Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  It took about forty-five minutes for the helicopter to get to the Land Rover. The pilot found a place to land and for the next two hours they painstakingly searched the area once again. They found nothing of interest. They photographed the Bushman footprints, although they knew they couldn’t use footprints for identification. But doing it made them feel more useful.

  Eventually, Mabaku ordered them to fly back directly over the tracks to look for anything unusual. He was beginning to feel despondent. He should never have allowed Kubu to go, he kept telling himself. If something had happened to them, it would be his fault.

  The pilot told Mabaku he was going to Tsabong to refuel and would follow the tracks first thing in the morning. Despite Mabaku’s angry spluttering that people’s lives were at stake, the pilot insisted, saying that the director didn’t want more people missing in the Kalahari.

  Even Mabaku realized the good sense in that.

  Kubu was fading. It was now more than three days without food or water. His body was crying out for sustenance, and his mind was slowly slipping into a state of not caring. Every now and again he would rally and try to do something to keep his focus on survival. As he was lying there, handkerchief over his face, a childhood song crept into his mind.

  Good King Wenslus last looked out

  On the feast of Stephen.

  Snowball hit him on the snout;

  Made it all uneven.

  Brightly shone his nose that night,

  And the pain was cruel,

  Then the doctor came in sight,

  Riding on a mule.

  Kubu giggled. He even remembered the boy at the Maru a Pula school who had taught him the song. He recalled being shocked at first, thinking it sacrilegious.

  Another song that he’d treasured as a young boy floated into his head. He’d thought it so rude that he’d protected it like a valuable jewel, sharing it only with a few.

  Hey diddle diddle,

  The dog did a piddle,

  Right in the middle

  Of the floor.

  The little cat laughed

  To see such sport,

  And the dog did a little drop more.

  Kubu snorted, remembering how he had pulled his friends into the toilet and sung them the song in a whisper, petrified that one of the teachers would hear him.

  Then, from even deeper in his mind, came a familiar nursery rhyme.

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  All the king’s horses

  And all the king’s men

  Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

  A shiver went down Kubu’s spine. As the song spun through his head, he pictured Humpty falling off a wall. And he was Humpty.

  It was a haggard Mabaku who arrived at Joy’s door on Monday evening. “Joy. The helicopter spent the day around Kubu’s Land Rover, but found nothing. There were some Bushman footprints, but nothing else. So it seems that Kubu and Tau left the vehicle somewhere else. We don’t know whether the footprints were Khumanego’s or some other Bushman in the area. The men couldn’t tell how long they had been there.”

  Joy turned away and put her head in her hands. Mabaku could see her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. In an uncharacteristic move, he put his arm around her shoulders and patted her.

  “The helicopter is going to retrace the tracks again. There has to be some sign of what happened. We’ll find them even if it means my men walk the entire way. I’m sure we’ll have news soon.”

  On Tuesday morning, the helicopter started flying along the vehicle tracks at first light. It flew about a hundred feet above the ground—low enough to make out detail, but high enough to see a reasonable distance on either side. It was tedious work—staring at the ground, looking for anything that may provide a clue to the disappearance of the two policemen.

  Suddenly Moeng shouted from the backseat. “Hold it. I think I’ve seen something.”

  He directed the pilot back about fifty yards and pointed away from tracks.

  “Go over there. I thought I saw some tire tracks.”

  The helicopter slid above the bushes to where the man was pointing.

  “There they are! They are tracks! Let’s follow them.”

  The pilot noted the GPS coordinates.

  Kubu was talking to his grandfather—a wise old man who had told him many things about their family and culture. Then his grandfather was suddenly dead. And Kubu was talking to his mother, who was crying, and holding him close to her bosom. Now he was in school and big boys were pointing at him and laughing. Where was Khumanego? He couldn’t find Khumanego. He needed to find him! Then he was lying in the sun watching cricket, and the rich white boy, Angus, came and called him Kubu. And he was embarrassed to be called “hippopotamus,” but the white boy wasn’t teasing. He said “Kubu” in friendship, and they became friends. Now he was talking to an important man in the police—the director of the Criminal Investigation Department. Kubu wanted to help his country. The director said he should go to university and become a detective.

