Mma Ramotswe was astonished that people could behave so callously to their servants. She herself had been in the house of a friend who had referred, quite casually, to the fact that her maid was given five days holiday a year, and unpaid at that. This friend boasted that she had managed to cut the maid’s wages recently because she thought her lazy.
“But why doesn’t she go, if you do such a thing?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
The friend had laughed. “Go where? There are plenty of people wanting her job, and she knows it. She knows that I could get somebody to do her job for half the wages she’s getting.”
Mma Ramotswe had said nothing, but had mentally ended the friendship at that point. This had given her cause for thought. Can one be the friend of a person who behaves badly? Or is the case that bad people can only have bad friends, because only other bad people will have sufficient in common with them to be friends? Mma Ramotswe thought of notoriously bad people. There was Idi Amin, for example, or Henrik Verwoerd. Idi Amin, of course, had something wrong with him; perhaps he was not bad in the same way as Mr Verwoerd, who had seemed quite sane, but who had a heart of ice. Had anybody loved Mr Verwoerd? Had anybody held his hand? Mma Ramotswe assumed that they had; there had been people at his funeral, had there not, and did they not weep, just as people weep at the funerals of good men? Mr Verwoerd had his people, and perhaps not all of his people were bad. Now that things had changed over the border in South Africa, these people still had to go on living. Perhaps they now understood the wrong they had done; even if they did not, they had been forgiven, for the most part. The ordinary people of Africa tended not to have room in their hearts for hatred. They were sometimes foolish, like people anywhere, but they did not bear grudges, as Mr Mandela had shown the world. As had Seretse Khama, thought Mma Ramotswe; though nobody outside Botswana seemed to remember him anymore. Yet he was one of Africa’s great men, and had shaken the hand of her father, Obed Ramotswe, when he had visited Mochudi to talk to the people. And she, Precious Ramotswe, then a young girl, had seen him step out of his car and the people had flocked about him and among them, holding his old battered hat in his hand, was her father. And as the Khama had taken her father’s hand, her own heart had swelled with pride; and she remembered the occasion every time she looked at the photograph of the great statesman on her mantelpiece.
Her friend who treated her maid badly was not a wicked person. She behaved well towards her family and she had always been kind to Mma Ramotswe, but when it came to her maid—and Mma Ramotswe had met this maid, who seemed an agreeable, hardworking woman from Molepolole—she seemed to have little concern for her feelings. It occurred to Mma Ramotswe that such behaviour was no more than ignorance; an inability to understand the hopes and aspirations of others. That understanding, thought Mma Ramotswe, was the beginning of all morality. If you knew how a person was feeling, if you could imagine yourself in her position, then surely it would be impossible to inflict further pain. Inflicting pain in such circumstances would be like hurting oneself.
Mma Ramotswe knew that there was a great deal of debate about morality, but in her view it was quite simple. In the first place, there was the old Botswana morality, which was simply right. If a person stuck to this, then he would be doing the right thing and need not worry about it. There were other moralities, of course; there were the Ten Commandments, which she had learned by heart at Sunday School in Mochudi all those years ago; these were also right in the same, absolute way. These codes of morality were like the Botswana Penal Code; they had to be obeyed to the letter. It was no good pretending you were the High Court of Botswana and deciding which parts you were going to observe and which you were not. Moral codes were not designed to be selective, nor indeed were they designed to be questioned. You could not say that you would observe this prohibition but not that. I shall not commit theft—certainly not—but adultery is another matter: wrong for other people, but not for me.
Most morality, thought Mma Ramotswe, was about doing the right thing because it had been identified as such by a long process of acceptance and observance. You simply could not create your own morality because your experience would never be enough to do so. What gives you the right to say that you know better than your ancestors? Morality is for everybody, and this means that the views of more than one person are needed to create it. That was what made the modern morality, with its emphasis on individuals and the working out of an individual position, so weak. If you gave people the chance to work out their morality, then they would work out the version which was easiest for them and which allowed them to do what suited them for as much of the time as possible. That, in Mma Ramotswe’s view, was simple selfishness, whatever grand name one gave to it.
Mma Ramotswe had listened to a World Service broadcast on her radio one day which had simply taken her breath away. It was about philosophers who called themselves existentialists and who, as far as Mma Ramotswe could ascertain, lived in France. These French people said that you should live in a way which made you feel real, and that the real thing to do was the right thing too. Mma Ramotswe had listened in astonishment. You did not have to go to France to meet existentialists, she reflected; there were many existentialists right here in Botswana. Note Mokoti, for example. She had been married to an existentialist herself, without even knowing it. Note, that selfish man who never once put himself out for another—not even for his wife—would have approved of existentialists, and they of him. It was very existentialist, perhaps, to go out to bars every night while your pregnant wife stayed at home, and even more existentialist to go off with girls—young existentialist girls—you met in bars. It was a good life being an existentialist, although not too good for all the other, nonexistentialist people around one.
