The Death of the Mantis (5 page)

“Bengu!” Mabaku’s voice stopped Kubu in his tracks. It was a
long time since Mabaku had used his last name. “Bengu, if you
undermine my authority or the reputation of the police in this
matter, you’ll spend the next few years as the detective in
Tshootsha or Hukuntsi!”

“Yes, Director. I’ll tell Khumanego that I’m too busy to help.”
He walked out of Mabaku’s office, closing the door gently behind
him.

Tshootsha or Hukuntsi! I’ll starve to death if I go there, Kubu
thought. If I don’t die of boredom first. He walked back to his
office, depressed. I shouldn’t have raised Khumanego’s hopes. I
should’ve realised that Mabaku wouldn’t let me trample on another
detective’s turf. Khumanego is going to be very disappointed. But
then again, I won’t have to leave Tumi and Joy.

♦

Kubu was still depressed when he left work and drove home.
Khumanego hadn’t taken it well when he told him of Mabaku’s
decision.

“I told you, David! All the police want to do is persecute the
Bushmen. Another government effort to stop us living how we have
always lived! Why don’t you put us in cages and show us in the zoo?
That’s about all we seem to be worth in this country.”

Kubu had tried to console the irate Bushman by reiterating how
solid Detective Lerako was. Khumanego was scathing.

“I’ve checked him out. He’s traditional. Typical
Motswana
-regards Bushmen as lesser beings. Doesn’t know
their language. Doesn’t know their culture. My friends have no
chance.”

Kubu was unable to pacify Khumanego, even when he promised to
try to review the case when the paperwork came through to
Gaborone.

“You watch, David! They’re guilty already. They don’t need a
trial – just send them to jail.” Khumanego had put the phone down
so hard that Kubu’s ear hurt.

As Kubu drove home that evening, he was so preoccupied with
disappointing Khumanego that he didn’t consciously notice the other
vehicles, or the pedestrians who sprinted through the moving
traffic, or the taxis, which used any lane, including the pavement,
to get ahead. He didn’t even see the livestock, which were
clustering around the roads because of the grass growing in the
ditches after the recent rain.

His spirits lifted marginally as he turned into Acacia Street.
At least his other four loves would be there – his beloved Tumi,
his wonderful wife Joy, Ilia, the rambunctious fox terrier, and, of
course, food and wine. Today, his fifth love, being a policeman,
had let him down.

He stopped in front of the gate and, true to form, Ilia was
there, jumping up and down, barking a delirious greeting, stump
tail wagging furiously. The moment he opened one half of the
wire-mesh gate, the dog hurtled out and tried to jump into his
arms.

“Down, Ilia. Down,” Kubu said half-heartedly.

Ilia paid no attention and continued to bounce off Kubu as he
opened the second half of the gate.

“Car!”

Ilia immediately jumped into the car and sat on the passenger
seat, tongue out, panting furiously. After Kubu had driven up the
short drive, turned the engine off and walked back to close the
gate, Ilia was much calmer, just getting between Kubu’s feet rather
than imitating the
pronking
of a springbok.

Kubu smiled, expecting Joy to meet him on the steps of the
brushed-concrete veranda, but he was disappointed.

“Hello, dear! I’m home,” he called, as though Ilia’s welcome
wouldn’t have alerted her.

No response.

“Joy! Where are you?” Still no response. She must be occupied
with Tumi, he thought. Then he heard the baby cry. He went into the
house, put his briefcase on the couch and walked to the small room
at the back – Tumi’s room – painted with cartoon-like animals on
the wall and a bright yellow sun on the ceiling. Joy was changing
Tumi’s nappy. Tumi was complaining loudly.

“Hello, dear.” Kubu leant over and kissed Joy’s cheek. Joy
looked at Kubu and frowned.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said. “You look as though you need
one.”

He walked to the small kitchen and took a box of inexpensive but
acceptable South African Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge, and
poured her a large glass. Kubu was embarrassed to serve box wine,
but the financial realities of having a baby and Joy working only
part time had taken their toll. Bottles were rare these days,
usually only when there were guests.

He always started the evening with a steelworks. He poured two
measures of Kola Tonic into a large glass, added a lot of lime
juice and splashed on a liberal portion of Angostura bitters. Next
he filled the glass with ginger beer. Only then did he add ice. He
despised barmen who started with ice then added the liquid
ingredients. They never mixed properly.