  “The tracks fork up ahead!” The pilot pointed.

  “Take the right fork. We can come back and follow the other if we don’t find anything.”

  The four men eagerly searched for signs on the ground.

  “There’s a signal of some sort! Looks like clothing on a bush.”

  “And there are footprints going off to the right! About a hundred yards. And coming back!”

  “Land and let’s take a look.”

  The helicopter landed in a clearing not far from where the footprints went up a small hill. Mogale restrained the others from running up the hill and called Edison to tell him where they were and what their intentions were. Only then did the policemen follow the footprints.

  “Three people,” Pikati observed. “Up and back.” But when they got to the hill, there was nothing else to see. Whoever had walked up the hill had turned and come back.

  “We’d better take a good look around here,” Mogale ordered, directing the others in different directions.

  Kubu was sitting in the front row at university listening intently. There was so much to learn. And this teacher was friendly, drinking a glass of wine, teaching Kubu to smell and taste. And now he was being given his police badge. His parents were so proud. He was so proud. His first case—he had to go to the airport so a BDF helicopter could take him to the scene of the murder. He’d never been in a helicopter before. Never flown before. He heard the noise of the engines, getting louder, and louder, and louder. Suddenly the noise stopped, and Kubu startled to consciousness. There was still a noise, of rotor blades turning, winding down.

  Had they found him?

  He didn’t really care.

  After a few minutes, Moeng shouted: “Come here. I’ve found something.”

  When they gathered around, he pointed to a single set of footprints heading into the bush.

  “Constable, follow them for a few hundred yards,” Mogale ordered. “Then come back. We can follow them with the chopper if necessary. The rest of you, keep looking around. See if you can see anything.”

  The policemen scattered again to search the area.

  A few minutes later, Pikati found another set of footprints. He followed them toward a clump of small trees. Not much shade, he thought. Then he saw a dark mound. As he walked toward it, he realized that it was a body. It had to be Kubu, judging by the size. He shouted to the others and ran toward it.

  “Kubu! Kubu! Speak to me!” There was no response.

  Pikati felt for a pulse. It was very weak.

  “Let’s get him to the chopper. Quickly!” he said as the others came running up.

  “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

  “Hukuntsi,” Moeng said.

  “Tsabong,” Pikati suggested.

  The four of them battled with Kubu’s bulk as they carried him toward the helicopter. It was very difficult to handle three hundred pounds of dead weight. But they eventual
ly succeeded—all dripping with sweat.

  At the helicopter, Moeng soaked some bandages from the medical kit in water and wrapped them around Kubu’s head. Then he tried dribbling water into Kubu’s mouth, but Kubu didn’t swallow.

  “Careful you don’t choke him,” Pikati warned.

  “How are we going to get him into the chopper?” Moeng asked.

  “We’ll just have to lift him. Come on, guys. We may not have much time!”

  With great difficulty they managed to get Kubu into a seat, fastening the seat belt as tightly as possible to hold him in position.

  “We’ve found him! We’ve found him,” Mogale shouted into the satellite phone. “He’s alive, but unconscious. Should we try to find Tau as well? Or should we take Kubu to Tsabong?”

  Mabaku came on the phone. “Spend a few minutes flying around the area where you found Kubu. If you don’t see Tau or Khumanego in five minutes, head to Tsabong. Then come back and search for the others.”

  “Okay. Please have an ambulance and doctor meet us at the airport.”

  The pilot took off, but five minutes seemed far too long to stay in the area, so after one loop he turned toward Tsabong, gained altitude, and headed south as fast as he could.

