The House of Unexpected Sisters

  “What I meant,” said Mma Ramotswe, “is that your husband was not having an affair with Charity, and that your husband fired her because of what he thought was a genuine complaint. So that makes me wonder why your friend should think that Charity was your husband’s girlfriend.” She waited for this to sink in before she went any further. “I think I know the identity of that person—the girlfriend, that is.”

  “Do you, Mma Ramotswe? I would very much like to know that.”

  Mma Ramotswe remembered what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said. “I shall tell you, but I must ask you to promise me that if I do you that favour, you will do me one in return.”

  Mma Gopolang was cagey. “It depends on the favour, Mma. I can’t promise without knowing what you’re going to ask me. Nobody would promise that sort of thing.”

  “I understand,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It will not be a big thing and…” There was another very good reason why Mma Gopolang should comply with her request: she had caused the wrongful dismissal in the first place, and any decent person who did that would, in the circumstances, want to redress the wrong. “…and it will undo a bad situation that you yourself have brought about.”

  “Tell me, Mma,” urged Mma Gopolang.

  Mma Ramotswe spelled it out. “If I reveal what we know, will you make your husband give Charity her job back? She is innocent, Mma.”

  Mma Gopolang readily agreed. “Of course I will do that. If she is innocent…”

  “She is,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. “Your husband is seeing a woman called Violet Sephotho.”

  “Of course he is,” said Mma Gopolang dismissively. “But what I’m interested in is the name of his girlfriend.”

  “But the girlfriend is Violet,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That’s what I meant when I said he was seeing her.”

  Mma Gopolang shook her head. “No, Mma—you have it wrong again. Violet is my husband’s cousin. They have known one another since they were young, although he’s a bit older than she is. They see one another all the time. They are family—like brother and sister.” She hesitated before continuing: “I’m not sure that she’s the best influence on him, Mma, but I’ve never said anything.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silenced. A warning from Clovis Andersen was running through her head: Never make the mistake of thinking that things are what they seem to be—often they are not. It was very ordinary advice—maybe a little bit too simple—but this was a case where it was very obviously true.

  “And there’s another thing,” said Mma Gopolang. “The person who told me that my husband was having an affair with Charity was Violet herself.”

  This revelation had a profound effect on Mma Ramotswe. Now, she thought, it all makes sense.

  But then, after a few moments’ reflection, she thought: Does it?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ALL THE CHILDREN AND ALL THE PEOPLE IN BOTSWANA

  MMA RAMOTSWE had more than enough to think about and did not welcome the telephone call she received that evening from Mingie. The call came through as she was cooking dinner for the children, stirring a pot with one hand, trying to check Puso’s homework with the other, and answering a question from Motholeli while performing both of these tasks. Only my feet are not doing anything, she thought; perhaps I should try to dance, just for good measure.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni answered the telephone. Popping his head round the door he announced that Mingie Ramotswe was on the line. “Should I tell her that you’re busy?” he asked. “You look busy, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe almost said yes, but something stopped her. That woman is my sister, she told herself. You are never too busy to speak to your sister. “I will come through in a minute,” she said.

  “Who is this new auntie?” asked Motholeli.

  “She is my sister,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “I have only just found her.”

  Puso looked up from his book. “How did you lose her, Mma?” he asked.

  It was a perfectly reasonable question, thought Mma Ramotswe; but it was also one that was hard to answer when doing other things. “I’ll tell you some other time,” she said.

  “What if I lost Motholeli?” said Puso. “How would I find her again?”

  “Nobody’s going to lose anybody,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I must go and speak to her now.”

  The telephone was in the sitting room. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who had been occupying his favourite chair, reading the Botswana Daily News, tactfully rose to leave her to take the call alone. When Mma Ramotswe picked up the receiver, she heard Mingie sneeze at the other end. Instinctively she said, “Bless you, Mma.”

  “Thank you, Mma,” came the reply. “There is something in the air today. Pollen, perhaps. There is a tree near here somewhere that makes me sneeze.”

  Mma Ramotswe said that she was sorry to hear that. Then she waited. Under her breath, inaudibly, she whispered, Not her fault.

  “I’m phoning to invite you to my house,” said Mingie. “I know it is very short notice, but will you come and eat with us down here tomorrow?”

  Mma Ramotswe’s heart sank. She had so much to do; correspondence had piled up in the office and there was the Charity Mompoloki matter becoming more complicated by the day. She also had to speak to somebody about the information Mr. Polopetsi had passed to her. She had to warn Phuti Radiphuti of the threat to his business without somehow jeopardising the position of the woman who had passed on the information. And there was Note Mokoti as well; she had decided to seek him out—as a precautionary measure—and yet she had done nothing about that yet. All of these things were pressing in on her and yet here was Mingie expecting her to drive down to Lobatse on a visit she did not want to make.

  Mingie was her sister. That was an inescapable fact. And if you did not refuse a call from your sister, then you did not decline her invitations.

  “What time should I be there?” she found herself saying.

  Mingie gave her the time, and asked whether there was anything she did not eat. Those matters attended to, the conversation came to an end, and Mma Ramotswe sat down heavily on one of the sitting-room chairs, her head in her hands.

