The Death of the Mantis (2 page)

“Let’s start.” He wanted to get the meeting over before the
extra bodies in his office drove up the temperature. The windows
were closed against the heat, and a desk fan was labouring to keep
the office bearable. There wasn’t much to discuss anyway. The
meetings existed because Monzo complained that he wasn’t being kept
informed. That’s because no one likes him, and so no one talks to
him, Vusi thought sourly.

“We need the aerial species-count numbers for the quarterly
report. Who’s got those?” Silence. It was Ndoli, the office
manager, who answered. A slender man with rolled-up shirt sleeves
and inkblot patches under his armpits. “Monzo will have them.”

Vusi sighed. Well, of course. It was Monzo’s job. He did the
statistics and drafted the damn report anyway, coaching Vusi on the
presentation to the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park steering
committee. Monzo was good at what he did, when you could focus him
on work. They weren’t going to get anywhere without the man, damn
him!

Vusi used his handkerchief to wipe his damp face. Why didn’t
they have air-conditioning anyway? This was the main Botswana
office of the Transfrontier Park after all. Thirty thousand square
kilometres to manage! He looked out of the window again. The jackal
had reached the shade of an acacia tree and was lying panting. He’s
hot too, but he doesn’t have to deal with Monzo and the Director of
Wildlife Conservation, Vusi mused unsympathetically.

“Where is Monzo, anyway?” he asked no one in particular. “He’s
twenty minutes late now. I’m a busy man. We’re all busy!” He glared
at the others as though they were to blame for Monzo’s
rudeness.

Again it was Ndoli who answered. “He said he was going to check
up on the Bushmen. He drove out that way this morning.”

“Why? What’s it got to do with him? Why did you let him go?”

Ndoli rubbed his chin. A group of Bushmen had moved close to the
park boundary a few weeks ago. No one knew why, perhaps not even
the Bushmen themselves.

“He was worried they’d poach in the park.” He didn’t bother with
Vusi’s last question. Monzo never asked permission for his
escapades. A month ago he had gone off on a ‘field trip’ to the
middle of nowhere, supposedly after poachers, and hadn’t returned
for five days.

“So what? Maybe they kill a springbok. Is that going to ruin the
statistics? We don’t want all the trouble the Central Kalahari
people had. High-court challenges, Survival International, speeches
at the United Nations.” Vusi felt his blood pressure rising. He
thumped his fist on the desk. “I’m in charge here!”

His staff looked at him silently.

Vusi lost his temper. “Well, get out there and find him!” He
pulled a file across his desk and pretended to study it, indicating
that the meeting was adjourned. No one would argue about looking
for Monzo in the suffocating heat. They simply wouldn’t do it.

Why must I work with people like this? Vusi asked himself. When
will I get a promotion out of here to head office in Gaborone, or
at least to Tsabong? He heard the chairs scrape back as his staff
left. He glanced up, avoiding their eyes, and found the safety of
the window instead. The jackal had gone. He looked down again, and
a bead of sweat dripped on to the file.

♦

Oddly, it was Ndoli who became concerned. As much as he disliked
the man, he had a sneaking admiration for Monzo’s manipulative
abilities. Certainly, Monzo would be capable of keeping them
waiting, but he’d do it for a reason or to make a point. Here there
was none. And why didn’t he answer the two-way radio? Ndoli had
tried several times to raise him. No one had heard from Monzo since
he set off to check on the Bushmen. Hell with him, Ndoli thought,
he deserves whatever he gets. But, unable to concentrate on
anything else, after an hour he cursed loudly, causing everyone in
the communal office to look up. He grabbed a bottle of drinking
water and opened the outside door. Waves of heat invaded the office
like a live thing, gobbling the less fiery air inside the room. He
forced through the barrier of heat, slamming the door behind
him.

His vehicle was parked under shade cloth with the windows open,
but the driver’s seat was still too hot for his bare legs. He had
to perch on the edge of the seat so that his shorts protected
him.

The dirt road was nothing but a track leading from the Wildlife
offices at Mabuasehube through thick Kalahari sand, and he had to
use four-wheel drive, sometimes low range, to battle through it,
avoiding slowing lest he sink in and be unable to move again. Maybe
that’s what happened to Monzo, he speculated. But why doesn’t he
answer the radio? Maybe he’s driven out of range. As he drove, his
shirt used captured sweat to glue itself to his body, while his
face and arms suffered convection roasting from the open windows.
The discomfort made him furious. Monzo better not be sitting under
a shady tree drinking beer!

