THEY ARRIVED at plot 2456, at the gate of the neat, mud-brown little house with its outhouse for the chickens and, unusually, two traditional grain bins at the back. The chicken food would be kept there, she thought; the sorghum grain that would be scattered each morning on the neatly swept yard, to be pecked at by the hungry birds on their release from the coop. It was obvious to Mma Makutsi that an older woman lived here, as only an older woman would take the trouble to keep the yard in such a traditional and careful way. She would be Patricia’s grandmother, perhaps—one of those remarkable African women who worked and worked into her eighties, and beyond, and who were the very heart of the family.
The apprentice parked the car while Mma Makutsi made her way up the path that led to the house. She had called out, as was polite, but she thought that they had not heard her; now a woman appeared at the door, wiping her hands on a cloth and greeting her warmly.
Mma Makutsi explained her mission. She did not say that she was a journalist, as she had done on the visit to Motlamedi; it would have been wrong to do that here, in this traditional home, to the woman who had revealed herself to be Patricia’s mother.
“I want to find out about the people in this competition,” she said. “I have been asked to talk to them.”
The woman nodded. “We can sit at the doorway,” she said. “It is shady. I will call my daughter. That is her room there.”
She pointed to a door at the side of the house. The green paint which had once covered it was peeling off and the hinges looked rusty. Although the yard appeared well kept, the house itself seemed to be in need of repair. There was not a great deal of money about, thought Mma Makutsi, and pondered, for a moment, what the cash prize for the eventually elected Miss Beauty and Integrity could mean in circumstances such as these. That prize was four thousand pula, and a voucher to spend in a clothing store. Not much of the money would be wasted, thought Mma Makutsi, noticing the frayed hem of the woman’s skirt.
She sat down and took the mug of water which the woman had offered her.
“It is hot today,” said the woman. “But there will be rain soon. I am sure of that.”
“There will be rain,” agreed Mma Makutsi. “We need the rain.”
“We do need it, Mma,” said the woman. “This country always needs rain.”
“You are right, Mma. Rain.”
They were silent for a moment, thinking about rain. When there was no rain, you thought about it, hardly daring to hope for the miracle to begin. And when the rain came, all you could think about was how long it would last. God is crying. God is crying for this country. See, children, there are his tears. The rain is his tears. That is what the teacher at Bobonong had said one day, when she was young, and she had remembered her words.
“Here is my daughter.”
Mma Makutsi looked up. Patricia had appeared silently and was standing before her. She smiled at the younger woman, who dropped her eyes and gave a slight curtsey. I am not that old! thought Mma Makutsi, but she was impressed by the gesture.
“You can sit down,” said her mother. “This lady wants to talk to you about the beauty competition.”
Patricia nodded. “I am very excited about it, Mma. I know that I won’t win, but I am still very excited.”
Don’t be too sure about that, thought Mma Makutsi, but did not say anything.
“Her aunt has made her a very nice dress for the competition,” said the mother. “She has spent a lot of money on it and it is very fine material. It is a very good dress.”
“But the other girls will be more beautiful,” said Patricia. “They are very smart girls. They live in Gaborone. There is even one who is a student at the university. She is a very clever girl that one.”
And bad, thought Mma Makutsi.
“You must not think that you will lose,” interjected the mother. “That is not the way to go into a competition. If you think that you will lose, then you will never win. What if Seretse Khama had said: We will never get anywhere. Then where would Botswana be today? Where would it be?”
Mma Makutsi nodded her agreement. “That is no way to set out,” she said. “You must think: I can win. Then you may win. You never know.”
Patricia smiled. “You are right. I shall try to be more determined. I shall do my best.”
“Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “Now tell me, what would you like to do with your life?”
There was a silence. Both Mma Makutsi and the mother looked expectantly at Patricia.
“I would like to go to the Botswana Secretarial College,” replied Patricia.
Mma Makutsi looked at her, watching her eyes. She was not lying. This was a wonderful girl, a truthful girl, one of the finest girls in Botswana, quite beyond any doubt.
“That is a very fine college,” she said. “I am a graduate of it myself.” She paused, and then decided to go ahead. “In fact, I got 97 percent there.”
Patricia sucked in her breath. “Ow! That is a very high mark, Mma. You must be very clever.”
Mma Makutsi laughed dismissively. “Oh no, I worked hard. That was all.”
“But it is very good,” said Patricia. “You are very lucky, Mma, to be pretty and clever too.”
Mma Makutsi was at a loss for words. She had not been called pretty before, or not by a stranger. Her aunts had said that she should try to make something of what looks she had, and her mother had made a similar remark; but nobody had called her pretty, except this young woman, still in her late teens, who was herself so obviously pretty.
“You are very kind,” she said.
“She is a kind girl,” said the mother. “She has always been a kind girl.”