  She heard Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s voice, and looked up. He said, “What’s wrong, Mma? Is there anything I can do?”

  She looked at him. He was a supportive spouse and she would normally have gone straight to him in her distress, but not now. She did not want to talk about it in detail, even to him, and so she simply said, “I have to go for a meal in Lobatse and all the time my work is piling up and I don’t know what to do.”

  He came and sat beside her. “My Precious,” he said. “Your life is too stressful. You must change it somehow.”

  She looked at him. “How, Rra? Do something different? Should I get a job in a bank, maybe, or in a bakery? Would a regular job like that make my life any easier?”

  He said that he thought it would. “You don’t have to be a detective forever,” he said. “There are easier jobs in life. You don’t have to do it forever.”

  She shook her head. “No, Rra, I do. This is what I have been called to do—to help people with the problems in their lives—and that is exactly what I shall do.”

  “And who’s going to help you with the problems in your life?” he demanded.

  She had no answer to this. In the past, it had been her father’s support that had sustained her, that invisible bond of strength that seemed so strong in spite of the fact that he was not there. That had seen her through much, but she felt that now if she were to look for it, she would not be able to find it.

  “I shall be all right, Rra,” she said. “Problems have a way of solving themselves.”

  She was not sure that this was true. In fact, now that she came to think of it, it was completely false. Problems did not solve themselves—they required to be looked coldly in the eye; they required time, and that was what she now seemed to be lacking. There was just too much to think about; there was just too much to do. Where was the time to sit quietly with a cup of red bush te
a and watch the birds in the trees? Where was the time to take a walk along one of those paths through the bush and listen to the lowing of the cattle and the whistling of the herd boys?

  —

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was a Saturday and so she did not go into the office. Mingie’s invitation had been for lunch, and so she spent the earlier part of the morning taking the children shopping. Motholeli needed a new school blouse, while Puso, who was going to be learning to play cricket, needed white trousers. Those errands completed, and the children dropped off at the houses of their friends in discharge of long-standing invitations, Mma Ramotswe had an hour or so to kill before she began the drive down to Lobatse. She felt ill at ease; she would have had just enough time for a quick visit to Mma Potokwane, but she decided against that: the joy of visiting her friend lay in long talks, endless cups of tea, and several slices of fruit cake. All of that required time—and a certain languor of mood, which she felt she simply did not have at present. She was worried by this lunch at Mingie’s: Would she be able to conceal her feelings of sadness sufficiently? Would this new sister of hers think that she was stand-offish, even unfriendly? She bore Mingie no ill will, but she could not help but view her as being the representative of that other, clandestine family that her father had created, and that made it difficult for her to think positively of this new relationship. She was well aware that this was wrong, but it was hard to do anything about it, especially since she still felt raw over the discovery.

  The road was busy, as it often was on a Saturday. There were the ubiquitous minibuses, overloaded and swaying, carrying Lobatse people home after a week’s work in Gaborone. These overtook the tiny white van with a loud honking of their horns, the passengers crowded in upon one another, sitting on the laps of perfect strangers; some with hats, some without; the young and old, the toothed and toothless; some blaring music, others entertained only by animated conversation. These were people going home, with the hearts of those who are returning to the place they know. A few of them waved at Mma Ramotswe, smiling, gesturing in a friendly way, encouraging her van in the same terms one might use with an exhausted donkey. She waved back, and for the moment was cheered by these expressions of the spirit of her people. Because people were good and kind and wanted to enjoy themselves, and cared for one another; and these things, surely, outweighed the sadness of the world, all its travails and discontents.

  These thoughts sustained her, but as she reached Lobatse and turned off the main road onto the road that led to Mingie’s house, the feeling of disquiet returned. She particularly feared that Mingie would wish to talk about their father; normally she would have been happy to do that—for hours if needs be—but she would not be able to bring herself to do that now. And if they did not talk about him, what else did they have in common to discuss? As far as she knew, there were no mutual friends—always a fertile source of small talk—and there was a limit to how long you could converse if there was no shared past.

  After she had parked the van at Mingie’s front gate, she sat for a moment and collected her thoughts. She had been in trying situations before, and she had always coped. This would be the same, she told herself: all that was required of her was to smile and be civil. Surely she should be able to manage that without too much effort.

  Mingie was waiting for her at the door. “You are very welcome, my sister,” she said.

  Mma Ramotswe took her hand. “You are kind, my sister.”

  “And the road? How was it?”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Lots of minibuses. Half of Gaborone coming down here, it seems.”

  “There is a football match,” said Mingie. “The Township Rollers are playing the Botswana Meat Commission side. It’s an important match.”

  “The Rollers are very strong,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Not that I know anything about it, but Puso—we have two adopted children, Mma, and he is the younger one—he is a big fan of the Rollers, and I hear a lot about them from him. The Rollers are doing this thing, the Rollers are doing that thing—it’s never-ending.”