“I’ll be on the veranda,” he called.

A few minutes later Joy arrived carrying Tumi, who was now
quiet.

“You hold her,” she said.

Kubu smiled as he took his treasure – the baby that was never
meant to be. He rocked her gently, delighting in the small hands
that clutched his fingers. He pulled a face, and Tumi smiled.
“We’re so lucky, my dear. Tumi is perfect.”

Joy didn’t respond, but took a large gulp of wine, closed her
eyes and put her head on the back of the chair.

“Tough day?” Kubu asked.

Joy nodded.

“How was work?”

Joy still didn’t respond.

“Well, I had an awful day. Remember my old Bushman friend
Khumanego? I told you about him. We were friends at school in
Mochudi. Anyway, he phoned. Spoke to him last about ten years ago,
I guess. He’s now an advocate for the Bushmen, advising them about
the relocation plans of the government, helping their teams in the
law cases and so on. He’s become a sort of urban Bushman. It’s a
strange mix. You should see him! His little body in Western
clothes, all too big. Quite funny, actually.” He took a big
mouthful of his steelworks, swilling it around his mouth to get the
most benefit from the tanginess of the ginger beer.

Joy’s head was still laid back, eyes closed.

“Anyway, he called and asked for help. Some of his friends have
been arrested for murder in the southern Kalahari. He swears they
would never kill anyone – against Bushman values. He thinks the
police are out to get the Bushmen because they’re easy targets. I
spoke to the director. He told me to mind my own business – that
the situation was under control. It was embarrassing to tell
Khumanego that I couldn’t help. I’d all but promised.”

Joy opened her eyes and sat up. She took another drink, this
time more of a sip than a gulp.

“Kubu, dear, please don’t go out of town unless it is absolutely
necessary. You’re going to have to spend some more time with Tumi.
I’m really struggling. I’m tired the whole time. When I thought we
couldn’t have a child, I went to work at the creche to be with
kids. But now they’re too much. Too many questions, quarrels,
demands. And I don’t have the patience I used to. It’s the broken
sleep. I always wake when Tumi cries. I don’t know how you sleep
through it.”

“My darling, you know I’m always happy to help. Wake me during
the night and I’ll give her a bottle.” He tickled Tumi under the
chin. Joy sighed. She’d tried to wake Kubu many times. It was
easier to deal with Tumi herself.

Kubu asked if she wanted another glass of wine, and she nodded.
A few minutes later he returned, two glasses in hand. He handed one
to Joy and raised the other. “To the best mother in the whole
world! Thank you, my dearest.” Their glasses touched with a clear
ring. They had learnt long ago to hold their glasses at the bottom
to get the best sound. “Tonight, let’s go down to Wimpy. You won’t
have to cook, and they’re having a special on T-bone steaks.”

Joy nodded. Wimpy was fine, and they could take the baby.

♦

The next morning, as Kubu walked into the office a few minutes
late, Edison pulled him aside and said quietly, “The director wants
to see you. Right away.”

“I’ll get myself a cup of tea, then go and see what he
wants.”

“I think you’d better go right away. He has been into your
office several times, looking like a thunderstorm.”

Kubu wondered what was on the director’s mind as he knocked on
the door and pushed it open.

“About time! Why are you late again?” Kubu recognised Mabaku’s
voice of anger. Before he could answer, Mabaku had pointed to a
seat. Kubu sat quickly and tried to look as nonchalant as
possible.

Mabaku just stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Kubu
didn’t even want to wriggle in the chair to make it more
comfortable.

Mabaku started quietly. “Kubu, yesterday I told you not to get
involved with your Bushman friend.” He paused and raised the level.
“And when you made a snide remark about the police not wanting to
help the Bushman people, I told you not to be clever.” Kubu nodded.
Mabaku jumped to his feet. “When I tell you not to get involved, I
mean don’t… get… involved!” Each of the last three words was
accompanied by a loud crash as his fist hit his desk.

“But Director – ”

“You can’t sneak around and try to embarrass me into changing my
mind!”

The whole of the Criminal Investigation Department was now privy
to what was happening in the director’s office as his voice echoed
through the building.

