The Death of the Mantis (13 page)

Kubu’s heart sank as he realised 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’d 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.

“There’s no harm in making inquiries about what Monzo was up
to,” he said. “Might turn something up. We can check the phone
records for the ranger station, if you like. And it should be easy
enough to find the girlfriend, too. Do you want to go out to
Tshane?”

Kubu shook his head. “Director Mabaku wants me back in Gaborone.
Anyway, it’s your case, and it should be coordinated here. But I’d
like to stay involved. I feel we’re starting to make progress.”

They shook hands formally, and Kubu left to fetch his stuff from
the Mokha Lodge.

He hated leaving just as the case was warming up. But the good
part was that he was going home – home to his family.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

G
obiwasi stood up,
steadying himself against the stunted tree that had been his
shelter for the past six hours. The last two days had tested him to
the limit. Physically, his seventy-year-old body was nearly
depleted. Mentally, he was determined, but the pain and the
relentless heat were wearing away his resolve. One more day and he
would be there – at The Place – where he would appease the spirits
and sleep his last sleep. He wondered whether he could stay alive
long enough to reach it and die in peace.

He slung his leather hunting bag over his shoulder. It was his
oldest friend, and its contents knew his entire history, had shared
his whole life. From a time before he could remember, it had been
with him – a gift from his grandfather. It had been with him when
he had met his wife. It was on his back when he had made his
pilgrimage to the sacred hills of Tsodilo, several weeks’ walk to
the north, where man was first born on this earth. It had seen
every springbok and eland that he had hunted, run every kilometre
in pursuit of the slowly dying prey. It had danced the dance of the
ancestors, and been with him whenever he visited their world.

He picked up his spear. It had saved him on one of his first
hunts, when a desperate hyena, a front paw lost in a skirmish over
carrion, attacked him as he slept in the heat of the day. He had
been lucky that he could pull the spear from his bag as he was
being dragged away and plunge it into the shrivelled stomach of the
once proud animal. It had let him go and, rather than retaliating
with traditional ferocity, had sat down, looked at him, and died
with resignation and relief.

And this was his bow, used so many times to help feed his
people. How many times had he hunted? He was too tired even to
guess. And the arrows, so lovingly crafted into missiles of death,
which enabled the Bushmen to survive in the harshest of
environments. Their poison eventually downing the strongest of
animals, whose deaths completed the circle of life.

He lifted the ostrich egg, dribbled the last drops of water on
to his tongue, then placed it gently on the ground. For how many
kilometres had it been his companion? How many times had it been
his link to life?

He turned towards the hill in the distance, put emotion aside,
and set off across the shimmering sand, walking, no longer able to
run, clutching a large tuber that would provide his liquid for the
day.

♦

Gobiwasi rested in the shadow of a small blackthorn bush. The
sun was low now, turning the dusty air into swirls of reds and
purples. A few thin clouds shone gold before darkening to
indigo.

He had been walking for three hours over the hot sand and was
exhausted. Again, fear ran through him that he wouldn’t reach The
Place, which still looked far away, silhouetted against the sky. He
gnawed on the tuber, relishing the moisture oozing on to his
tongue. He didn’t swallow it right away, but let it sit there as he
anticipated it sliding into his body. He swirled it around in his
mouth, then swallowed. He imagined it to be a long drink of water
rather than merely a few drops of tuber sap. That made him feel
better.

Finally he opened his hunting bag and unwrapped some
hoodia
flesh and chewed it. From before anyone could
remember, his people had used this plant to prepare for the hunt.
It took away hunger and provided energy. Hunger was no longer
important, but he needed the energy for the next few kilometres.
Not long now before he could start his final journey.

He stood up, focusing on the distance still ahead, feeling the
exhaustion. He admitted to himself that he needed help. Would his
ancestors help him still? He put his hand into his hunting bag and
pulled out a small animal horn, closed at one end with a cap of
leather. Carefully he took the cap off and poured a small heap of
the white powder on to his left hand. He licked his palm until all
the powder was gone.

As he set off once more towards the hill on the horizon,
Gobiwasi’s mind wandered back to his first hunt. How old had he
been? Twelve? Thirteen? His father had been teaching him how to
stalk prey and hunt with bow and arrow and spear; had told him
about poisons, and about the importance of taking only what was
needed, never more. Always leave something for whoever follows, he
had admonished. The desert is hard, and we must support each
other.

As the drug crept into his brain, Gobiwasi’s mind began to spin
and slowly left his body. Now he was crawling in the sand towards
an eland, huge with horns that spiralled tightly to the sky. As he
slithered closer, the eland grew even bigger and turned its head
towards him. Its eyes, dark brown and sad, grew larger and larger
and slowly sucked him in.

Now he was in the eland’s mind, tumbling, rolling as a tree in a
rare flood.

“What brings you here?” the eland asked.

“You bring life to our people,” Gobiwasi whispered. “I have to
know your thoughts.”

“I have no thoughts. I am born; I survive; I protect my
family.”

“And if you do not survive?”

“Then I bring life to your people, or to the lions, or to the
hyenas. And they survive.”

“Are you not sad to die?”

“I do not feel. I am, or I am not. That is how it is.”

Gobiwasi understood. His people were nearly the same. They lived
to survive, and they survived to provide for themselves and each
other. The one was insignificant against the whole. The one would
always die to save the others.

