Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  They drove into a poorer part of the town and pulled up in front of a small house. Ilia bounded out of the car, up the steps to the Bengus’ home, and into the lap of Wilmon, who was seated on the veranda as usual awaiting his visitors. Amantle stood at the top of the stairs beaming. She loved Joy as her own daughter and frequently chided her son for taking so long to marry her. You are very lucky she waited, she often said.

  Amantle hugged Joy, then Pleasant. She had long ago adopted the more informal Western form of greeting. Wilmon struggled to his feet, tipping a disgruntled Ilia to the floor, and was likewise hugged by both women. Joy knew this caused turmoil in the old man. His upbringing demanded a more formal greeting—a handshake at most—but he couldn’t refuse the intimacy of a hug.

  “Dumela, Joy. Dumela, Pleasant. You are welcome at my house,” he said. “How are you both? And how is Tumi?”

  “We are all well, thank you. You too are looking well.”

  “I am fine, even though I am feeling old these days. Please sit down.”

  “I know Amantle wants to spoil Tumi, so I’ll put out lunch. I didn’t have time to cook, so I bought cold meat and salads. Not as fresh as your vegetables, my father, but they look tasty.”

  Wilmon was proud of his herb and vegetable garden at the back of the house, which he tended with loving care. The previous year’s crop had been spectacular, but he was concerned for this year’s, due to the prolonged drought.

  Joy handed Tumi to Amantle, who sat down and immediately started gently rocking the sleeping baby. Joy smiled and walked into the small interior of the house. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  “Where is my son?” Wilmon said, looking around.

  “Wilmon, I told you he was away on business.” Amantle’s voice had a hint of irritation. “You must get your ears checked again. He is somewhere in the south.” She rocked Tumi a little more vigorously which, fortunately, didn’t wake her.

  Wilmon didn’t respond.

  “He is with his old friend, Khumanego. Do you remember him?”

  “Of course I do,” Wilmon replied. “He and David used to play together around our house when they were children. He was one of those Bushmen. From the desert. I never understood why he was at school. He and David looked strange together—one big and one small.”

  Wilmon seemed taken aback by the length of his speech, particularly in front of only women, and sat down, patting his lap for Ilia, who needed little encouragement.

  For the next few minutes, Amantle and Pleasant admired Tumi’s features. Amantle exclaimed how much Tumi looked like Joy.

  “But she looks like you,” Pleasant said, pointing to the baby’s nose and mouth. “Her face is just like yours.”

  Pleasant could see that Amantle was pleased.

  “Lunch is ready!” Joy shouted.

  Ilia’s hopes for having a prolonged tummy scratch were dashed as Wilmon stood up again.

  Lunch was delicious and enjoyed by all. Ilia gave Wilmon another chance to spoil her and sat panting next to his chair. This time she wasn’t disappointed. A steady trickle of morsels fell from the table, which she immediately gobbled up.

  The conversation was largely gossip: Amantle telling the visitors what was going on in Mochudi, Pleasant talking about new shops in Gaborone, and Joy describing how quickly Tumi was growing. Meals were not the time for anything contentious.

  While they were clearing up, Kubu called and Joy chatted to him for a few minutes, smiling and happy. It seemed things were going well in Tsabong, and Kubu was pleased the family visit was going smoothly. He sent his love to his mother and respectful greetings to his father, and then said he needed to hurry to lunch. Joy laughed and warned him to watch his diet. Then she served tea on the veranda, and they all caught up on Kubu’s news.

  But between nods and exclamations, Amantle was eyeing Pleasant, who knew that her time was coming. And come it did, after the tea things had been cleared away.

  “My dear,” Amantle said pulling her chair closer to Pleasant. “My heart grieves, and I spend sleepless nights worrying about what your dear mother would be thinking if she were still alive. I am sure her time in heaven is disturbed because you are still single.”