After half an hour, he was starting to wonder if Monzo had gone
another way. But around the next bend he saw his vehicle, off the
road on the higher, harder verge. He pulled in behind it and went
to investigate. The Toyota Hilux 4×4
bakkie
was not locked,
but nothing appeared to be wrong. Ndoli walked around the vehicle
and saw a set of footprints heading away from the road. He followed
them for about fifty metres, until they disappeared as the sand
merged into the ubiquitous calcrete limestone of the Kalahari.
Circling around for a few minutes, he spotted them continuing into
the desert sand.

Soon the prints disappeared again. As he searched for them, he
came to the top of a
donga
, a steep ravine cut by an ancient
stream through the grey calcrete. The soft rock at the edge was
crumbling.

Ndoli looked down. At the bottom of the
donga
, some three
metres below, Monzo was lying on his back, not moving. Next to him
squatted a Bushman. Two others stood and watched. When they saw
Ndoli, there was consternation; then they waved and shouted to
him.

Ndoli let out an exclamation and scrambled down the scree slope.
A few moments later he was kneeling next to the prone game ranger.
One of the Bushmen was trying to pour water from an ostrich shell
into Monzo’s mouth, but the liquid appeared merely to be running
over his face. Grateful for his first-aid training, Ndoli felt
Monzo’s tliroat and found a faint pulse. He thought he detected
shallow breathing, so he spread fine Kalahari dust on his palm,
held it to Monzo’s nose, and was relieved to see it move. Next he
felt for injuries, but found no obviously broken bones. But the
back of Monzo’s head was a mass of congealing blood; he must have
sustained a vicious head blow when he fell into the
donga
.
And he would have sunstroke as well.

Ndoli turned to the Bushman. “When you find?” he asked slowly in
Setswana.

“Soon.” The man shrugged. It was obvious that his knowledge of
Setswana was limited.

“Move him?”

The man shook his head. “Give water.”

Ndoli wondered if it was safe to move the injured man, wanting
to get hjm out of the sun. It would be difficult to do it carefully
even with the Bushmen’s assistance. Monzo was large, big-boned and
overweight. After a moment he decided not to try, and pulled off
his damp shirt, using it to protect Monzo’s head and arms from the
marauding sun. Then, asking the Bushmen to wait, he went back to
his vehicle and radioed for help.

♦

Vusi was not overcome by sympathy. What was Monzo doing
wandering around in the desert and falling into
dongas
anyway? Serves the bastard right! But, of course, it would create
more work for Vusi and difficulties for his staff. How typical of
Monzo! Perhaps he would be rid of him for good. But he shook his
head to dispel such uncharitable thoughts. The man was in a
critical condition. He was suffering from heat stroke and
dehydration in addition to concussion from the bad head wound. He
had not regained consciousness, and the doctor who had seen him in
Tsabong thought his skull might be fractured. Now he was being
taken by helicopter to the hospital in Gaborone. And whose budget
will pay for all that? Vusi fumed.

He heard the outside door open. Ndoli must be back. He went out
to the main office and found the manager looking tired, hot and
depressed.

“What took you so long?”

“I stopped at Monzo’s house to tell Marta about the
accident.”

Vusi paused. He should have done that himself. “I want a report
on what happened,” he snapped.

“I don’t know what happened. The Bushmen found him lying in the
donga
with his head bleeding. I told you everything on the
radio.”

“Did you get their names? The Bushmen?”

Ndoli shook his head. “They’re not going anywhere. I’ll
recognise them when I see them.” He wondered if that were true.
There was something generic about the small yellow-brown people
and, if they wanted to, they could vanish into the desert in a few
hours.

“But what was he doing there? How did he fall into the
donga?
It was broad daylight!” Vusi winced, thinking of the
blinding sun.

“Maybe he was looking for the Bushmen, or discovered the
donga
, wanted to take a look and got too close to the edge.
It was very crumbly. Perhaps it broke under him. He’s heavy
enough.”