  “Joy? It’s Mabaku. They’ve found Kubu! He’s alive, but unconscious. They’re taking him to the hospital in Tsabong. We’ll know more in an hour. It looks as though he was left in the desert. Must have been there for several days without food and water.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “He’ll be in good hands any minute now. He’ll be fine.”

  Joy put down the phone and burst into tears.

  Kubu was walking in a graveyard. In front of him was a gravestone with the name TAU engraved on it. Underneath were the words KILLED BY KUBU.

  Kubu put his head in his hands and cried. It was his fault.

  “Wake up. Wake up.” Kubu felt a hand gently shaking his arm. “You’re safe now. Wake up.”

  Kubu opened his eyes, and a white room slowly came into focus. A smiling face was looking down at him. Kubu blinked the tears from his eyes, but the image remained. Was it real? Was he indeed safe?

  “Where’s Tau?” he croaked.

  From his side a male voice answered, “They’ve gone back to look for him. They’ll find him quickly. His footprints are quite visible.”

  Kubu turned his head to see Lerako smiling at him.

  “You’re in Tsabong. We’ll fly you to Gaborone as soon as we can. Thank God you’re okay.”

  “Get me a phone, please,” Kubu said weakly. “I need to make a call.”

  “No. We’ve already called your wife. You can speak to her tomorrow. You need to sleep.”

  But Kubu tried to sit up. “It was Khumanego. He must be one of the murderers. He tried to kill us. Drove away and left us there to die. With nothing. In the desert.”

  “We’ll catch him. You can be sure of that.”

  “And once, he was my friend.” Kubu’s eyes burned with tears.

  Part VI

  For the Mantis will not let the man sleep

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  On Friday morning Kubu woke up at the Princess Marina hospital in Gaborone feeling more like his usual self. The dizziness and incoherence of the previous days had faded, although he still felt lethargic, and a headache threatened in the background. Trying to roll over, he jerked at the drip. There was no option, he had to open his eyes and face the world. Then he saw Joy.

  Vaguely he recalled seeing her the evening before between the flow of doctors and nurses. Had Mabaku been there too? He couldn’t quite decide, but he thought so. Joy was sitting on the bedside chair, as lovely as always. But her mouth was tight, and she looked stressed. He could see that she’d been crying. For a moment he felt a mixture of guilt and fear. Had this pushed her too far? Then he relaxed. Despite it all, she was here.

  “How are you, my darling? I love you more than anything.”

  She smiled. “I’m fine, my love.” Then she was out of the chair and trying to hug him around the combination of his bulk, the blankets, and the drip. After a moment they were both laughing, which made Kubu start to cough.

  Joy was immediately concerned. “Are you all right, Kubu? Shall I call a nurse?”

  Kubu shook his head and motioned for his water glass, which she filled and held for him. The coughing subsided.

  “I was so worried. When Mabaku called me on Saturday to say they hadn’t heard from you, but they had two Land Rovers on the way, I was beside myself. In a way I wish he hadn’t told me then, because I was worried sick the whole time until they found you, but I’d have killed him if he hadn’t!”

  Kubu tried to decipher this, but soon gave up. “It wasn’t fun,” he said simply. Then he remembered clearly that Mabaku had visited yesterday. He’d tried to avoid Kubu’s questions, saying they would talk later. But eventually he’d told Kubu what he needed to know. Now he remembered every word.

  “Detective Tau died out there,” he told Joy. “They followed his footprints. But after a while they looped back and crossed each other. After that they became erratic. He must’ve known then what had happened. And what was going to happen.” He turned his head away, and tears ran down his face.

  Joy took his hand. “Darling, I’m so sorry. I heard yesterday. But you mustn’t blame yourself. If he’d stayed with you, he would’ve been okay.”