  Joy slid her chair back to enjoy the bout. Wilmon’s eyes were closed, as were Ilia’s, who snored gently on his lap, occasionally twitching as she dreamed of catching snacks dropping from the table.

  “You are so kind to me,” Pleasant said, putting her hand out to touch Amantle. “You are truly now my mother.”

  Amantle shrugged the flattery aside. “Then it is my duty to warn you that soon you will no longer be attractive to the right men. You will be too old. They will think of you as a raisin, not a grape. Men today want young women, who do not work. And you are no longer young. And you do work!” She glared at Pleasant, daring her to contradict. “What happened to the man you told me about—the stupid man, who was too clever to appreciate your beauty, your broad hips?”

  “Bongani!” Pleasant replied. “I still see him. We still go out . . .”

  “Still go out?” Amantle burst out. “How much longer will it take him to make up his mind? You should tell him to marry you or leave you. He is wasting your time.”

  “We are getting closer.”

  “Getting closer? You have been doing that for how long? Three years? Even snails are faster than that.”

  Pleasant capitulated. “I will tell Bongani what you have said. You are right as always, my mother.” Joy managed to turn a snort of laughter into a sneeze, then stood up and said it was time for them to leave.

  “Pleasant has a date with Bongani this evening. She has to make herself even more beautiful than she is. He won’t be able to resist her this time.”

  Now it was Amantle’s turn to snort. “Call me on the telephone tomorrow. I will expect good news.” She too stood up, nudging her husband to do likewise. “I hope my son is being a good father? He is providing enough for you?”

  “He is. But he finds it difficult to feed Tumi at night. He never wakes up when she cries.”

  “Tumi is perfect. She has slept the whole time you were here. And it is for the mother to feed a baby, not a father. And I hope you will give up your job. Mothers should not work for five years. That is what I did with David, and look how well he turned out.”

  Joy knew not to contradict Amantle in this mood. Wilmon had at last managed to get to his feet, so Joy turned and hugged him. A glimmer of a smile lit up his face, as pleasure momentarily overcame reserve. Pleasant did likewise.

  Amantle walked down to the car with them, handing Tumi to Joy at the last possible minute. “Look after my beautiful granddaughter and give my love to David. Tell him he shouldn’t work on Sundays. God does not approve.”

  Joy and Pleasant climbed into the car, Pleasant the driver this time. They waved at the elderly couple as they drove away. Ilia gave a single bark and lay down to sleep.

  “They are so special,” Pleasant said. “You are so lucky to have them.”

  “Yes, but they always take Kubu’s side. He does nothing except sleep when Tumi cries at night, and they think that’s just fine. It’s the woman’s job, no matter what.”

  “You’re not going to change them. Just be thankful they love you so much.”

  “I suppose you also think I should do all the work! Just wait until you have kids—if you ever get around to it!”

  “All I said was that Kubu’s parents belong to a different generation. You can’t change them.”

  “Half the time, Kubu thinks he’s a liberated, New Age man—drinks wine, loves opera. But when it comes to domestic things, like work around the house and looking after Tumi, he’s as traditional as you can get. It’s the woman’s responsibility. Very convenient.”

  “I think you’re being too hard on him, he—”

  But Joy interrupted. “He won’t learn how to do up the nappies properly. It’s as if he does it wrongly on purpose, so I’ll have to do it all over again. Basically he’s
just lazy when it suits him!”

  Pleasant decided that the chaotic traffic of Gaborone deserved her attention, so they drove in silence until they reached her apartment.

  “It was a lovely day. Thanks for inviting me,” Pleasant said, getting out of the car and walking around to the sidewalk.

  Joy climbed out of the passenger side, clutching Tumi, who had slept the whole trip. She walked over to Pleasant, hugged her, and started to cry.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to snap at you. You know I love you. It all just gets me down sometimes.”

  Pleasant held the embrace, patting Joy comfortingly on the back.

  “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. You’ll see.”

  The sisters kissed good-bye.