Mma Makutsi smiled. “Good,” she said. “And do you know something? I think that she has a very good chance of winning that competition. In fact, I am sure that she is going to win. I am sure of it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE FIRST STEP
MMA RAMOTSWE returned to Gaborone on the morning of her conversation with the cook. There had been further conversations—prolonged in one case—with other members of the household. She had talked to the new wife, who had listened gravely, and had hung her head. She had spoken to the old woman, who had been proud at first, and unbending, but who had eventually acknowledged the truth of what Mma Ramotswe had told her and had agreed with her in the end. And then she had confronted the brother, who had stared at her open-mouthed, but who had taken his cue from his mother, who had intruded into the conversation and told him sharply where his duty lay. At the end of it Mma Ramotswe felt raw; she had taken such risks, but her intuition had proved her correct and her strategy had paid off. There was only one more person to speak to now, and that person was back in Gaborone and he, she feared, might not be so easy.
The drive back was a pleasant one. The previous day’s rains had already had an effect and there was a tinge of green across the land. In one or two places, there were puddles of water in which the sky was reflected in patches of silver blue. And the dust had been laid, which was perhaps most refreshing of all; that omnipresent, fine dust that towards the end of the dry season would get everywhere, clogging everything up and making one’s clothes stiff and uncomfortable.
She drove straight back to Zebra Drive, where the children greeted her excitedly, the boy rushing round the tiny white van with whoops of delight and the girl propelling her wheelchair out onto the drive to meet her. And in the kitchen window, staring out at her, the face of Rose, her maid, who had looked after the children over her brief absence.
Rose made tea while Mma Ramotswe heard the children tell her of what had happened at school. There had been a competition and a classmate had won a prize of a fifty pula book token. One of the teachers had broken his arm and had appeared with the injured limb in a sling. A girl in one of the junior classes had eaten a whole tube of toothpaste and had been sick, which was only to be expected, was it not?
But there was other news. Mma Makutsi had telephoned from the office and had asked Mma R
amotswe to call back the moment she arrived home, which she had thought would be the following day.
“She sounded very excited,” said Rose. “She said there was something important she wanted to talk to you about.”
A steaming cup of bush tea before her, Mma Ramotswe dialled the number of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, the number shared by the two offices. The telephone rang for some time before she heard the familiar voice of Mma Makutsi.
“The No. 1 Tlokweng Road …” she began. “No. The No. 1 Speedy Ladies’ …”
“It’s just me, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I know what you mean.”
“I am always getting the two mixed up,” said Mma Makutsi, laughing. “That’s what comes of trying to run two businesses at the same time.”
“I am sure that you have been running both very well,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Well, yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “In fact, I telephoned you to tell you that I have just collected a very large fee. Two thousand pula for one case. The client was very happy.”
“You have done very well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall come in later and see just how well you have done. But first I would like you to arrange an appointment for me. Telephone that Government Man and tell him that he must come and see me at four o’clock.”
“And if he’s busy?”
“Tell him that he cannot be busy. Tell him that this matter is too important to wait.”
She finished her tea and then ate a large meat sandwich which Rose had prepared for her. Mma Ramotswe had got out of the habit of a cooked lunch, except at weekends, and was happy with a snack or a glass of milk. She had a taste for sugar, however, and this meant that a doughnut or a cake might follow the sandwich. She was a traditionally built lady, after all, and she did not have to worry about dress size, unlike those poor, neurotic people who were always looking in mirrors and thinking that they were too big. What was too big, anyway? Who was to tell another person what size they should be? It was a form of dictatorship, by the thin, and she was not having any of it. If these thin people became any more insistent, then the more generously sized people would just have to sit on them. Yes, that would teach them! Hah!
It was shortly before three when she arrived at the office. The apprentices were busy with a car, but greeted her warmly and with none of the sullen resentment which had so annoyed her in the past.
“You’re very busy,” she said. “That is a very nice car that you’re fixing there.”
The older apprentice wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It is a wonderful car. It belongs to a lady. Do you know that all the ladies are bringing their cars here now? We are so busy that we will need to take on apprentices ourselves! That will be a fine thing! We shall have desks and an office and there will be apprentices running round doing what we tell them to do.”
“You are a very amusing young man,” said Mma Ramotswe, smiling. “But do not get too big for your boots. Remember that you are just an apprentice and that the lady in there with the glasses is the boss now.”
The apprentice laughed. “She is a good boss. We like her.” He paused for a moment, looking intently at Mma Ramotswe. “But what about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? Is he getting better?”
“It is too early to say,” Mma Ramotswe replied. “Dr Moffat said that these pills could take two weeks. We have a few days to wait before we can tell.”