“Maybe. How long will it take to get him to Gaborone?”

“Should be there. They left well over an hour ago.”

Vusi was silent. An unpleasant thought had occurred to him.
Perhaps Monzo
had
found the Bushmen and had picked a fight
with them. Maybe he got a rock in the back of his head and a shove
into the
donga
for his trouble. Still, Bushmen weren’t
aggressive. They were peaceful people. They had tried to help. But
Monzo could make anybody mad. Perhaps there had been a struggle and
Monzo fell. Well, they would know what had happened soon enough,
once the man regained consciousness.

Vusi’s thoughts were interrupted by his radio phone. He grabbed
it and listened for a minute. Then he thanked the caller,
disconnected, and turned to Ndoli, who was waiting in the doorway.
“Monzo died on the way to the hospital. God rest his soul.”

Ndoli nodded and walked away, the talk in the office suddenly
stilled. Vusi scowled. There would have to be an investigation.
Intuitively he knew that while his difficulties with Monzo were
over, his real problems were just about to begin.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

V
usi stopped his car
on the sandy track leading to the last in the row of comfortable
homes that The Wildlife Department supplied to its staff members at
Mabuasehube, courtesy of a large grant from the European Union.
White-plastered walls, roofs of thatch, and even lawn and small
gardens fighting the desert sand, the dryness and the heat.

Ndoli had offered, but this was a duty Vusi felt obliged to
handle himself. He knocked quietly, and Monzo’s wife, Marta, let
him in and offered him a seat. She folded herself on to the couch
and started comforting a small boy. Vusi felt the first pang of
regret at Monzo’s death; the boy could not be more than six. He
took in the short, busty woman sitting opposite him on the
threadbare sofa. She looked good in a dress with traditional
touches, and large loop earrings framed an interesting face. Behind
her on the wall were two faded prints, and to the side was a table
holding mounted photographs and a crude carving of a woman’s head,
perhaps done by one of her boys. The room was tidy and clean
despite the kids, and clearly the centre of the home.

He wondered how to begin. Marta looked composed; she had not
obviously been crying, but she wouldn’t have seen Monzo after the
accident. Perhaps she doesn’t know how serious his injuries were,
Vusi thought. Also some women don’t show their emotions. “Mma
Monzo,” he began. “I have some news. I’m afraid it’s not good.” She
nodded, and sent the boy outside to play with his brother.

“He died?”

Vusi nodded. “I’m very sorry. He was a wonderful colleague and
friend, really. He never regained consciousness, you see. He
wouldn’t have felt any pain.” He wondered what would be an
appropriate reaction if she started to sob.

But Marta just shook her head. “Your wonderful colleague and
friend was a lousy husband, Rra Vusi. Well, actually, he wasn’t a
husband at all. You’ll find out when you check his records. He
never married me. I discovered he already has a wife somewhere in
South Africa. I’m his mistress. Isn’t that what you men call us?
They’re his children, though.” She nodded to the boys playing in
the yard. It appeared to be a game of hide and seek, but the
younger one had forgotten to hide in time, and a quarrel looked
imminent. “I suppose now I have to leave with nothing but the two
kids. When must I go?”

Vusi was horrified by this development. Another problem, a
scandal! The paperwork to determine insurance and pension payouts!
How like Monzo. Causing trouble from the grave. He pulled himself
together.

“No, no, Mma Monzo, that is, er… You can certainly stay for the
moment. No rush to leave the house. It will take us time to get a
replacement for your husband… I mean Monzo. And there will be some
money, I’m sure. You’ll be the common-law wife and, of course,
these are his children. We’re definitely on your side. You mustn’t
worry.”

She gave him a strange look with a mixture of emotions. Then she
folded her arms, lifting her generous breasts, and smiled.

“Thank you, Rra Vusi,” she said. “You are very kind.”

♦

The detective was taking his time, Vusi thought with irritation.
The man settled himself into a chair and glanced around the office,
peering at the wall calendar. He looked relaxed despite the
two-hour drive from Tsabong through the sand and heat. A Bushman,
wrinkled and wizened, of indeterminate age, leant against the
office wall. Detective Sergeant Lerako had brought him, but hadn’t
introduced him. Ndoli sat on the edge of his chair, looking
uncomfortable.