The Death of the Mantis Read Free

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 ∧
Two
    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