Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  “Our people believe the earth is for all, for humans, for animals, and snakes, and insects, and plants. But those who came after us believe the earth is for them. That it is there to be owned. That they should not share the land with others. And so it is that our people are treated like thieves and robbers. Because we hunt to survive. And sometimes what we hunt no longer belongs to the earth, to all, but to one man who has thunder in his head and fire in his hand. And he hunts us, as we hunt the eland. Or he ties us with rope and drags us to look after his animals, which he treats better than he treats us.”

  No one saw the tears leaking from Gobiwasi’s eyes.

  The group sat in silence, waiting.

  Eventually Gobiwasi spoke again.

  “It is easy to be angry. To want to fight. But that is not the way of the Mantis. The Mantis tells me that we must remain who we are. We must become invisible to the men who want to change our ways just as we become invisible to the animals we hunt. Standing up and fighting will not work. We have survived from the beginning of time because we understand the world around us. We must do the same now even though what we see is not what we know. If we are to remain true to the First People, we must be clever and disappear even further into the place of the great thirst.”

  “Grandpa!” One of the children could contain himself no more. “Where will you be in the sky? Tell me, so I can look at you every night.”

  Gobiwasi smiled. “Only the ancestors know that. They will tell me soon.”

  He stood up and gazed at the upturned faces.

  “The Mantis will look after you!”

  He turned, collected his few belongings and walked into the night.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Kubu drove the slow trip from Tsabong to the Wildlife offices at Mabuasehube, he decided that his view of the Monzo case hadn’t changed. He still couldn’t believe that a group of peaceful Bushmen had set upon and killed the ranger. He remained convinced that the missing clues were at the ranger station, with the people who had known, but mostly not loved, the prickly man.

  He started with Marta. She seemed surprised to see him again, but was pleasant and offered him coffee and a slice of bread and jam, which he accepted. While he ate, they spoke of her plans. The older boy would be going to school next year, so she would look for work in Tsabong. She had a relative there and would be able to stay until she had some money and found something of her own. Kubu made a few suggestions about work prospects. He was in no hurry, and wanted to see how the conversation would develop. At last, after he had finished his bread and had drained the coffee, he looked at Marta and asked, “Do you know if Monzo had any enemies? Not people he rubbed up the wrong way, but real enemies? People who might want to do him harm?”

  She shook her head. “A lot of people didn’t like him much, but there’s no one who would want to kill him.”

  Well, Kubu thought, someone did.

  “Was Monzo good to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean did he provide for you and the children, was he a good father? Did he love you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Kubu shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry to ask you these questions, but I’m trying to find his murderer. It’s not curiosity.”

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  “I understand that you were not formally married. Why was that?”

  Her face hardened. “Yes. It’s true. He was already married. To a woman somewhere in South Africa.”

  “Did he have other women in Botswana also?”

  She shrugged.

  “Do you know of any other women?”

  “No.”

  “But you suspected?”

  “He went away on trips for days, even weeks. It was possible. He liked women.”

  “These trips. Were they for the National Park?”

  “So he said.”

  “But?”

  She hesitated. “Once I looked. When he was packing for a trip. He took two tents, a double and a single. I asked him why he was taking two tents. He said another man was going with him. And that I should mind my own business.”

  “And did someone go with him?”

  She shook her head. “No one from here. He left on his own. He was away for nearly two weeks. I asked Ndoli where he had gone. He just shrugged. Said Monzo had told him he was doing a survey along the northern border. But no one had authorized it.”

  Kubu thought that over. So Monzo helped himself to weeks of government time to do what? Maybe he just liked to be in the bush. But who had been with him? And what had they been doing? If it was something illegal, then the murder investigation would have a different perspective. Perhaps Monzo demanded more money, maybe he knew too much. Kubu sensed the fuzzy outline of a motive. He would need to check Monzo’s bank account.

  “When he went on these trips, did he take fuel, food, and water? As though he was going deep into the bush?”

