MMA RAMOTSWE often thought about Nandira when she drove past the Patel compound, with its high white wall. She expected to see her from time to time, now that she knew what she looked like, but she never did, at least not until a year later, when, while taking her Saturday morning coffee on the verandah of the President Hotel, she felt somebody tap her shoulder. She turned round in her seat, and there was Nandira, with a young man. The young man was about eighteen, she thought, and he had a pleasant, open expression.
“Mma Ramotswe,” said Nandira in a friendly way. “I thought it was you.”
Mma Ramotswe shook Nandira’s hand. The young man smiled at her.
“This is my friend,” said Nandira. “I don’t think you’ve met him.”
The young man stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Jack,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN
MMA RAMOTSWE THINKS ABOUT
THE LAND WHILE DRIVING HER TINY
WHITE VAN TO FRANCISTOWN
MMA RAMOTSWE drove her tiny white van before dawn along the sleeping roads of Gaborone, past the Kalahari Breweries, past the Dry Lands Research Station, and out onto the road that led north. A man leaped out from bushes at the side of the road and tried to flag her down; but she was unwilling to stop in the dark, for you never knew who might be wanting a lift at such an hour. He disappeared into the shadows again, and in her mirror she saw him deflate with disappointment. Then, just past the Mochudi turnoff, the sun came up, rising over the wide plains that stretched away towards the course of the Limpopo. Suddenly it was there, smiling on Africa, a slither of golden red ball, inching up, floating effortlessly free of the horizon to dispel the last wisps of morning mist.
The thorn trees stood clear in the sharp light of morning, and there were birds upon them, and in flight—hoopoes, louries, and tiny birds which she could not name. Here and there cattle stood at the fence which followed the road for mile upon mile. They raised their heads and stared, or ambled slowly on, tugging at the tufts of dry grass that clung tenaciously to the hardened earth.
This was a dry land. Just a short distance to the west lay the Kalahari, a hinterland of ochre that stretched off, for unimaginable miles, to the singing emptinesses of the Namib. If she turned her tiny white van off on one of the tracks that struck off from the main road, she could drive for perhaps thirty or forty miles before her wheels would begin to sink into the sand and spin hopelessly. The vegetation would slowly become sparser, more desert-like. The thorn trees would thin out and there would be ridges of thin earth, through which the omnipresent sand would surface and crenellate. There would be patches of bareness, and scattered grey rocks, and there would be no sign of human activity. To live with this great dry interior, brown and hard, was the lot of the Batswana, and it was this that made them cautious, and careful in their husbandry.
If you went there, out into the Kalahari, you might hear lions by night. For the lions were there still, on these wide landscapes, and they made their presence known in the darkness, in coughing grunts and growls. She had been there once as a young woman, when she had gone with her friend to visit a remote cattle post. It was as far into the Kalahari as cattle could go, and she had felt the utter loneliness of a place without people. This was Botswana distilled; the essence of her country.
It was the rainy season, and the land was covered with green. Rain could transform it so quickly, and had done so; now the ground was covered with shoots of sweet new grass, Namaqualand daisies, the vines of Tsama melons, and aloes with stalk flowers of red and yellow.
They had made a fire at night, just outside the crude huts which served as shelter at the cattle post, but the light from the fire seemed so tiny under the great empty night sky with its dipping constellations. She had huddled close to her friend, who had told her that she should not be frightened, because lions would keep away from fires, as would supernatural beings, tokoloshes and the like.
She awoke in the small hours of the morning, and the fire was low. She could make out its embers through the spaces between the branches that made up the wall of the hut. Somewhere, far away, there was a grunting sound, but she was not afraid, and she walked out of the hut to stand underneath the sky and draw the dry, clear air into her lungs. And she thought: I am just a tiny person in Africa, but there is a place for me, and for everybody, to sit down on this earth and touch it and call it their own. She waited for another thought to come, but none did, and so she crept back into the hut and the warmth of the blankets on her sleeping mat.
Now, driving the tiny white van along those rolling miles, she thought that one day she might go back into the Kalahari, into those empty spaces, those wide grasslands that broke and broke the heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BIG CAR GUILT
IT WAS three days after the satisfactory resolution of the Patel case. Mma Ramotswe had put in her bill for two thousand pula, plus expenses, and had been paid by return of post. This astonished her. She could not believe that she would be paid such a sum without protest, and the readiness, and apparent cheerfulness with which Mr Patel had settled the bill induced pangs of guilt over the sheer size of the fee.
It was curious how some people had a highly developed sense of guilt, she thought, while others had none. Some people would agonise over minor slips or mistakes on their part, while others would feel quite unmoved by their own gross acts of betrayal or dishonesty. Mma Pekwane fell into the former category, thought Mma Ramotswe. Note Mokoti fell into the latter.
Mma Pekwane had seemed anxious when she had come into the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Mma Ramotswe had given her a strong cup of bush tea, as she always did with nervous clients, and had waited for her to be ready to speak. She was anxious about a man, she thought; there were all the signs. What would it be? Some piece of masculine bad behaviour, of course, but what?