MMA RAMOTSWE did not treat her maid, Rose, in an existentialist way. Rose had worked for her from the day that she first moved in to Zebra Drive. There was a network of unemployed people, Mma Ramotswe discovered, and this sent out word of anybody who was moving into a new house and who might be expected to need a servant. Rose had arrived at the house within an hour of Mma Ramotswe herself.
“You will need a maid, Mma,” she had said. “And I am a very good maid. I will work very hard and will not be a trouble to you for the rest of your life. I am ready to start now.”
Mma Ramotswe had made an immediate judgement. She saw before her a respectable-looking woman, neatly presented, of about thirty. But she saw, too, a mother, one of whose children was waiting by the gate, staring at her. And she wondered what the mother had said to her child. We shall eat tonight if this woman takes me as her maid. Let us hope. You wait here and stand on your toe. Stand on your toe. That is what one said in Setswana if one hoped that something would happen. It was the same as the expression which white people used: cross your fingers.
Mma Ramotswe glanced towards the gate and saw that the child was indeed standing on her toe, and she knew then that there was only one answer she could give.
She looked at the woman. “Yes,” she said. “I need a maid, and I will give the job to you, Mma.”
The woman clapped her hands together in gratitude and waved to the child. I am lucky, thought Mma Ramotswe. I am lucky that I can make somebody so happy just by saying something.
Rose moved in immediately and rapidly proved her worth. Zebra Drive had been left in a bad way by its previous owners, who had been untidy people, and there was dust in every corner. Over three days she swept and polished, until the house smelled of floor wax and every surface shone. Not only that, but she was an expert cook and a magnificent ironer. Mma Ramotswe was well dressed, but she always found it difficult to find the energy to iron her blouses as much as she might have wished. Rose did this with a passion that was soon reflected in starched seams and expanses to which creases were quite alien.
Rose took up residence in the servants’ quarters in the back yard. This consisted of a small block of two rooms, with a shower and toilet to one side and a covered porch under which a cooking fire m
ight be made. She slept in one of the rooms, while her two small children slept in the other. There were other, older children, including one who was a carpenter and earning a good wage. But even with that, the expenses of living were such as to leave very little over, particularly since her younger son had asthma and needed expensive inhalers to help him breathe.
NOW, COMING home after dropping off Mma Makutsi, Mma Ramotswe found Rose in the kitchen, scouring a blackened cooking pot. She enquired politely after the maid’s day and was told that it had been a very good one.
“I have helped Motholeli with her bath,” she said. “And now she is through there, reading to her little brother. He has been running round all day and is tired, tired. He will be asleep very soon. Only the thought of his supper is keeping him awake, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe thanked her and smiled. It had been a month since the children had arrived from the orphanage, by way of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and she was still getting used to their presence in the house. They had been his idea—and indeed he had not consulted her before he had agreed to act as their foster father—but she had accepted the situation and had quickly taken to them. Motholeli, who was in a wheelchair, had proved herself useful about the house and had expressed an interest in mending cars—much to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s delight. Her brother, who was much younger, was more difficult to fathom. He was active enough, and spoke politely when spoken to, but seemed to be keener on his own company, or that of his sister, than on that of other children. Motholeli had made some friends already, but the boy seemed shy of doing so.
She had started at Gaborone Secondary School, which was not far away, and was happy there. Each morning, one of the other girls from her class would arrive at the door and volunteer to push the wheelchair to school.
Mma Ramotswe had been impressed.
“Do the teachers tell you to do this?” she asked one of them.
“They do not, Mma,” came the reply. “We are the friends of this girl. That is why we do this.”
“You are kind girls,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You will be kind ladies in due course. Well done.”
The boy had been found a place at the local primary school, but Mma Ramotswe hoped that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would pay to send him to Thornhill. This cost a great deal of money, and now she wondered whether it would ever be possible. That was just one of the many things which would have to be sorted out. There was the garage, the apprentices, the house near the old Botswana Defence Force Club, and the children. There was also the wedding—whenever that would be—although Mma Ramotswe hardly dared think of that at present.
She went through to the living room, to see the boy seated beside his sister’s wheelchair, listening to her as she read.
“So,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are reading a story to your little brother. Is it a good one?”
Motholeli looked round and smiled.
“It is not a story, Mma,” she said. “Or rather, it is not a proper story from a book. It is a story I have written at school, and I am reading it to him.”
Mma Ramotswe joined them, perching on the arm of the sofa.
“Why don’t you start off again?” she said. “I would like to hear your story.”
MY NAME is Motholeli and I am thirteen years old, almost fourteen. I have a brother, who is seven. My mother and father are late. I am very sad about this, but I am happy that I am not late too and that I have my brother.
I am a girl who has had three lives. My first life was when I lived with my mother and my aunts and uncles, up in the Makadikadi, near Nata. That was long ago, and I was very small. They were bush people and they moved from place to place. They knew how to find food in the bush by digging for roots. They were very clever people, but nobody liked them.
My mother gave me a bracelet made out of ostrich skin, with pieces of ostrich eggshell stitched into it. I still have that. It is the only thing I have from my mother, now that she is late.
