“In all Botswana,” suggested Kokotso.
“My!” said Mma Ramotswe. “And will we see him if we sit here long enough? Will we see him coming out?”
“Yes,” said Constance. “We come here once a week usually just to see Spokes. He talks to us sometimes; sometimes he just waves. He thinks that we work in that building over there and are just sitting here to pass the lunch hour. He doesn’t know that we come to see him.”
Mma Ramotswe tried to look intrigued. “How old is this Spokes?” she asked.
“Just the right age,” said Constance. “He’s twenty-eight. And his birthday is …”
“The twenty-fourth of July,” said Kokotso. “We shall come here on that day with a present for him. He will like that.”
“You are very kind,” said Mma Ramotswe. She studied the girls for a moment, trying to imagine what it must be like to worship somebody who was, after all, almost a stranger to them. Why did people behave this way with entertainers? What was so special about them? And then she stopped, for she had remembered Note Mokoti and her own feelings for him all those years ago when she was hardly older than these girls. And the memory made her humble; for we should not forget what it is to be young and to have ideas and attitudes that may later seem so fanciful.
“Will he be out soon?” she asked. “Will we have to wait long?”
“It depends,” said Constance. “Sometimes he sits inside and talks to the station manager for hours. But on other days he comes out the moment his show goes off the air and he gets into his car. That is his car over there, that red one with the yellow curtains in the back. It is a very smart car.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at the car. First Class Motors, she thought dismissively, but then Kokotso grabbed her arm and Constance whispered in her ear: Spokes!
He came out of the front door, dressed in his hip-hugging jeans, his shirt open to the third button down, a gold chain round his neck; Spokes Spokesi himself, Gaborone icon, silver-tongued rider of the airwaves, good-looking, confident, ice-cool, flashing white teeth.
“Spokes!” murmured Kokotso, and as if he had heard her barely articulated prayer, he turned in their direction, waved, and began to make his way over the car park to where they sat.
“Hiya, girls! Dumela and all the rest of it, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!”
Kokotso dug Mma Ramotswe in the ribs. “He’s coming to speak to us,” she whispered. “He’s seen us!”
“Hallo there, Spokes,” called out Constance. “Your show today was great. Fantastic. That band you played at ten o’clock. To die for!”
“Yes,” said Spokes, who was now standing before them, smiling his devastating smile. “Good sound. A good sound.”
“This lady hasn’t listened to you yet, Spokes,” said Kokotso, gesturing towards Mma Ramotswe. “Now she knows. She’ll be listening tomorrow morning, won’t you, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. She did not like to lie and would not lie now. “No,” she said. “I won’t be listening.”
Spokes looked at her quizzically. “Why not, Mma? My music’s wrong for you? Is that it? Maybe I can play some more oldies.”
“That would be nice,” said Mma Ramotswe politely. “But please don’t worry about me. You play what your listeners want to hear. I’ll be all right.”
“I like to please everybody,” said Spokes agreeably. “Radio Gabs is for everyone.”
“And everyone listens, Spokes,” said Kokotso. “You know we listen.”
“What are you doing today, Spokes?” asked Constance.
Spokes winked at her. “You know I’d like to take you to the movies, but I have to go and look after the cattle. Sorry about that.”
They all laughed at this witticism, Mma Ramotswe included. Then Mma Ramotswe spoke.
“Haven’t I seen you before, Rra?” she said, looking at him closely, as if inspecting him. “I’m sure that I’ve seen you.”
Spokes drew back slightly, but seemed bemused. “You see me here and there. Gaborone is not a big place. You might have seen my picture in the papers.”
Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful. “No, it wasn’t in the papers. No …” She paused, as if trying to drag something out of her memory, and then continued, “Yes! That’s it. I remember now. I’ve seen you with that lady who owns the hair-braiding salons. You know the one. I’ve seen you with her somewhere or other. A party maybe. You were with her. Is she your girlfriend, Rra?”
Her remark made, she watched its effect on him. The easy smile disappeared, and in its place there was a look of anxiety. He glanced at the young girls, who were looking at him eagerly. “Oh that lady! She is my aunty! She is not my girlfriend!”
The girls giggled, and Spokes leaned forward to touch Kokotso lightly on the shoulder. “Meet you later?” he asked. “Metro Club?”
Kokotso squirmed with pleasure. “We’ll be there.”
“Good,” said Spokes, and then, to Mma Ramotswe, “Nice meeting you, aunty. Go carefully.”
MMA MAKUTSI listened intently to what Mma Ramotswe had to say when she returned that afternoon from her meeting with Constance, Kokotso, and Spokes.
“I have spent two days on this matter so far,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have met and interviewed two of the suitors on Mma Holonga’s list, and neither of them is in the slightest bit suitable. Both can only be interested in her money. One by his own admission—he said it himself, Mma—and the other by the way he behaved.”
“Poor Mma Holonga,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have read that it is not easy being rich. I have read that you can never tell who is really interested in you or who is interested only in your money.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed. “I am going to have to speak to her soon and tell her what progress I have made. I am going to have to say that the first two are definitely unsuitable.”