“I’m worried that my husband has done a dreadful thing,” said Mma Pekwane eventually. “I feel very ashamed for him.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded her head gently. Masculine bad behaviour.
“Men do terrible things,” she said. “All wives are worried about their husbands. You are not alone.”
Mma Pekwane sighed. “But my husband has done a terrible thing,” she said. “A very terrible thing.”
Mma Ramotswe stiffened. If Rra Pekwane had killed somebody she would have to make it quite clear that the police should be called in. She would never dream of helping anybody conceal a murderer.
“What is this terrible thing?” she asked.
Mma Pekwane lowered her voice. “He has a stolen car.”
Mma Ramotswe was relieved. Car theft was rife, almost unremarkable, and there must be many women driving around the town in their husbands’ stolen cars. Mma Ramotswe could never imagine herself doing that, of course, and nor, it seemed, could Mma Pekwane.
“Did he tell you it’s stolen?” she asked. “Are you sure of it?”
Mma Pekwane shook her head. “He said a man gave it to him. He said that this man had two Mercedes-Benzes and only needed one.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Do men really think they can fool us that easily?” she said. “Do they think we’re fools?”
“I think they do,” said Mma Pekwane.
Mma Ramotswe picked up her pencil and drew several lines on her blotter. Looking at the scribbles, she saw that she had drawn a car.
She looked at Mma Pekwane. “Do you want me to tell you what to do?” she asked. “Is that what you want?”
Mma Pekwane looked thoughtful. “No,” she replied. “I don’t want that. I’ve decided what I want to do.”
“And that is?”
“I want to give the car back. I want to give it back to its owner.”
Mma Ramotswe sat up straight. “You want to go to the police then? You want to inform on your husband?”
“No. I don’t want to do that. I just want the car to get back to its owner without the police knowing. I want the Lord to know that the car’s back whe
re it belongs.”
Mma Ramotswe stared at her client. It was, she had to admit, a perfectly reasonable thing to want. If the car were to be returned to the owner, then Mma Pekwane’s conscience would be clear, and she would still have her husband. On mature reflection, it seemed to Mma Ramotswe to be a very good way of dealing with a difficult situation.
“But why come to me about this?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “How can I help?”
Mma Pekwane gave her answer without hesitation.
“I want you to find out who owns that car,” she said. “Then I want you to steal it from my husband and give it back to the rightful owner. That’s all I want you to do.”
LATER THAT evening, as she drove home in her little white van, Mma Ramotswe thought that she should never have agreed to help Mma Pekwane; but she had, and now she was committed. Yet it was not going to be a simple matter—unless, of course, one went to the police, which she clearly could not do. It may be that Rra Pekwane deserved to be handed over, but her client had asked that this should not happen, and her first loyalty was to the client. So some other way would have to be found.
That evening, after her supper of chicken and pumpkin, Mma Ramotswe telephoned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“Where do stolen Mercedes-Benzes come from?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“From over the border,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “They steal them in South Africa, bring them over here, respray them, file off the original engine number, and then sell them cheaply or send them up to Zambia. I know who does all this, by the way. We all know.”
“I don’t need to know that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What I need to know is how you identify them after all this has happened.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni paused. “You have to know where to look,” he said. “There’s usually another serial number somewhere—on the chassis—or under the bonnet. You can usually find it if you know what you’re doing.”
“You know what you’re doing,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Can you help me?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. He did not like stolen cars. He preferred to have nothing to do with them, but this was a request from Mma Ramotswe, and so there was only one answer to give.
“Tell me where and when,” he said.
THEY ENTERED the Pekwane garden the following evening, by arrangement with Mma Pekwane, who had promised that at the agreed time she would make sure that the dogs were inside and her husband would be busy eating a special meal she would prepare for him. So there was nothing to stop Mr J.L.B. Matekoni from wriggling under the Mercedes-Benz parked in the yard and flashing his torch up into the bodywork. Mma Ramotswe offered to go under the car as well, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni doubted whether she would fit and declined her offer. Ten minutes later, he had a serial number written on a piece of paper and the two of them slipped out of the Pekwane yard and made their way to the small white van parked down the road.
“Are you sure that’s all I’ll need?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Will they know from that?”
“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “They’ll know.”
She dropped him off outside his gate and he waved goodbye in the darkness. She would be able to repay him soon, she knew.
THAT WEEKEND, Mma Ramotswe drove her tiny white van over the border to Mafikeng and went straight to the Railway Café. She bought a copy of the Johannesburg Star and sat at a table near the window reading the news. It was all bad, she decided, and so she laid the paper to one side and passed the time by looking at her fellow customers.
“Mma Ramotswe!”
She looked up. There he was, the same old Billy Pilani, older now, of course, but otherwise the same. She could just see him at the Mochudi Government School, sitting at his desk, dreaming.
She bought him a cup of coffee and a large doughnut and explained to him what she needed.