  “Sometimes. I didn’t watch what he was doing all the time.”

  Kubu paused, then changed tack. “What relationship do you have with Rra Vusi?”

  She bristled. “What do you mean ‘relationship’?”

  Kubu just waited.

  “He’s kind to me. To us. He likes the children. He has supper with us sometimes.”

  “I need a definite answer to the next question, and I warn you that if you lie I will find out. Everyone knows what’s going on in a little community like this. Was there anything between you and Vusi before Monzo’s death?”

  “No!”

  Kubu believed her, but of course, he’d check.

  Kubu found the office manager at his desk. Ndoli looked busy, but not averse to being interrupted. He offered Kubu tea, and Kubu accepted to be sociable, but there were no biscuits to go with it. They took their cups to a small anteroom, which was more private than the general open-plan office where the staff worked.

  “Now, Superintendent,” said Ndoli once they had settled, “how can I help?” He obviously expected more questions about the discovery of the critically injured Monzo, but Kubu surprised him.

  “I gather Monzo was in the habit of making bush trips. More or less when he chose. Is that right?”

  Ndoli looked away. “Yes. I was against it. But he persuaded Vusi these so-called survey trips of his were important.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “Actually he just went on and on until Vusi said he’d think about it. After that he did what he liked.”

  Kubu’s mouth twitched as he imagined someone trying that technique on Mabaku. But he said nothing, waiting for Ndoli to go on.

  “Vusi’s not a very strong manager, you see. Very nice guy. Really cares about the job and the staff. But he doesn’t make a lot of decisions.”

  “Did Monzo tell you where he was going on these trips? Surely you had to know where he was?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if he stuck to what he told me. He took one of our satellite phones with him in case of emergency, but he never used it.”

  So Monzo had been a free agent with a perfect cover as a ranger for whatever he might want to do in the Kalahari area. Kubu felt a motive for the killing coming more into focus.

  He tried another line of questioning.

  “Do you know why Monzo decided to go after the Bushmen that morning?”

  “He didn’t ‘go after’ them. He had a report that they were poaching in the reserve. He went out to check up.”

  “One of the other rangers told him?”

  Monzo looked puzzled. “No, we knew they were around the border, but no one suggested they’d been hunting. We would all have heard about that.”

  “So it’s possible that Monzo made the whole thing up?”

  Ndoli shook his head. “He was cross. He said he was going to sort them out.” He hesitated. “Maybe some tourist tipped him off as he was driving around.”

  “Wouldn’t he have investigated right away in that case?”

  Ndoli frowned. “Maybe
someone reported it at the main gate. Or maybe called in. I really don’t know. Does it matter?”

  Kubu dropped it, but he felt it might be important. He had learned to trust his intuition. It usually kicked in when someone else couldn’t see why some niggling issue mattered.

  Instead he explored some operational issues with Ndoli, and slipped in the question about Marta and Vusi. But Ndoli was clear that he kept out of other people’s business, especially if one of them was his boss.

  Vusi wasn’t in his office, so, while he waited, Kubu helped himself to another cup of tea from the urn. The office cleaner was washing up the cups. Kubu greeted her politely.

  “You shouldn’t drink so much tea,” she told him by way of response. “It’s not good for you.” Apparently she had noticed the first cup. Kubu realized that by luck he had come upon the office busybody. He introduced himself.

  “What are you doing here then? From what I hear, Gaborone isn’t safe to walk around anymore. Why don’t you do something about that, eh?”

  Now Kubu wasn’t so sure about the encounter being fortunate, but explained that he was investigating what was now believed to be the murder of Rra Monzo. If he thought this would impress the lady, he was mistaken.

  “Monzo! Serves him right. Always sneaking off after a woman or heaven knows what. You know he had a regular in Tshane? Someone else’s wife? Always making a reason to go up there for a couple of days. And Marta’s a real lady. She gave him two good boys too.”