  “No, it was my fault. He didn’t want us to go into the desert in one vehicle. He said it was a basic survival rule. He was right. And I made him do it because I had a mission and nothing else mattered.” And all the time, he thought, the murderer was sitting next to us in the vehicle. I have to live with that too. I was responsible for Tau’s death, and my school friend used me to help him with his crimes. But why had Khumanego done it? What was behind it? Had he acted alone or was he part of something bigger? Kubu felt a flush of anger. Whatever it was, he would get to the bottom of it if it was the last thing he did. And Khumanego would pay for his crimes.

  He sighed. There I go again. Thinking that nothing else matters.

  He turned back to Joy. “Where’s Tumi?”

  “She’s at the crèche. I’ll bring her this afternoon.”

  “I love you both.” Kubu smiled. “Nothing else matters.” Then he drifted back to sleep.

  A pleasant surprise was in store for Kubu that afternoon. He was bored and nagging the doctor to let him go home. So the doctor was happy to escape when Pleasant, Bongani, Wilmon and Amantle came into the ward to much talking and hugging. Even Wilmon clasped his son’s hand more firmly and for longer than a normal fatherly handshake would dictate.

  “How are you, my son? We have been concerned.”

  “I’m okay. How did you know I was missing?”

  Amantle interrupted. “When you were rescued, it was on the radio and the television! Everyone knows about it.” She seemed to feel this was some kind of achievement. Kubu nodded and smiled, but he wondered how Tau’s family was feeling today. He knew so little about the detective. Was he married? Did he have children? Living parents? Siblings? He needed to find out and see them. Try to explain the unexplainable.

  “Well, I’m fine now,” he said. “If only this doctor would let me go home. It was a bad experience, but there’s nothing wrong with me now. They’re wasting taxpayers’ money keeping me here!” Everyone thought this was very funny, but Amantle gave him a critical look. “You have lost weight,” she said accusingly. “I can see it in your face. They have not been feeding you up after all the time in the desert with no food. I will speak to the doctor.”

  Kubu groaned. Losing weight was the one good thing that had come from the grueling time alone in the Kalahari.

  There was much discussion, and Kubu had to explain exactly what had happened. Everyone agreed that he’d done exactly the right thing in the circumstances. They expressed regrets about Tau, but they were the meaningless condolences of strangers—genuinely sorry for the loss of others, but guiltily
grateful the axe hadn’t fallen closer.

  At last the talk died down, and Bongani said they must soon get back to Mochudi to avoid the traffic. He had gone with Pleasant to fetch Kubu’s parents in his car. Everyone agreed to this except Wilmon. He nodded, but then said firmly, “I need a few minutes alone with my son. Please wait for me downstairs.” The others left without argument, as though this had been planned. Kubu was intrigued.

  Wilmon sat. “My son, Pleasant’s uncle and I have had discussions with Bongani’s uncles. His father is dead, but the uncles are good men. They don’t drink much, and they go to church each Sunday.” He nodded firmly to emphasize the importance of this. “They were very respectful, requesting Pleasant for Bongani by asking for her hand in the traditional way. Of course, we explained that Pleasant has a brother, and he must be consulted too. They understood completely. But they made a reasonable offer for the lobola. We discussed it back and forth, and I think we have a fair amount. Then we had some tea.” The old man was clearly pleased; it seemed he’d led a successful negotiation. Kubu was pleased too, especially as Wilmon had seemed a little vague and uncertain on a few previous occasions.

  “How many cows?”

  Wilmon leaned over and whispered the number to Kubu, who whistled. “That is very fair indeed! You have done extremely well, Father. Pleasant’s family will be extremely grateful. And Joy too.” He said it graciously, but he was a little put out that the number was two higher than he had raised for Joy.

  Wilmon gave a big smile, patted his son on the shoulder, and took his leave.

  Kubu had hardly had time to become bored again, when Mabaku arrived.

  “How’s the dehydrated hippo today?”

  Mabaku’s idea of humor, thought Kubu, trying to smile. “I’m fine. Get me out of here, Director. There’s a lot of work to do.”