—
THE ATHLONE HOSPITAL in Lobatse was directly off the main road into town, a collection of neat brick buildings occupying grounds that were dotted with trees. The main gate was an impressive, rather-too-heavy arch in the vernacular style; to its side was a small cabin for security guards. As Mma Ramotswe turned, she saw that there was nobody in the box, which had a generally deserted air about it. Nor was there a sign of anybody when she parked in the visitors’ car park. For a few minutes she sat in the van, the windows open to allow for the circulation of air. It was a hot afternoon, and the beating down of the sun on the stationary vehicle’s roof would soon force her to seek shelter, but she was able to stay until she saw a couple of nurses come out of one of the buildings and begin to walk towards the car park.
The nurses were dressed in smart blue-and-white uniforms and had small caps neatly pinned into their hair. This, thought Mma Ramotswe, was a hospital where a good matron still held sway: you could tell immediately from the demeanour of the nurses that they were used to having a watchful, matronly eye upon them. It was the same with soldiers and policemen, and mechanical apprentices, come to think of it—with anybody, really; take away authority and things soon fell to pieces. Mma Potokwane would be proud of nurses such as these, thought Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Ramotswe got out of the van and approached the two nurses. They smiled at her when she came up to them, and greeted her courteously, in the traditional Botswana way, enquiring after her health and then waiting politely for her to ask whatever it was that she wanted to ask.
“There used to be a man at the gate,” she began. “He was quite a fixture here, I believe, but I didn’t see him when I came in.”
One of the nurses laughed. “Oh, Stephen. Yes, they’ve transferred him to the blood department. He’s the—”
“We call him the blood man,” the other nurse interjected. “He’s the porter there, really. He puts things away and tidies up—that sort of thing. He’s not a proper technician.”
“Do you know him, Mma?” asked the first nurse.
“Not really. But I want to talk to him about something.”
Both nurses laughed. “He’ll like that,” said one. “That man is a very big talker, Mma. Botswana Talking Team at the Olympic Games.”
They all laughed. “Could you direct me?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Armed with their directions, she made her way into the warren of buildings that constituted the hospital, eventually arriving at a doorway marked with the sign “Blood Bank.” The door was open and she could see beyond it a desk with a telephone and a half-empty bottle of water. “If not in, push bell button firmly” said a small notice. Mma Ramotswe located the button and pushed it in a way that she hoped was firm enough. This produced a ringing somewhere within and, after a minute or so, a middle-aged man, dressed in what Mma Ramotswe would describe as hospital blue, appeared from around a corner.
“Now then, Mma,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. The man’s manner was friendly—even breezy—and she knew that she had found the right person.
“You’re Stephen, aren’t you, Rra?”
He nodded. “That is the person you’re talking to, Mma. I’m Stephen, and this is the Department of Blood. I am the Blood Executive.”
Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. It seemed that virtually everybody had some grand title now, what with Mma Makutsi announcing herself as Principal Investigating Officer and Stephen conferring on himself the grandiose office of “Blood Executive.”
“This isn’t about blood,” she said. “I wanted to find something out, Rra.” She paused. It was her policy to be as direct as possible, and she felt that this was a man who would rather like the idea of talking to a private detective. “You see, I’m Mma Ramotswe—Precious Ramotswe—and I’m the owner of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.”
Her instinct was right. Stephen’s eyes widened. “The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency!” he exclaimed. “But, Mma, I know that place! I saw it when I went up to Gaborone last time. I was visiting my uncle who lives along the Tlokweng Road, and I went right past your office.”
“Well, there you are,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Many people—”
He cut her short. “Yes, there was your sign with that very name on it. And I thought: What’s this? What’s a detective agency doing on the Tlokweng Road? That’s what I thought, Mma.”
“Well, Rra, we need to have—”
She did not get the chance to finish. “Oh, I’m sure you have every reason to be there, Mma—away from prying eyes. And when I arrived at my uncle’s place—he has this big place, Mma, seven bedrooms, would you believe it? When I arrived at my uncle’s place, I said to him, ‘Uncle, what is all this about a ladies’ detective agency? What’s going on?’ And he said, ‘Stevie’—that’s what he has always called me, Mma—he said, ‘Stevie, there are many mysteries in this town. That fat lady’—that’s what he said, Mma, I’m quoting him directly—‘that fat lady is very good at sorting out the problems people have.’ I am not making that compliment up, Mma—that is exactly what my uncle said.”
“He was very kind, Rra. And you—you’re very kind too.”
Stephen shrugged. “It is better to tell people good things, Mma—if you can. Of course, there are many people it would be very difficult to say anything good about. I’m sure you know who I’m talking about.” He looked at her conspiratorially. “I think you do know, Mma—in your job you must find out many things.”
