spoiled.