Now Gobiwasi flew from the majestic beast back to the scorching
sand. He stood up, and the eland turned and ran, dust trailing,
into the mirages of the Kalahari. Gobiwasi raised his hand. We are
brothers, he thought. And then there were a hundred eland running
into the desert. And then a thousand. Then he too was running,
running. Was he a man or an antelope? The pace got faster. He
couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly he fell.

Reality returned to Gobiwasi. He had stumbled over a small
calcrete ridge. His heart was pounding. Looking back, he saw his
tracks in the sand, not the stumbling tread of an old man, but the
lope of a runner. He had been a runner once, and now he had run
again. How long had he been dreaming? The hill was close now. Less
than an hour to go. He put his head down and walked.

♦

The light was nearly gone, and it was only the dark red of the
western sky that allowed the ageing Gobiwasi to see The Place.
There would be no moon tonight. But in just a few minutes, he would
be there.

He wondered about his own final journey. Would his ancestors
welcome him? Or would they spurn him for what he had done? It had
been his most difficult decision, torn between his people’s age-old
commitment to the sanctity of human life and his reverence for the
spirits. Twelve years earlier, Gobiwasi had watched at The Place,
from bush to bush, always invisible. Watched as a white man went in
and out of the caves, disturbing the ancestors, chipping at the
walls with the paintings. For two days he had waited his chance,
following the man until he was far from The Place. Then Gobiwasi
had done the unthinkable.

In the desert, he had taken a human life.

♦

When he arrived at the base of the
koppies
that were The
Place, Gobiwasi was exhausted, but relieved. Even in the dark, and
after all the years, he soon found the cave with the spring and
drank deeply. Then he found a sheltered place, arranged his blanket
and sat down. He gazed upwards at his thousand ancestors, all
looking at him. How often had they comforted him and guided him to
safety? Tomorrow he would be one of them.

He finished what was left of the tuber and chewed his last piece
of
hoodia
. He would need energy for tomorrow. A good sleep
was important. He was tempted to have more of the white powder, but
decided against it. He would need what he had left for his last
journey.

He lay down, pulled the blanket over his wizened body and
slept.

♦

Gobiwasi was awake before the sun eased its way into the sky.
Although exhausted from the walk, he had not slept well. There was
too much to think about: long-past deeds, his family, and where
today’s journey would end. Dying did not worry him. It came to
everyone. It was what happened thereafter that was of concern. How
would his ancestors judge his life and his actions? Would they
accept him even though he had killed another human? Would they
understand why he had done it?

He wasn’t used to resting when awake. Normally he would rise at
once and be active around the camp. Today, however, he decided to
lie where he was for a little longer. He needed to prepare for when
he met his ancestors and justified his life. He wanted to be strong
but humble, proud of his life but modest about his
accomplishments.

He thought back to when the black men had found their camp but a
few days ago. And a Bushman, Khumanego was his name, had sought him
out. The wrinkles on Gobiwasi’s forehead deepened. The man seemed
to be asking for help, for guidance. Who was this man? Had he been
sent by the ancestors to talk to him? Perhaps he should have let
him speak more, should have answered his questions. Gobiwasi shook
his head slowly, his spirit weeping. Everything was changing. And
he doubted it was for the better. He feared for his people. They
might not survive.

♦

When the whole cliff face was covered in orange light, he rose
and carefully folded his blanket. He had a long trip ahead today.
He gazed one last time towards the rising sun, to where his people
and his family were, dealing with his departure. Already the trees
quivered and floated above the sand in huge pools of water. And
animals sought shelter although it was still early.

He went to the cave with the spring and sipped only two scoops
of water – enough for the trip. He walked towards one end of the
hill. He had seen a scrawny shrub clinging to the cliff about
halfway up. If there is a bush there, he thought, there will be a
small cave behind that has nourished it over the years. Drips of
water for the thirsty. Gobiwasi liked the idea of leaving from a
place of plenty.

He scrambled up, pushed the branches aside and peered into the
darkness, initially seeing only black. As the black eased into
grey, he saw that it was as he had thought. Small, but big enough
to lie down. Hidden from view, unlikely to be seen. And high enough
to; protect him from predators. Perfect, he thought. A good sign,
he hoped. Perhaps the ancestors would forgive him.

He unfolded his blanket and spread it on the rocky floor. Then
he slowly removed the contents of his hunting bag and arranged them
in a circle around the blanket. He placed two small leather-capped
horns on the blanket, and gently put an arrow tip next to them. He
thought back to the similar arrangement of the hunting! bag and its
contents that he had seen so many years before.

Finally he picked up one of the small horns, poured the
remaining white powder into his hand and swallowed all of it. I am
now ready to meet the ancestors, he thought. I am ready indeed.
Then, he I wrapped several strands of cocoons around his neck for
his final dance. He looked around, pleased.

♦

The climb down from the cave was straightforward. He hoped that
the final climb up would be as easy. That would depend on the
conversation he was about to have. What if they are not pleased? He
quickly banished the thought. I am proud of what I have done, of
the man I have been.

He walked slowly to the middle of the hill and stopped on a
flat, I hard area directly in front of the cave of the spirits. How
many others like me have stopped here too? he wondered. He turned
towards the hill, his back to the sun, which was already fiery hot.
The hill was now white; gone was the orange of earlier. Gobiwasi
gazed up at the cave and began a slow dance, his cocoon necklaces
rattling to his rhythm. For twenty minutes he shuffled backwards
and forwards, side to side. He sang the songs of the gods, the
songs of the ancestors.