“We do. But I try—”
Once again she was not allowed to complete her sentence. “The things one sees, Mma, working in a place like this!” He cast his eyes up towards the ceiling. “Of course, we have to be very confidential, but I see it all, Mma—and then some more after that.” He paused, and then, looking over his shoulder, he continued, “You know what I say, Mma? I say that if you know somebody’s blood group, then you know the person. You may not believe that, but I tell you it’s absolutely true. This horoscope business is all a lot of nonsense—you know, star signs and all that. How can the stars influence us, Mma? They are miles and miles away from us. So, it doesn’t matter if you are the sign of the fish or the bull or whatever, it makes no difference in my opinion, Mma.” He paused to draw breath; Mma Ramotswe, wisely, decided it was pointless to interject. “But your blood group, Mma—that’s a different matter, because your blood is inside you, Mma. It’s going round and round and, I’ll tell you something, it goes into your head, into your brain. And if something goes into your brain, Mma, it affects your ideas. That stands to reason, Mma.”
“I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. Somehow, she could not find the energy to say much more than that; this man was just too exhausting to contradict.
“So,” Stephen continued, “if I know your blood group, then I can tell you what sort of character you have. And you know how I can do that, Mma? The answer is independent research. I’ve carried out a major research project, Mma, right here in Lobatse. When people come to give blood, I get to know their blood group. But I do something else: I talk to them, and while the blood is draining out of them—don’t worry, Mma, we don’t take it all, we just take a pint or so—I talk to them and I find out what sort of person they are. Then, when we get their blood types, I relate their personality type to their group. I then average everything out and find out if there is a connection between a particular sort of personality and a particular blood group.”
He stopped, and looked at her in triumph. “I have had some very good results, Mma. What blood group are you? Do you know?”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I have no idea, Rra, I’ve—”
“My guess would be that you are type O, Mma. That is very common. And it fits your personality type, which must be strong and sensible if you are a private detective. I myself am a very rare type, Mma. I’m AB negative. There are very few of us—just a handful in Botswana. That type is very sensitive and intelligent, Mma—not that I would say that about myself, but that
is what we are.”
And prone to talk too much, thought Mma Ramotswe.
She decided to take matters into her own hands. “I wanted to ask you something, Rra.”
He was about to say something more, but the firmness with which Mma Ramotswe now spoke, and the volume of her voice, seemed to have an effect.
“What I want to ask, Rra, is this: Do you know where I can get in touch with one of the nurses who works down here—one Mingie Ramotswe?”
Stephen’s eyes lit up. “Mingie Ramotswe? Yes, of course. She is one of the sisters. She doesn’t work in this hospital all the time—she is in one of the other clinics, I think. But she’s here from time to time. I think she’s part of a team that’s based here. She used to be a theatre sister, but now I think she’s doing community nursing. She goes out to those clinics off in the bush—way, way away.”
“Do you know her, Rra?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Stephen nodded. “Yes, of course I do, Mma.”
“And do you know where she lives?”
“Yes. She is in one of the new houses two blocks east of the main road—the road you will have come in on. Those new houses are on Khama Way. She is in the house at the top of that street—I saw her in the garden of that place when I drove past once. She has a big bougainvillea at the gate.”
Mma Ramotswe made a note in her notebook. Stephen watched. “Why do you want to see her, Mma?”
There was only one answer she could give. “It’s because she shares my name, Rra. I am curious to see if we are related in some way.”
Stephen thought about it. “Yes,” he said. “You are both called Ramotswe. It’s possible.” He paused. “You’ve never met her, Mma?”
“No, Rra. I’ve never met Mingie.”
He hesitated. “She’s an interesting lady,” he said.
“Oh yes?”
He hesitated again. There was a smile playing around his lips. “She’s not like the average lady,” he said. “She is not average.”
Mma Ramotswe waited. Sister Banjule had alluded to something similar, but had not explained what she meant.
“We are not all the same,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Life would be very dull, Rra, if we were all the same. It would be the same as our all having type O blood. That would be very dull for somebody like you, I would have thought.”
If there was a touch of reproach in Mma Ramotswe’s comment, it was lost on Stephen. “Yes, it would be very dull,” he agreed.
“In what way is this lady interesting, Rra?”
Stephen made a gesture that Mma Ramotswe found hard to interpret. “Interesting? Did I say interesting? Well, I suppose she is. It is interesting that she is not interested, shall I say?”
“I don’t follow you, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe said.
“I am not sure that she is a lady who likes men very much,” he said, lowering his voice. Then he added, “Why is there no husband, Mma? There are plenty of good men in Botswana—what excuse does a woman have for not having one of these men as her husband?”
Mma Ramotswe held his gaze. “Oh, Rra?” she said. “Surely you are not saying that it’s the duty of every woman in Botswana to have a husband. Surely not.”
Stephen drew back. His ebullience faded now, and he spoke less rapidly. “I’m not saying that, Mma.”
“But I think that’s exactly what you did say, Rra,” she said gently.
“I didn’t mean—”
She looked at him reproachfully. “Don’t you think that it’s best if we don’t worry about what other people are, Rra?”