  Pleasant watched as Joy drove away. It’s true, she mused. Kubu can be lazy. I’m lucky. Bongani may be quiet, but he gets things done.

  They’ll work it out, she thought. I’ve never seen two people so much in love.

  But for the first time, she felt a twinge of concern.

  Chapter Nine

  For Kubu, Sunday was a relaxing day. He rose quite early as usual, dressed in a colorful shirt and shorts, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast involving porridge with butter and sugar, followed by eggs, bacon, fried tomato, and toast with marmalade. While he kept an eye on his diet, he felt he had some slack available on a tiring trip. Then while it was still reasonably cool, he relaxed on the veranda of the hotel with a glass of iced water and thought about the case. It seemed that he was imprisoned in Tsabong until the murder—if indeed it was murder—of Monzo was resolved. So he closed his eyes and mentally reviewed the case.

  What were the facts? There was the calcrete chunk that had apparently been used to bash in Monzo’s skull. How had that happened? Could it have been thrown? Almost certainly not. The force might have knocked Monzo out and injured him, but it was very unlikely to have enough energy to break his skull. Did someone creep up behind him? Possible. But it would need to be a tall and powerful man to do such damage with such a clumsy weapon. Certainly not a Bushman. Perhaps Monzo had been attacked in some other way first? Knocked out and then dealt a heavy blow from the rock once he was on the ground. That seemed more likely. He would need to ask the pathologist if there was anything in the autopsy that either supported or negated that idea. Why had the murderer thrown the stone away? It was too far away to be the result of Monzo’s fall from the cliff. And why not remove it completely?

  It must be homicide, Kubu decided regretfully. But perhaps not premeditated, since the disposal of the murder weapon seemed poorly planned. And how could the killer know that Monzo would go to that particular area that particular morning?

  The waiter topped up Kubu’s water quietly, suspecting that Kubu was dozing.

  “Thank you,” said Kubu, startling the man.

  Then there were the footprints. Plenty of Bushman footprints, but just the two large boot prints. It appeared that someone had walked along the calcrete ridge presumably until he was out of the area where the murder had been committed. Perhaps after covering his other tracks? But where had the man come from? How had he left the area? On foot in the heat of the desert day? Kubu shook his head firmly. There was more to find around the scene of the crime. There must be. He would have to get Lerako to help. They had only two footprints, but they could lead to the murderer.

  And what of motive? None of his co-workers seemed to have much time for Monzo. He had been difficult and unpopular. And he appeared to have an ambivalent relationship with both his boss and his wife. But there’s nothing obvious right now. Nothing that would lead to a murder. So there must be darker undercurrents. Someone with reason to hate Monzo, or with something to gain from his death. That’s where I’ll need to start, Kubu thought.

  He sighed. He had a plan for the next day, but it meant more travel, more heat, more dust, and more Lerako. He would have been happier to have none of them. Still, the decision relaxed him, and he drifted into sleep.

  He woke to the tinkle of ice cubes entering his water glass and a smile from the waiter. It was getting hot again, and Kubu decided that a swim was in order. He was not by nature a lover of cold water, but he felt the exercise would prepare him for lunch. So he changed into swimming trunks and wallowed in the pool for half an hour, even managing a few lazy lengths. Joy is right, he thought. This exercise is good for me. I have worked up an appetite for the chicken curry and sambals that make up the hotel’s Sunday lunch.

  Back in his room he showered and got back into his shirt and shorts. He called Joy and was delighted that she was having a good time with his parents and everyone was fussing over Tumi. It seemed that everything was working out after all. He worked his way through several arias from Don Giovanni, striking appropriate poses in the dresser mirror. When he had completed those to his satisfaction, he headed back to the dining room.

  Since he was restricting himself to just one helping, Kubu piled his plate with rice and curry, balancing the sliced banana, desiccated coconut, and sweet chutney on the top. In the absence of steelworks, he ordered a light beer to wash it down. And after that I will be ready for a serious nap, he thought.