“I want you to find out who owns this car,” she said, passing the slip of paper with the serial number written on it in the handwriting of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Then, when you’ve found out, I want you to tell the owner, or the insurance company, or whoever, that they can come up to Gaborone and they will find their car ready for them in an agreed place. All they have to do is to bring South African number plates with the original number on them. Then they can drive the car home.”
Billy Pilani looked surprised.
“All for nothing?” he asked. “Nothing to be paid?”
“Nothing,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just a question of returning property to its rightful owner. That’s all. You believe in that, don’t you Billy?”
“Of course,” said Billy Pilani quickly. “Of course.”
“And Billy I want you to forget you’re a policeman while all this is going on. There’s not going to be any arrest for you.”
“Not even a small one?” asked Billy in a disappointed tone.
“Not even that.”
BILLY PILANI telephoned the following day.
“I’ve got the details from our list of stolen vehicles,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the insurance company, who’ve already paid out. So they’d be very happy to get the car back. They can send one of their men over the border to pick it up.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They are to be in the African Mall in Gaborone at seven o’clock in the morning next Tuesday, with the number plates.”
Everything was agreed, and at five o’clock on the Tuesday morning, Mma Ramotswe crept into the yard of the Pekwane house and found, as she had been expecting, the keys of the Mercedes-Benz lying on the ground outside the bedroom window, where Mma Pekwane had tossed them the previous night. She had been assured by Mma Pekwane that her husband was a sound sleeper and that he never woke up until Radio Botswana broadcast the sound of cowbells at six.
He did not hear her start the car and drive out onto the road, and indeed it was not until almost eight o’clock that he noticed that his Mercedes-Benz was stolen.
“Call the police,” shouted Mma Pekwane. “Quick, call the police!”
She noticed that her husband was hesitating.
“Maybe later,” he said. “In the meantime, I think I shall look for it myself.”
She looked him directly in the eye, and for a moment she saw him flinch. He’s guilty, she thought. I was right all along. Of course he can’t go to the police and tell them that his stolen car has been stolen.
She saw Mma Ramotswe later that day and thanked her.
“You’ve made me feel much better,” she said. “I shall now be able to sleep at night without feeling guilty for my husband.”
“I’m very pleased,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And maybe he’s learned a lesson too. A very interesting lesson.”
“What would that be?” asked Mma Pekwane.
“That lightning always strikes in the same place twice,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Whatever people say to the contrary.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MMA RAMOTSWE’S HOUSE IN
ZEBRA DRIVE
THE HOUSE had been built in 1968, when the town inched out from the shops and the Government Buildings. It was on a corner site, which was not always a good thing, as people would sometimes stand on that corner, under the thorn trees that grew there, and spit into her garden, or throw their rubbish over her fence. At first, when she saw them doing that, she would shout from the window, or bang a dustbin lid at them, but they seemed to have no shame, these people, and they just laughed. So she gave up, and the young man who did her garden for her every third day would just pick up the rubbish and put it away. That was the only problem with that house. For the rest, Mma Ramotswe was fiercely proud of it, and daily reflected on her good fortune in being able to buy it when she did, just before house prices went so high that honest people could no longer pay them.
The yard was a large one, almost two-thirds of an acre, and it was well endowed with trees and shrubs. The trees were nothing special—thorn trees for the most part—but they gave good shade, and they never died if the rains were bad. Then there were the purple bougainvillaeas which
had been enthusiastically planted by the previous owners, and which had almost taken over by the time Mma Ramotswe came. She had to cut these back, to give space for her pawpaws and her pumpkins.
At the front of the house there was a verandah, which was her favourite place, and which was where she liked to sit in the mornings, when the sun rose, or in the evenings, before the mosquitoes came out. She had extended it by placing an awning of shade netting supported by rough-hewn poles. This filtered out many of the rays of the sun and allowed plants to grow in the green light it created. There she had elephant-ear and ferns, which she watered daily, and which made a lush patch of green against the brown earth.
Behind the verandah was the living room, the largest room in the house, with its big window that gave out onto what had once been a lawn. There was a fireplace here, too large for the room, but a matter of pride for Mma Ramotswe. On the mantelpiece she had placed her special china, her Queen Elizabeth II teacup and her commemoration plate with the picture of Sir Seretse Khama, President, Kgosi of the Bangwato people, Statesman. He smiled at her from the plate, and it was as if he gave a blessing, as if he knew. As did the Queen, for she loved Botswana too, and understood.
But in pride of place was the photograph of her Daddy, taken just before his sixtieth birthday. He was wearing the suit which he had bought in Bulawayo on his visit to his cousin there, and he was smiling, although she knew that by then he was in pain. Mma Ramotswe was a realist, who inhabited the present, but one nostalgic thought she allowed herself, one indulgence, was to imagine her Daddy walking through the door and greeting her again, and smiling at her, and saying: “My Precious! You have done well! I am proud of you!” And she imagined driving him round Gaborone in her tiny white van and showing him the progress that had been made, and she smiled at the pride he would have felt. But she could not allow herself to think like this too often, for it ended in tears, for all that was passed, and for all the love that she had within her.