  Kubu wondered if simple jealousy could be the motive after all. He decided to push harder. “Well, she has Rra Vusi for comfort.”

  She gave him a dirty look. “And why not? Monzo’s dead. Vusi’s alone here. No harm done.”

  “What about before Monzo’s death?”

  “She never looked at another man. You can take my word for that.” Kubu thought he probably could.

  “I see you keep your eyes open, Mma. You probably know what Monzo was doing on these special trips of his too. His private missions into the bush?”

  She shrugged. “Probably up to no good. With a woman, I bet.” She wagged a finger at him. “Now I have work to do. And no more tea for you!” With a disapproving sniff she was off.

  Kubu smiled. Another item to add to the growing list of things someone thought he shouldn’t eat or drink.

  Vusi sat behind the security of his desk. He looked nervous and in a hurry and claimed he had told the police everything already. Kubu said he wouldn’t take long, but made it clear that he wasn’t going to be rushed.

  “Do you know how Monzo came to believe that the Bushmen were poaching?”

  “No idea. Ask Ndoli, he’s the office manager. Or Kweto. He does reception. Takes messages and answers the phone and so on. Maybe he’d know.”

  Kubu nodded.

  “I understand that Monzo did a lot of work in the bush. Surveys and so on. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. It was part of his job. He had to keep tabs on what’s happening in the whole area. This is a huge area to manage, Superintendent. Ten thousand square miles! People don’t appreciate that.”

  Kubu nodded. “What did he do on these trips?”

  “He’d check an area, see what was going on, count game, things like that.”

  “Were these trips on some sort of schedule?”

  Vusi found a pencil to play with while he talked. “Yes and no. They were done when we could fit them in.”

  “Did Monzo always discuss the trips with you? Or did he sometimes use his own initiative?”

  “Well, we discussed what was needed in general, and then he went ahead. What’s all this about, Superintendent? Why the sudden interest in park management?”

  “I have the impression that Monzo pretty well scheduled these trips as he saw fit, and it wasn’t always clear what they were for. Is that right?”

  “Certainly not! I’m in charge here, and Monzo reported to me. I was satisfied with his work.”

  “Wasn’t it a problem that he was away so often?”

  Vusi put down the pencil. “Actually, the others got more work done when he was off on a trip.”

  Yes, Kubu thought. Everyone including Vusi was happy to let Monzo go his own way.

  After that he explored the manager’s feelings toward Marta. Vusi admitted that he visited Marta occasionally to cheer her up and was helping her with financial issues until the government gave her a settlement. There was nothing more to it. Kubu decided that Vusi’s relationship with Marta, whatever that was, had started after the murder and wasn’t relevant to the case. So he left it at that.

  Vusi pointed out Kweto and said good-bye, clearly glad that the interview was over.

  Kubu asked the receptionist about the report of the poaching, but Kweto had no idea. However, as Kubu turned to go, he said, “Monzo did get a call late on the afternoon before he died. I remember because the man wanted to speak specifically to him, no one else, and he wouldn’t give his name. Said it was personal. He had to wait while I found Monzo for him.”

  Kubu thanked him. He’d check up on the phone call later, but it was a pretty long shot. Right now it was time to get back to Tsabong and talk to Lerako.

  Kubu was hot and tired by the time he got back to Tsabong, but he went straight to the police station. He wanted to start things moving on the new leads. Lerako heard him out, but then lived up to his name. “You’ve added nothing new, Kubu. Nothing. So Monzo took some unauthorized trips, which, incidentally, Vusi denies were unauthorized. So what?”

  “Don’t you see? He could have been involved in something illegal—animal smuggling or something. Once you step over the line, if you turn up dead it’s no big surprise. Maybe that’s what the personal phone call was about. Someone setting up a secret meeting at the donga.” He paused. “And the girl in Tshane? Her husband may have decided that he’d had enough of Monzo. We need to follow this up.”

  “What do you suggest? I’m trying to track down the Bushman group. Or is that a waste of time in your opinion?”