After she died, I rescued my little brother, who had been buried in the sand with her. He was just under the sand, and so I scraped it off his face and saw that he was still breathing. I remember picking him up and running through the bush until I found a road. A man came down the road in a truck and when he saw me he stopped and took me to Francistown. I do not remember what happened there, but I was given to a woman who said that I could live in her yard. They had a small shed, which was very hot when the sun was on it, but which was cool at night. I slept there with my baby brother.
I fed him with the food that I was given from that house. I used to do things for those kind people. I did their washing and hung it out on the line. I cleaned some pots for them too, as they did not have a servant. There was a dog who lived in the yard too, and it bit me one day, sharply, in my foot. The woman’s husband was very cross with the dog after that and he beat it with a wooden pole. That dog is late now, after all that beating for being wicked.
I became very sick, and the woman took me to the hospital. They put needles into me and they took out some of my blood. But they could not make me better, and after a while I could not walk anymore. They gave me crutches, but I was not very good at walking with them. Then they found a wheelchair; which meant that I could go home again. But the woman said that she could not have a wheelchair girl living in her yard, as that would not look good and people would say: What are you doing having a girl in a wheelchair in your yard? That is very cruel.
Then a man came by who said that he was looking for orphans to take to his orphan farm. There was a lady from the Government with him who told me that I was very lucky to get a place on such a fine orphan farm. I could take my brother, and we would be very happy living there. But I must always remember to love Jesus, this woman said. I replied that I was ready to love Jesus and that I would make my little brother love him too.
That was the end of my first life. My second life started on the day that I arrived at the orphan farm. We had come down from Francistown in a truck, and I was very hot and uncomfortable in the back. I could not get out, as the truck driver did not know what to do with a girl in a wheelchair. So when I arrived at the orphan farm, my dress was wet and I was very ashamed, especially since all the other orphans were standing there watching us come to their place. One of the ladies there told the other children to go off and play, and not to stare at us, but they only went a little way and they watched me from behind the trees.
All the orphans lived in houses. Each house had about ten orphans in it and had a mother who looked after them. My housemother was a kind lady. She gave me new clothes and a cupboard to keep my things in. I had never had a cupboard before and I was very proud of it. I was also given some special clips which I could put in my hair. I had never had such beautiful things, and I would keep them under my pillow, where they were safe. Sometimes at night I would wake up and think how lucky I was. But I would also cry sometimes, because I was thinking of my first life and I would be thinking about my uncles and aunts and wondering where they were now. I could see the stars from my bed, through a gap in the curtain, and I thought: if they looked up, they would see the same stars, and we would be looking at them at the same time. But I wondered if they remembered me, because I was just a girl and I had run away from them.
I was very happy at the orphan farm. I worked hard, and Mma Potokwane, who was the matron, said that one day, if I was lucky, she would find somebody who would be new parents for us. I did not think that this was possible, as nobody would want to take a girl in a wheelchair when there were plenty of first-class orphan girls who could walk very well and who would be looking for a home too.
But she was right. I did not think that it would be Mr J.L.B. Matekoni who took us, but I was very pleased when he said that we could go to live in his house. That is how my third life began.
They made us a special cake when we left the orphan farm, and we ate it with the housemother. She said that she always felt very sad when one of the orphans went, as it was like a member of the family leaving. But she knew Mr J.L.
B. Matekoni very well, and she told me that he was one of the best men in Botswana. I would be very happy in his house, she said.
So I went to his house, with my small brother, and we soon met his friend, Mma Ramotswe, who is going to be married to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. She said that she would be my new mother, and she brought us to her house, which is better for children than Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house. I have a very good bedroom there, and I have been given many clothes. I am very happy that there are people like this in Botswana. I have had a very fortunate life and I thank Mma Ramotswe and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni from my heart.
I would like to be a mechanic when I grow up. I shall help Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in his garage and at night I will mend Mma Ramotswe’s clothes and cook her meals. Then, when they are very old, they will be able to be proud of me and say that I have been a good daughter for them and a good citizen of Botswana.
That is the story of my life. I am an ordinary girl from Botswana, but it is very lucky to have three lives. Most people only have one life.
This story is true. I have not made any of it up. It is all true.
AFTER THE girl had finished, they were all silent. The boy looked up at his sister and smiled. He thought: I am a lucky boy to have such a clever sister. I hope that God will give her back her legs one day. Mma Ramotswe looked at the girl and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. She thought: I will look after this child. I am now her mother. Rose, who had been listening from the corridor, looked down at her shoes and thought: What a strange way of putting it: three lives.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LOW SEROTONIN LEVELS
THE FIRST thing that Mma Ramotswe did the following morning was to telephone Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in his house near the old Botswana Defence Force Club. They often telephoned one another early in the morning—at least since they had become engaged—but it was usually Mr J.L.B. Matekoni who called. He would wait until the time Mma Ramotswe would have had her cup of bush tea, which she liked to drink out in the garden, before he would dial her number and declare himself formally, as he always liked to do: “This is Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, Mma. Have you slept well?”