“I will not have you subvert my authority! What do you think you
were doing?”

Kubu didn’t move. He was stunned.

“But Director – ”

“What do you think you were doing?” Each word was uttered like a
separate sentence.

“You’ve always been fair to me, Director. What have I done? I’ve
never let you down before.”

Mabaku glared at Kubu.

“Cindy Robinson!”

Kubu frowned. “Director, I don’t know anyone by the name of
Cindy Robinson.”

“Bullshit! If you don’t know her by name, you certainly know who
she is!”

“Cindy Robinson?”

“At eight-oh-five this morning, I got a call from a Cindy
Robinson – an American reporter. She’s been working on a series of
articles on the Bushmen. But now she smells news. Why are the
Botswana police persecuting the endangered Bushman peoples
againi
she asks. How can the Botswana police hold three
Bushmen in Tsabong on a charge of murder without any evidence?” He
paused still glaring at Kubu. “She’s heading to Tsabong right now.
Someone tipped her off. Well? Do you deny it?”

“Director,” Kubu said quietly, “I’d never do that. I never spoke
to anybody at any newspaper, let alone an American newspaper. I
promise.” He paused, then anticipated Mabaku’s next question. “And
I didn’t suggest it to anyone else either.”

Mabaku sat down and rubbed his chin.

“Then it must have been your Bushman friend. He’s using you,
Kubu. Good friend indeed! He set you up.”

Kubu flushed. The director had to be right.

“I’ll phone him right away. Tell him to back off.”

“Too late. This Robinson woman is writing an article – backing
off won’t help. I’ve changed my mind. You’ll have to go to Tsabong.
Tomorrow. Make sure that Lerako is on top of everything. That it’s
all upfront and transparent. Keep me informed.”

But Kubu wasn’t going to leave it at that. He wanted Mabaku on
side. “Director, do you remember the Maauwe and Motswetla
case?”

“Of course I remember it. It was a disaster for the whole
country. Going to trial without the two Bushmen having any idea of
what was going on. Outrageous. Convicted of a capital crime with no
adequate defence. Embarrassing. Made us look like racists.”

Mabaku paused in his tirade. Kubu said nothing.

“You think it could happen again?” Mabaku stared at Kubu.

“I don’t know what to think, Director. Lerako is solid but
unimaginative. If he’s satisfied with the evidence he’s got, he
won’t look any further. But why would my friend Khumanego come to
me after all this time unless he was very concerned? Let me help
Lerako. You can remind him of the Maauwe and Motswetla case and say
you are making sure everything is in order. We can’t take the
chance of this blowing up in our faces.”

Mabaku stood up and gazed out of the window at Kgale Hill, which
formed the backdrop to the Millennium Park office complex where the
CID was housed. None of its resident baboons was visible. Neither
man said anything for several minutes.

“All right,” Mabaku said, pointing his finger at Kubu. “But it’s
still Lerako’s case. You are his backup, checking all the facts.
I’ll tell him that it’s nothing personal, but the government can’t
afford another scandal. I’ll make sure he knows he’s still in
charge.”

“Thank you, Director. I should only be away a few days. None of
my cases here are so urgent they can’t wait.”

Mabaku wagged his finger at Kubu. “Make sure you don’t stir
things up. Check back with me before you say or do anything that
runs against Lerako. And don’t talk to that reporter woman.”

Kubu nodded and left with a mixture of emotions. He felt
Khumanego had let him down, and he knew Joy would be upset that
he’d be away. And Lerako was a tough man, hard to deal with. But
Kubu was intrigued. If the Bushmen were innocent – as Khumanego
averred – then who was behind the killing? Lerako wouldn’t have
missed obvious clues, so it was a puzzle. And Kubu loved
puzzles.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

J
oy had reacted very
badly to the news that Kubu would be away for several days, and the
atmosphere was still strained the next morning.

Breakfast was rudimentary. Joy again had not slept well, and
Tumi was very demanding. Joy sat breastfeeding the infant as Kubu
helped himself to two bananas and a cup of tea. Joy accepted tea,
but didn’t want to eat. Kubu made himself four sandwiches; two were
savoury, with cold meat and mustard, two were sweet – for dessert –
with strawberry jam.