He stuttered a response. “Yes, Mma; of course, Mma. I am not one of those people who say that we all have to be the same. I would never say that…”
“I am glad to hear it, Rra. I didn’t think that you were an unkind man.”
He was saved by the ringing of the bell. His relief was very evident. “I’m sorry, Mma, but that is somebody come to get some blood. I must deal with this immediately.”
She thanked him, and made her way out of the blood department. She thought of an expression she had heard—one that was used when it was difficult to get information from somebody. People said in those circumstances it was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Well, was there an expression for when somebody gave out too much information? If not, then perhaps somebody should invent one. Getting a word in edgeways with Stephen was like…what was it like? Trying to stop the Limpopo in full flood. That was it, she thought. And perhaps she should write it down in her notebook before she forgot it. Often the interesting things you said were lost for all time if you did not write them down in your notebook.
—
WHEN SHE RETURNED to the van, she did not drive away immediately, but stood beside it for a few minutes while she decided what to do. When she was younger, she had never experienced any difficulty in making up her mind: you saw what needed to be done, and then you did it. It was as simple as that. Now things were different; life was perhaps not quite as straightforward as you once thought it to be—things that would previously have been quite clear could be clouded by a slew of possibilities. The old Botswana morality, of course, could be a helpful guide—you could never go wrong if you stuck to that—but it seemed that sometimes it had nothing to say about a problem or dilemma. And that was the case right now: What guidance did the old Botswana morality have in circumstances where you wanted to satisfy your curiosity about somebody who had the same name as you did but where, at the same time, people seemed a bit wary of the person in question? The answer was that the old Botswana morality was silent on this and it was entirely up to you to decide what to do.
Mma Ramotswe decided to go back to Gaborone but, at the hospital gate, where a left-hand turn would have taken her back in the direction of home, she turned right. She did it deliberately, and it involved a reversal of her plan: she would make a detour onto Khama Way and see—just take a look from the outside—what sort of place Mingie Ramotswe lived in. Stephen had given fairly specific information: Khama Way, at the top of the street, with a big bougainvillea bush at the gate.
It took no more than a few minutes to reach Khama Way, and once she was there, Mingie’s house was immediately identifiable. There was the large bougainvillea, riotous and unclipped, a splash of deep red against the washed-out browns of the rest of the garden. Behind it, at the end of a short driveway lined with red cannas, was a neat whitewashed house of the sort that bureaucrats called a “middle-income dwelling.” There was no car outside, and the windows were all shut; Mingie was out, perhaps at one of the remote clinics that Stephen had mentioned. That at least settled that: she would not be meeting her on this occasion.
But then she thought: neighbours. If she could engage one of the neighbours in a brief conversation it would enable her to form a better impression of what Mingie was like. There had been these curious reservations—if one could call them that—from both Sister Banjule and Stephen. A neighbour would settle it one way or the other, although…Mma Ramotswe reminded herself that neighbours could be unreliable witnesses. There were people who simply did not get on with those around them, and such people could not be trusted to give an unbiased view. On the other hand, Mma Ramotswe thought she could see through that sort of thing easily enough and would not be swayed by any spitefulness.
She drove slowly past Mingie’s gate. The house immediately next door looked unattended, but the one on the other side of the road had a small pickup truck parked outside it and there were several children in the garden. To the side of the house was a washing line, and a woman in a red dress was engaged in hanging up washing. Pulling in to the verge, Mma Ramotswe stepped out of her van and approached the woman attending to the washing.
Greetings were exchanged.
“A woman’s work is never done, is it, Mma?” said Mma Ramotswe.
The woman smiled. She had a broad, open face and Mma Ramotswe had taken an immediate liking to her. She suspected that this woman had a lot of work to do—there were at least four children in the garden??
?and some of the clothes she had been hanging up looked as if they belonged to a young infant. So there was another one indoors, out of the sun. Five young children: she could only just imagine what that did to your day.
“Washing in particular,” the woman said. “You finish one load, and there’s another one waiting.”
“You could get a girl to do it, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
This was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. Anybody in any employment in Botswana was expected to engage somebody to help in the house. There was nothing extravagant about this; it was, in fact, a form of sharing: if you had a job, you had money, and money needed to be spread around. The people who helped in the house were often paid a pittance and expected to work long hours, but they were desperate for any job and were pleased to take on what came their way. Mma Ramotswe did not subscribe to this exploitation; she paid Rose, who helped her in the house, much more than she would get elsewhere, and treated her with decency too. Mma Makutsi took the same view. Since her marriage to Phuti Radiphuti she had been given help in the house, but she never took advantage of the people who did that work. She remembered what it was to be poor, and she acted accordingly.
The woman looked at her. She was bemused. “I am the girl, Mma,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Mma. I didn’t mean…”
The woman laughed. “It doesn’t matter, Mma. I have a girl who helps me with my children—we are all in the same position. One person helps another and that other person helps another person, and so on.”