The Death of the Mantis by Michael Stanley Page B

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.

∨ The Death of the Mantis ∧
Eleven
    A s 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 somewhere 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 have
wanted to do him harm?”
    She shook her head. “A lot of people didn’t like him much, but
there’s no one who would have wanted 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 authorised 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 had