“That is very sad,” said Mma Makutsi, thinking how sad it was, too, that there was Mma Holonga with four suitors and there was she with none.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE PARACHUTE JUMP, AND A UNIVERSAL TRUTH ABOUT THE GIVING AND TAKING OF ADVICE
MMA RAMOTSWE was hoping that Mma Potokwane would forget all about the parachute jump which Charlie, the older apprentice, had agreed to take over from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Unfortunately, neither Mma Potokwane nor Charlie himself forgot, and indeed Charlie had actively been seeking sponsorship. People were generous; a parachute jump was a considerably more exciting project than a sponsored walk or run—anybody could do those. A parachute jump required courage and there was always the possibility that it could go badly wrong. This made it difficult to refuse a donation.
The jump was planned for a Saturday. The plane would take off from the airport, out near the ostrich abattoir, would circle the town and would then fly out towards Tlokweng and the orphan farm. At the appropriate moment the apprentice would be given the signal to jump and would land, it was hoped, in a large field at the edge of the orphan farm. All the children would be there, waiting to see the parachute come down, and the ranks of the children would be swelled by several press photographers, an official from the Mayor’s office—the Mayor himself would be away at the time—a colonel from the Botswana Defence Force (invited by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni) and the Principal of the Botswana Secretarial College (invited by Mma Makutsi). Mma Ramotswe had invited Dr Moffat, and had asked him whether he could possibly bring his medical bag with him—just in case anything went wrong, which she was certain it would not. She had also invited Mma Holonga, not only because she was something of a public figure who might be expected to attend a charity event as a matter of course, but also because she wanted to speak to her. Apart from these people, the public at large could attend, if it wished. The event had been given wide publicity in the papers, and even Spokes Spokesi had mentioned it on his show on Radio Gabs. He claimed to have done a parachute jump himself, and that it was nothing, “as long as you were brave enough.” But things could go wrong, he warned, although he did not propose to say anything more on that subject just then.
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Charlie himself seemed very calm. On the day before the jump, Mma Ramotswe had a private word with him at the garage, telling him that there would be no dishonour in his withdrawing, even at this late stage.
“Nobody will think the less of you if you phone Mma Potokwane right now and tell her that you have changed your mind. Nobody will think that you are a coward.”
“Yes, they will,” said Charlie. “And anyway, I want to do it. I have been practising and I know everything there is to know about parachutes now. You count ten—or is it fifty?—and then you pull the cord. So. Like that. Then you keep your feet together and you roll over on the ground once you land. That is all there is to it.”
Mma Ramotswe wanted to say that it was not so simple, but she kept her own counsel.
“You could come with me, Mma Ramotswe,” said Charlie, jokingly. “They could make an extra big parachute for you.”
Mma Ramotswe ignored this. He could be right, of course; perhaps you needed an especially large parachute if you were of traditional build, or perhaps you just came down faster. But then parachutists of traditional build would land more softly and comfortably, being better padded, and those of particularly traditional build might just roll over when they landed, as barrels do when you drop them.
“Well,” she said, after a while, “in your case you must be hoping to land on your bottom, which is much bigger than normal. That will be the best place for you to land. Put your feet up when you get close to the ground and sit down.”
The apprentice looked annoyed, but he did not say anything. Instead, he looked in a small mirror which he had hung on a pin near the door that led from the garage into the office. He could often be found standing before this mirror, preening himself, or doing a small, shuffling dance while he looked at his reflection.
ON THE day in question, they all met at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors: Mma Ramotswe; the two children, Motholeli and Puso; Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; Mma Makutsi; and the younger apprentice. Charlie himself had been collected from his home several hours earlier and driven to the airfield by the pilot of the light aircraft from which he was to jump.
They drove out to the orphan farm in Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van and in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck, Mma Makutsi travelling in the van with Mma Ramotswe and the children sitting in the back. Motholeli’s wheelchair was secured in the back of the van by a system of ropes which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had devised, and this gave her a very good view of the passing countryside. People waved to her, and she waved back, “like the Queen,” she said. Mma Ramotswe had told her all about the Queen Elizabeth and about how she had been a friend of Sir Seretse Khama himself. She loved Botswana, explained Mma Ramotswe, and she did her duty all the time, all the time, visiting people and shaking their hands and being given flowers by children. She had been on duty for fifty years, Mma Ramotswe said, just like Mr Mandela, who had given his whole life for justice and had never once thought of himself. How unlike these people were modern politicians, who thought only of power and tricks.
By the time they drew up at the orphan farm, the trees outside the office already had cars under them, and they were obliged to leave the tiny white van out on the road. People had obviously already begun to arrive, and some of the children were on duty at the gate, standing smartly and greeting the guests, telling them where they should go for tea and cake before the jump took place. Some of the younger children were wearing cardboard aeroplane badges which they had cut out and coloured themselves, and some of these were on sale for two pula at a small table under a tree.