  “We have people in Tshane. They can make door-to-door inquiries. Everyone knows everything that goes on in these small places. I’m sure we’ll find connections. Anyway, these new possibilities make more sense than the nonsense that the Bushmen did it.”

  Kubu had gone too far. Lerako leaned forward across his desk, angry.

  “You won’t believe the Bushmen could do it, will you? They’re all just good gentle folk who want to be left alone to get on with their lives. Well, let me tell you something, Assistant Superintendent. Some of them are. But many just hang around in rags looking for handouts, refusing to work. They beg or commit petty theft, usually for booze rather than food. I work with these people. I know them. You just have your educated friend. Good for him. But that’s not how they all are!”

  “Monzo still had his money and watch. What’s supposed to have been their motive?” Kubu asked mildly.

  “Who knows what they took? Maybe they were after something else.”

  Kubu felt himself getting angry too. “I’m here to make sure these men aren’t railroaded like Maauwe and Motswetla. They were Bushmen too. That was a travesty of justice!”

  Lerako’s voice rose. “Travesty, you say? I agree with you. But you know what people forget when they’re bleating about how badly they were treated? That they stole someone else’s ox and killed it. Nobody disputes that.”

  “They killed it for food.”

  “The man who owned it wasn’t rich. He also had a family to feed. They stole his ox and killed it; he went to find it and got murdered for his trouble. Who looks after his family now, hey? Who protects them from the droughts? Yes, it was a travesty. And we carry the blame either way. Either those men were guilty, and the police and prosecutors did such a bad job that they weren’t nailed down and hanged, as they should have been, or they were not guilty, in which case a murderer is free out there. And no one went looking for that murderer!” He thumped his fist on the desk and got to his feet. “I’m going to get some
coffee.” He stalked out of the cramped, baking office, leaving the door wide open.

  Kubu sat and fumed, and then cooled. Was it possible that Khumanego’s representations had blinded him to the obvious? Was he unable to see that the Bushmen—like everyone else—could have their rotten apples, their renegades, their murderers?

  At that moment of introspection, his cell phone rang. Kubu had a premonition, and he was right. It was Director Mabaku.

  “Bengu! I spoke to Lerako a bit earlier. It seems that the footprints you so conveniently discovered are fakes. And now the suspects have disappeared!”

  Kubu gave a detailed report on what he had discovered at the ranger station. But Mabaku didn’t seem impressed.

  “Well, I’m sure this will all be wrapped up quickly,” Mabaku commented at the conclusion. “Now that we have our star detective on the case.” Kubu knew better than to imagine that this was a compliment. Mabaku continued. “Perhaps you will need to explain the case on TV. Point out how you have to guide your bumbling colleagues through their investigations.”

  Kubu’s heart sank as he realized what had happened. “Cindy Robinson wrote about me?”

  “Yes, indeed, and she was most impressed. I’m so glad we have one honest, intelligent policeman in Botswana, as she generously put it.”

  “Well, these reporters always have to make a big story out of routine police work.” It was the wrong thing to say. The volume escalated so suddenly that Kubu had to move the phone away from his ear very quickly.

  “I told you not to talk to that woman. Instead, you seem to have become friends! I’m not impressed. The commissioner is not impressed.” Suddenly the volume dropped dangerously. “Bengu, you’d better start following orders. Orders are not suggestions. They are instructions you have to follow. That’s why they are called orders!

  “Now I want you back here. I’m sick of paying expensive hotel rates so that you can mess around in other detectives’ cases. Lerako can manage this one on his own. Drive back tomorrow.”

  Without waiting for a response, the director rang off. Kubu breathed a sigh of relief. The blast had been because he talked to the reporter, not about what he had said. Cindy must have dealt the police a reasonable hand. But it had been a close thing. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. It was stifling in the office. It was hardly surprising that he and Lerako had lost their tempers. As if on cue, the detective sergeant returned with a cup of foul-looking coffee. He seemed to have cooled down too.