  Mingie laughed. “That cannot be easy for you, Mma, if you’re not interested. I like football, though. You can ask me about any player, I think, and I’ll be able to tell you something about him. Not all the clubs, of course, but the main ones.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her in surprise. “That is very good, Mma.”

  “And my friend,” Mingie went on, “she is very strong when it comes to all the other African teams—the national ones, that is. So if you say to her: name one defender in the Upper Volta team, she’ll say Ernest Congo.”

  “Ernest Congo?”

  “Yes, he’s a real player, I believe. I just use him as an example, you see.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head in wonderment. Ernest Congo…

  “You must meet,” said Mingie.

  “Meet Ernest Congo?”

  This was greeted with a peal of laughter. “No, Mma—my friend. I share this house, you see, with a friend. She’s cooking our lunch today.” She gestured to a door off the hall. “Come and meet her.”

  They went into the kitchen. A woman wearing an apron was drying her hands on a kitchen towel. Mingie made the introductions.

  “This is Keeya,” said Mingie.

  They shook hands. Mma Ramotswe felt the slight damp on Keeya’s hand—a damp handshake often gave rise to a desire to dry one’s palm on one’s clothing, but she did not do this. She looked at the other woman discreetly, and liked what she saw: Keeya had a friendly, open expression. And she liked her voice too, and the correct, well-pronounced Setswana she used in the traditional greeting. Some people mumbled; some people did not even bother to use Setswana, but greeted one another in English; Keeya, it seemed, understood.

  “Lunch will be ready soon,” said Keeya. “You two should go and sit on the verandah. It’s shady there, and you must have a lot to talk about.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s heart sank. “Yes,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “There is much to talk about.”

  “Keeya will call us,” said Mingie as she led Mma Ramotswe from the kitchen.

  “What does she do?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “The cooking,” answered Mingie.

  “No, I mean, what does she do for a job?”

  “She’s a teacher,” replied Mingie. “She teaches mathematics at a high school.”

  Mma Ramotswe was impressed. “Perhaps she can teach me some,” she said.

  Mingie laughed. “She’s tried to teach me, but I’m not all that good. I can do the basic stuff, but when you get to all those symbols and signs, I’m hopeless. I just don’t get it.”

  There were three chairs on the verandah—comfortable old wooden chairs that probably dated from Protectorate days. “The British brought chairs,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni once said. “They took chairs with them wherever they went in the world. And they left the chairs behind when they went home.”

  There was a jug of water and two glasses. Mingie poured one out for Mma Ramotswe followed by one for herself. Then she sat back and folded her hands on her lap. “Who would have thought?” she said.

  Mma Ramotswe gazed at the sky, half visible from under the verandah roof. “Yes,” she said. “Who would have thought?”

  There was silence for a while. Then Mingie said, “If you hadn’t seen that article in the paper, then we would never have met.”

  Mma Ramotswe agreed that it had been a happy chance. “I only saw it when somebody showed it to me,” she said. “I didn’t see it when it first appeared.”

  “I thought it was a good photo of the other two ladies,” said Mingie. “Not so much of me. And it got things wrong.”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. “They got the names wrong?”

  “No,” said Mingie. “The ages. They said I was forty-three, but that was the age of one of the others. I’m younger than that.”

  Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. “Younger?”

  “Yes,” said Mingie, and she gave her age.

  Whatever her
self-confessed limitations when it came to mathematics, it did not take Mma Ramotswe long to do the calculation. “Oh, Mma…,” she stuttered. “Oh, Mma!”

  Mingie looked concerned. “Are you all right, Precious?”

  Mma Ramotswe sank her head in her hands. She did not want to sob; she did not want to sob, but uncontrollably and from deep within her the sobs came, loud and overwhelming. Mingie rose quickly from her chair and came to her side, putting her arms about her shoulders. “Mma, please tell me—please. What’s wrong, Mma? What’s wrong?”

  Mma Ramotswe struggled to speak. “I thought…I thought that you were born while my mother was still alive. But you weren’t, Mma—you were born afterwards—a good few years after she became late.”

  Mingie struggled to understand. “But what difference does it make…?” Then she stopped. She knew now. “Your father…Oh, I see, Mma. I see.”

  But Mma Ramotswe had to get it out, and so she explained how she had thought that Mingie was the result of an affair conducted by Obed while his wife was still alive, and now she knew that it had happened afterwards, when he was perfectly free to take up with other women should he find anybody—and he clearly had: for the brief time he had before the sickness in his lungs—the result of all those years in the mines—claimed him.

  Mingie listened, her arms still around Mma Ramotswe. “Of course you would have felt that, Mma,” she said. “Who wouldn’t?” She paused. “And there’s another thing: now I know why your father wouldn’t leave the country when my mother went. That was because of you.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “And because he was getting sick by then.”

  Her sobs were fading now, and she was becoming aware of an extraordinary feeling that was overtaking her. This was joy. It was simple joy.

  Mingie now disengaged from her embrace, but was still at her side.

  “I would like to talk about our daddy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I want you to know what a fine man he was.”

  Mingie smiled. “I think I know already, Mma. But let’s talk. Let’s talk and then, when Keeya calls us, we can go and have lunch and talk some more.”