  So it was disappointing that a day that had started so well was to end so badly. For just as he was settling to his nap, his cell phone rang. He was surprised to hear Lerako’s voice.

  “Bengu? It’s Lerako here. I have some news for you.”

  Kubu grunted.

  “Well, I sent my Bushman tracker out with those three suspects yesterday morning. The three you were so sure were innocent. I thought he could follow the trail from those two footprints, see where they led.”

  He paused, and Kubu commented that he had been thinking along the same lines.

  “They don’t lead anywhere,” Lerako stated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tracker followed them back to the donga, and he did find signs that someone had been walking along the calcrete. Not footprints as such, just smudges and slip marks. Also he thinks something big was dragged to the donga edge and probably pushed over.”

  “So there was someone else there!”

  Lerako ignored him. “But when he followed the boot prints in the direction away from the murder scene, he found nothing. No smudges, no slip marks, nothing.”

  “Maybe he missed them, or the man was moving more carefully.”

  “Actually there was no point in being careful. About five hundred yards further on, that ridge peters out into the dunes. And there are no footprints in the sand there. So where did he go after that?”

  There was a suggestive pause, and Kubu feared that there was worse to come.

  “The tracker is a good chap. Shows you can make something of a Bushman if you get him out of the bush and train him. He went back to the footprints the Bushmen found so conveniently for a more careful look. He thinks they’re fakes. The weight isn’t distributed the way you would expect if a man—a big man with big feet—was walking along the ridge. And they are too close together for the stride of a big man. He thinks the prints were deliberately set, maybe the boots were just pushed into the sand by hand.”

  Kubu’s heart sank. Mabaku was not going to be pleased with this development. Had he allowed himself to be fooled into believing the Bushmen were innocent because that was how he wanted it to be? On the other hand, why would a murderer leave a few isolated boot prints? If they were fakes, could it be misdirection?

  But Lerako wasn’t finished.

  “He headed back here yesterday afternoon and reported all this to me this morning. So I got onto Vusi at the ranger station and told him to send someone out to keep an eye on the Bushmen until we could interrogate them again. He was irritated but eventually sent someone out there.”

  Kubu bit his lip. He guessed how this was going to end.

  “They’re gone, Bengu. They probably left as soon as the three were dropped off. There aren’t clear tracks either; obviously they don’t want to be followed. We won’t catch them now
. Monzo’s killers have vanished into the Kalahari.”

  Part II

  We wonder why this person is about to die

  Chapter Ten

  The group had traveled far in the day and a half since the three had been released by the police. But they had gone carefully, avoiding any unnecessary trace of their progress. Now they huddled around a small pile of barely glowing ashes. Unlike most nights, when the men told stories of great hunts or tales of the gods, this night was without entertainment. Unlike most nights, usually filled with jokes and laughter, this night was somber.

  It was a night to end an era, to mark a passing, to begin a future.

  “My people,” Gobiwasi said quietly. “Many times I have watched the sun chase the moon from the skies. And have seen the moon sneak back and grow bolder, until it thinks it can challenge the sun. Only to be chased away again. I have seen summers when I thought we would all die, and times when Rain jumped on the ground and made the sand green. The ancestors have smiled on me while I have been here. I have enjoyed a good life and have a fine family.” He peered at the figures around the fire, not able to distinguish one from the other. All were quiet.

  “But now I am old. I cannot hunt and cannot run, and I walk too slowly. Today I could hardly keep up. I cannot provide for you. I cannot provide for myself. I am a burden.”

  Everyone stared into the embers, even the children knowing where this was going.

  “You will have many challenges ahead.” Gobiwasi cleared the phlegm from his throat and spat into the fire. “The world is changing too fast for our people. We cannot keep up, and when I talk to the ancestors, they do not tell me what to do.”

  The children huddled against their mothers.