Mma Potokwane saw them from her office, and she rushed out to meet them just as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and the younger apprentice arrived in the truck. Then Dr Moffat arrived, with his wife, in his pick-up truck, and Mma Potokwane immediately seized him and led him off to look at one of the children who had developed a high fever and was being watched over by her housemother. Mrs Moffat stayed with Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi and together they made their way to the spot under a wide jacaranda tree where two of the housemothers were dispensing heavily-sugared tea from a very large brown tea-pot. There was cake too, but it was not free. Mma Ramotswe bought a slice for all of them and they sat down on stools and drank the tea and ate the cake while further spectators arrived. Then, after half an hour or so, they heard the distant drone of an aircraft engine and the children began to squeal with excitement, pointing at the sky to the west. Mma Ramotswe looked up, straining her eyes; the sound was clear enough now, and yes, there it was, a small plane, white against the great empty sky, much higher than she had imagined it would be. How small we must all look from up there, she thought; and poor Charlie, for all his faults, now just a tiny dot in the sky, a tiny dot that would come tumbling down to the hard earth below.
“I shouldn’t have asked him to do this,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “What if he’s killed?”
Mma Makutsi put a reassuring hand on Mma Ramotswe’s forearm. “He won’t be,” she said. “These things are very safe these days. They check everything two or three times.”
“But it still might not open. And what if he freezes with shock and doesn’t pull the cord? What then?”
“His instructor will be jumping with him,” soothed Mma Makutsi. “He would dive down and pull the cord for him. I saw a picture in the National Geographic of that being done. It is very easy for these people.”
They became silent as the plane passed overhead. Now they could see the markings underneath the wings and the undercarriage, and then the opening door and a figure and a blur of shapes. Suddenly there were two little packages, but packages with arms and legs flailing about in the rushing wind, and some of the children shrieked and pointed upwards. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up too, and gulped, imagining that it could have been him up there, and remembering that disturbing dream. Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes, and then opened them again, and still the figures were falling against the empty sky, and she thought: his parachute is not going to open, and she clutched at Mma Makutsi who had muttered something under her breath, a prayer perhaps.
But the parachutes did open, and Mma Ramotswe let out her breath and felt weak at the knees. Mrs Moffat smiled at her and said, “I was worried then. It seemed such a time,” and Mma Ramotswe was too overcome to say anything in response, but vowed to herself that she would make it up to this boy in the future; she would be kind to him and not be so impatient at the irritating things he said and did.
As they drifted down, floating beneath the great white canopies, the two figures separated. One of them waved to the other, and seemed to be gesturing, but the other did nothing and continued to float away. The gesturing one was now getting fairly close to the ground, and within seconds he had landed in the field, scarcely a few hundred yards from the spectators. There was a cheer, and the children ran forward, in spite of the calls from the housemothers to stay where they were until the second parachutist had landed safely.
They need not have worried. The other parachutist, now revealed to be Charlie, had so drifted off course that he did not land in the field at all, but disappeared behind the tree tops of the scrub bush on the other side. The spectators watched silently as this happened, and then people turned to one another in uncertainty.
“He will be dead,” cried out one of the smaller children. “We must fetch a box.”
IT WAS Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, Mma Potokwane’s husband, and the instructor (not freed of his equipment) who discovered Charlie. He was hanging a few feet above the ground, his parachute covering the upper branches of a large acacia tree, snagged and snared by the thorny limbs of the tree. He shouted out to them as they approached, and the instructor soon had him out of the harness and down on the ground.
“That was a soft landing,” said the instructor. “Well done. You were just a bit off target, that’s all. I think you were pulling on the wrong side of the canopy. That’s why you sailed off here.”
The apprentice nodded. He had a curious expression on his face, half way between sheer relief and pain.
“I think that I am injured,” he said.
“You can’t be,” said the instructor, dusting down the green parachute suit. “The tree completely broke your fall.”
The apprentice shook his head. “There is something hurting me. It is very sore. It is there. Please see what it is.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at the seat of Charlie’s trousers. There was a large rip in the fabric and a very nasty-looking acacia thorn, several inches long, embedded in the flesh. Deftly he took this between his fingers and extracted it with one swift movement. The apprentice gave a yelp.
“That was all,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “A big thorn …”
“Please do not tell them,” said the apprentice. “Please do not tell them where it was.”
“Of course I will not,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You are a brave, brave young man.”
The apprentice smiled. He was recovering from his shock now. “Are the newspaper people there?” he asked. “Did they come?”
“They are there,” said Mma Potokwane’s husband. “And many girls too.”
Back under the trees he received a hero’s welcome. The children ran round him, tugging at his sleeves, the housemothers fussed over him with mugs of tea and large slices of cake, and the girls looked on admiringly. Charlie basked in the glory of it all, smiling at the photographers when they approached with their cameras, and patting children on the head, just as an experienced hero might do. Mma Ramotswe watched with amusement, and considerable relief, and then went off to talk to Mma Holonga, whom she had spotted arriving rather late, when the jump had already taken place. She took her client a mug of tea and led her to a private place under a tree, where they could both sit in privacy and talk.
“I have started making enquiries for you,” she began. “I have spoken to two of the men on your list and I can give you a report on what I have found out so far.”
Mma Holonga nodded. “Well, yes. I must say that there have been developments since I saw you. But tell me anyway. Then I shall tell you what I have decided to do.”