“He is being well looked after?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. The fact that the apprentice had asked that question was a good sign. It suggested that he was beginning to take an interest in the welfare of others. Perhaps he was growing up. Perhaps it was something to do with Mma Makutsi, who might have been teaching them a bit about morality as well as a bit about hard work.
She entered the office, to find Mma Makutsi on the telephone. She finished the conversation quickly and rose to greet her employer.
“Here it is,” said Mma Makutsi, handing a piece of paper to Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Ramotswe looked at the cheque. Two thousand pula, it seemed, awaited the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency at the Standard Bank. And at the bottom of the cheque was the well-known name that made Mma Ramotswe draw in her breath.
“The beauty contest man … ?”
“That’s him,” said Mma Makutsi. “He was the client.”
Mma Ramotswe tucked the cheque safely away in her bodice. Modern business methods were all very well, she thought, but when it came to the safeguarding of money there were some places which had yet to be bettered.
“You must have worked very quickly,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What was the problem? Wife difficulties?”
“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “It was all about beautiful girls and the finding of a beautiful girl who could be trusted.”
“Very intriguing,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And you obviously found one.”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “I found the right one to win his competition.”
Mma Ramotswe was puzzled, but there was not enough time to go into it as she had to prepare herself for her four o’clock appointment. Over the next hour, she dealt with the mail, helped Mma Makutsi file papers relating to the garage, and drank a quick cup of bush tea. By the time that the large black car drew up outside the office and disgorged the Government Man, the office was tidy and organised and Mma Makutsi, seated primly behind her desk, was pretending to type a letter.
“SO!” SAID the Government Man, leaning back in the chair and folding his hands across his stomach. “You didn’t stay very long up there. I take it that you managed to catch that poisoner. I very much hope that you did!”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi. They were used to male arrogance, but this far surpassed the normal such display.
“I spent exactly as much time up there as I needed to, Rra,” she said calmly. “Then I came back to discuss the case with you.”
The Government Man’s lip curled. “I want an answer, Mma. I have not come to conduct a long conversation.”
The typewriter clicked sharply in the background. “In that case,” said Mma Ramotswe, “you can go back to your office. You either want to hear what I have to say, or you don’t.”
The Government Man was silent. Then he spoke, his voice lowered. “You are a very insolent woman. Perhaps you do not have a husband who can teach you how to speak to men with respect.”
The noise from the typewriter rose markedly.
“And perhaps you need a wife who can teach you how to speak to women with respect,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But do not let me hold you up. The door is there, Rra. It is open. You can go now.”
The Government Man did not move.
“Did you hear what I said, Rra? Am I going to have to throw you out? I have got two young men out there who are very strong from all that work with engines. Then there is Mma Makutsi, whom you didn’t even greet by the way, and there is me. That makes four people. Your driver is an old man. You are outnumbered, Rra.”
Still the Government Man did not move. His eyes now were fixed on the floor.
“Well, Rra?” Mma Ramotswe drummed her fingers on the table.
The Government Man looked up.
“I am sorry, Mma. I have been rude.”
“Thank you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Now, after you have greeted Mma Makutsi properly, in the traditional way, please, then we shall begin.”
“I AM going to tell you a story,” said Mma Ramotswe to the Government Man. “This story begins when there was a family with three sons. The father was very pleased that his firstborn was a son and he gave him everything that he wanted. The mother of this boy was also pleased that she had borne a boy for her husband, and she also made a fuss of this boy. Then another boy was born, and it was very sad for them when they realised that this boy had something wrong with his head. The mother heard what people were saying behind her back, that the reason why the boy was like that was that she had been with another man while she was pregnant. This was not true, of course, but all those wicked words cut and cut at her and she was asham
ed to be seen out. But that boy was happy; he liked to be with cattle and to count them, although he could not count very well.
“The firstborn was very clever and did well. He went to Gaborone and he became well-known in politics. But as he became more powerful and well-known, he became more and more arrogant.
“But another son had been born. The firstborn was very happy with this, and he loved that younger boy. But underneath the love, there was fear that this new boy would take away the love that he himself had in the family and that the father would prefer him. Everything that the father did was seen as a sign that he preferred this youngest son, which was not true, of course, because the old man loved all his sons.
“When the youngest son took a wife, the firstborn was very angry. He did not tell anybody that he was angry, but that anger was bubbling away inside him. He was too proud to talk to anybody about it, because he had become so important and so big. He thought that this new wife would take his brother away from him, and then he would be left with nothing. He thought that she would try to take away their farm and all their cattle. He did not bother to ask himself whether this was true.
“He began to believe that she was planning to kill his brother, the brother whom he loved so much. He could not sleep for thinking of this, because there was so much hate growing up within him. So at last he went to see a certain lady—and I am that lady—and asked her to go and find proof that this was what was happening. He thought in this way that she might help him to get rid of the brother’s wife.