Detective Kubu 03; The Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  He stood up and walked to one of the filing cabinets, unlocked it and pulled open the bottom drawer. He reached in and lifted out a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers. “I’m not Ian MacGregor, but I see his point that a stiff drink sometimes clears the way.”

  Kubu gawked – in all the years he had been at the CID, he’d never known that Mabaku kept a stash of whisky.

  Mabaku poured two large drinks and handed one to Kubu. “To an ex-policeman!” He drained his glass in a single gulp. “Come on, Kubu, drink up! Drink to whatever you are going to be in the future. Security guard? Private eye? The N°1 Men’s Detective Agency?”

  Kubu was taken aback by Mabaku’s sarcasm and didn’t feel like drinking. Still, he drained his tumbler.

  Mabaku sat down again and stared at Kubu, glass in hand. Then he picked up the envelope and flipped it at Kubu. “On your way out, see Miriam and make an appointment to see me a week from Monday. Take next week off and go home and think about it. Don’t come back till you’ve made up your mind.”

  Kubu picked up the envelope and walked out. Mabaku had won this encounter. Kubu wondered who would have the last word.

  ∨ The Death of the Mantis ∧

  Forty-Eight

  For the first time since he had returned home to discover his family held hostage, Kubu was happy. They had made the decision the night before. Only time would tell whether it was the right one. In the end, Joy’s view had prevailed. He sincerely hoped that she didn’t come to regret it.

  Tonight they were going to relax. Despite the unusual nature of the cooking arrangements for the evening, they had invited Pleasant over to celebrate. Bongani couldn’t join them because he was on a field trip.

  Kubu brought Joy and Pleasant each a glass of inexpensive but good South African Sauvignon Blanc as they sat in the cool shade of the veranda. They looked at him with broad smiles and eager anticipation. This was to be the evening that Kubu had put off for so long – the evening he was finally going to keep his promise to cook a full meal. Tumi had been fed and was in her cot. Hopefully she would sleep through the event.

  “Remember,” Kubu said, wagging his finger, “you both promised that you wouldn’t come into the kitchen while I’m cooking.”

  They nodded in unison. “We promise,” Pleasant said.

  “It’s six now; dinner will be ready at half past seven. I have some snacks for you in the meantime.”

  He disappeared indoors, followed closely by a curious Ilia, who was used to Kubu sitting on the veranda and Joy disappearing inside.

  ♦

  Now to work, Kubu thought as he walked back into the kitchen. One step at a time. It can’t be that difficult.

  A friend had told him always to soak the rice for an hour before cooking. So he found a bowl, measured out a cup of rice and added two and a half cups of water. Not two, not three, his friend had said. It must be two and a half. He put the bowl at the end of the counter, out of the way.

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. This was the recipe he had chosen after a review of several on the Web.

  Humming ‘La donna e mobile’ from Verdi’s Rigoletto while he worked, Kubu first cut the pork into cubes. At least that was what the recipe called for; for the most part, the pieces looked more like bricks. He chopped an onion, causing his eyes to smart, then turned his attention to slicing a ginger root. I assume you take off the skin, but how much to use? he wondered. The recipe didn’t specify, and he had bought a large root, about fifteen centimetres long – with arms! He decided to use a quarter of the root, since he loved ginger so much.

  Next the recipe called for a minced garlic clove. Now he was stumped. Obviously the skin had to come off the clove, but how did you mince it? Joy had a grater, but he was scared he would grate the tips off his fingers if he used it with something that small. Perhaps I can chop it finely enough that it’ll be the same as mincing? His humming stopped as he concentrated on making the little pieces of garlic even smaller.

  Kubu surveyed the small piles of ingredients and was satisfied with his progress. Glancing over to Ilia, who was curled in the corner observing his every move, he said, “This isn’t so hard, Ilia. I’ll have supper ready in no time. And you can have some too.” Ilia wagged her tail enthusiastically.

  Kubu took the bottle of wine from the fridge and went to see whether Joy and Pleasant needed a top-up. They did.

  “How is it going, Kubu?” Pleasant asked as he filled her glass.

  “Fine, thanks. Everything’s under control.” He looked a little smug as he returned to the kitchen. I know they think I won’t be able to do this, he thought. I’ll show them.

  He scrutinised the recipe again. “Toss the pork with one tablespoon of sugar and the soy sauce.” He found sugar in a cupboard and took a tablespoon from the cutlery drawer. Level or heaped? Hmm. He compromised by taking more than a level tablespoon, but not as much as he could have piled on to it. Now, how much soy sauce? He looked back to the ingredients – one tablespoon. He pulled a soy sauce bottle from the paper bag on the counter and carefully dispensed one tablespoon into a large bowl. Then he tossed the pork into the bowl, splashing soy sauce all over the counter and on to his khaki shorts.

  “Damn!”

  He found a rag, wetted it, and rubbed his shorts. It only made the stain bigger. Then he wiped the counter. Better add some more sauce, he thought. He estimated that half had fled the bowl, so he added half a tablespoon to make up for it. He looked at his watch: 6.25. The pork had to stand for ten minutes. Remember to take it out, he admonished himself, at 6.35.

  As he contemplated his next culinary step, he recalled his mother cooking for him as a boy. It had seemed to be a joy to her rather than a chore. He remembered the pride on her face as he and his father wolfed down her food. And a few times Khumanego had been there too. That thought brought back sad memories, which, he was sure, would never leave him. He shook his head, grateful to bring himself back to the moment and to the next step in the recipe.

  “Dip the meat in the egg and cover with corn starch.” He read the next stage of the recipe aloud. Gazing back at the ingredients, he realised that he had to beat the egg. He found a bowl, broke the eggshell on its edge and poured the egg into it. It took him a couple of minutes to fish some shell remnants from the bowl. It was very difficult to catch them with a spoon, so he removed them with his fingers. Nobody will notice, he told himself a little guiltily.

  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 ∧

  Authors’ Note

  Although 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.
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br />   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.