Mma Ramotswe could not conceal her surprise. What was the point of consulting her if Mma Holonga was going to make a decision before receiving even a preliminary report?
“You’ve decided something?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Mma Holonga, in a matter-of-fact voice. “But you go ahead and tell me what you found out. I’m very interested.”
Mma Ramotswe began her account. “A few days ago I met your Mr Spokesi,” she said. “I had a conversation with him and in the course of this conversation I realised that he was not being honest with you. He is a man who likes younger ladies and I do not think that he is serious about marrying you. I think that he would like to have a good time using your money, and then he would go back to the other ladies. I’m sorry about that, Mma, but there it is.”
“Of course,” said Mma Holonga, tossing back her head. “That man is very vain and is interested only in himself. I think I knew that all along. You have confirmed my views, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe was slightly taken aback by this. She had expected a measure of disappointment on Mma Holonga’s part, an expression of regret, instead of which Mr Spokes Spokesi, who must have been a lively suitor, was being consigned to oblivion quite insouciantly.
“Then there is the teacher,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “Mr Bobologo. He is a much more serious man than that Spokesi person. He is a clever man, I think; very well-read.”
Mma Holonga smiled. “Yes,” she said. “He is a good man.”
“But a very dull one too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And he is interested only in getting hold of your money to use for his House of Hope. That is all that interests him. I think that …”
Mma Ramotswe tailed off. Her words were having a strange effect on Mma Holonga, she thought. Her client was now sitting bolt upright, her lips pursed in disapproval of what Mma Ramotswe was telling her.
“That is not true!” Mma Holonga expostulated. “He would never do a thing like that.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I am sorry, Mma. In my job I often have to tell people things that they do not want to hear. I think that you might not want to hear what I have to say, but I must say it nonetheless. That is my duty. That man is after your money.”
Mma Holonga stared at Mma Ramotswe. She rose to her feet, dusting at her skirts as she did so. “You have been very good, Mma,” she said coldly. “I am very grateful to you for finding out about Spokesi. Oh yes, you have done well there. But when it comes to my fiancé, Mr Bobologo, you must stop talking about him in this way. I have decided to marry him, and that is it.”
Mma Ramotswe did not know what to say and for a few moments she struggled with herself. Clovis Andersen, as far as she could remember, had never written about what to do in this precise situation and she was thrown back on first principles. There was her duty to her client, which was to carry out the enquiries which she had been asked to conduct. But then there was her duty to warn—a simple human duty which involved warning somebody of danger which they were courting. That duty existed, of course, but at the same time one should not be paternalistic and interfere in matters in which another person wished to choose for themselves. It was not for Mma Ramotswe to make Mma Holonga’s decisions for her.
She decided to be cautious. “Are you sure about this, Mma?” she asked. “I hope that you do not think I am being rude in asking, but are you sure that you wish to marry this man? It is a very major decision.”
Mma Holonga seemed to be pacified by Mma Ramotswe’s tone, and she smiled as she replied. “Well, Mma, you are right about its being a very major decision. I am well aware of that. But I have decided that my destiny lies with that man.”
“And you know all about his … his interests?”
“You mean his good works? His work for others?”
“The House of Hope. The bar girls …”
Mma Holonga looked out over the orphan farm field, as if searching for bar girls. “I know all about that. In fact, I am very much involved in that good work. Since I came to see you, he has shown me the House of Hope and I have been doing work there. I have started hair-braiding classes for those bad girls and then they can come and work in my salons.”
“That is a very good idea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And then there is the possible extension …”
“That too,” interrupted Mma Holonga. “I shall be paying for that. I have already talked to a builder I know. Then, after that is done, I am going to build a House of Hope out at Molepolole, for bad girls from that region. That was all my idea, not Bobologo’s.”
Mma Ramotswe listened to all this and realised that she was in the presence of a woman who had found her vocation. So there was nothing more for her to say, other than to congratulate her on her forthcoming marriage and to reflect on the truth that when people ask for advice they very rarely want your advice and will go ahead and do what they want to do anyway, no matter what you say. That applied in every sort of case; it was a human truth of universal application, but one which most people knew little or nothing about.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A VERY RICH CAKE IS SERVED
AFTER SHE had finished her surprising discussion with Mma Holonga, Mma Ramotswe moved over to join Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Makutsi, who were sitting at a table under a tree near the children’s dining room. More tea had been produced and was being served by the housemothers, and Mma Ramotswe noticed that there were many people in the crowd whom she knew. Indeed, some of them were relatives of hers; her cousin and husband, for example, and some of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s people. Mma Potokwane had obviously been very active in gathering people for the parachute drop.
She walked over to join her cousin, who said that she would not be prepared to do a parachute drop, even if asked by the President himself. “I would have to say, I’m sorry Rra, but there are some things one cannot do, even for Botswana. I cannot jump from an aeroplane. I would die straightaway.”
The cousin’s husband agreed. He would be prepared to give all his money, and all his cattle, to charity rather than jump.
“You should not let Mma Potokwane hear that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It might give her ideas.”
Then there was a conversation with the Reverend Trevor Mwamba from the Anglican Cathedral. He, too, confessed that he would not like to do a parachute jump, and he felt that the same could be said for the Bishop. For a moment Mma Ramotswe entertained a mental picture of the Bishop jumping from an aeroplane, dressed in his episcopal robes and clutching his mitre as he fell.
“It is nothing, you know,” said Charlie, who had come up to join them, a glass of beer in his hand, and clearly enjoying his fame. “I wasn’t at all frightened. I just jumped and then bump! the chute opened above me and I came down. That’s all there is to it. I will do it again tomorrow if Mma Potokwane asks me. In fact, I think I might offer to join the Botswana Defence Force. I could look after their aeroplane engines and then do some jumping in my spare time.”
Mma Ramotswe saw that this made Mr J.L.B. Matekoni look anxious, but the conversation moved on to another topic and no more was said of the looking-after of aeroplane engines.
The event had now turned into something of a party. Some of the older children, who had been helping with the tea cups and with arranging chairs under the trees, now formed up as a choir and sang several songs while one of them, a talented marimba player, provided an accompaniment. Then, after the singing, Mma Potokwane came over to Mma Ramotswe’s side and invited her to join her for a moment in the office. The same invitation was extended to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and it was explained that a very special cake had been prepared for him but that it could not be produced in public as there was not enough for everybody.
They went into the office. The Reverend Trevor Mwamba was already there, a plate of cake before him. He stood up and smiled at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“Now,” said Mma Potokwane, putting a large slice of the special cake on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s plate. “Here is the special cake I have made.”
“You are v
ery kind to us, Mma,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “This looks like a very rich cake. Very rich.” He paused, the cake half way to his mouth. He looked at Mma Potokwane. Then he looked at the Reverend Trevor Mwamba. Finally he looked at Mma Ramotswe. Nobody spoke.
Mma Potokwane broke the silence. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “We all know how proud you are of Mma Ramotswe. We all know how proud you are to be her fiancé and how you wish to be her husband. I am right, am I not, in saying that you wish to be her husband?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “I do. Of course I do.”
“Well, do you not think that the moment has come?” she went on. “Do you not think that this would be the right time to marry Mma Ramotswe? Right now. Not next month or next year or whenever, but right now. Because if you do not do something about this, you may never do it. Life is perilous. At any time it could be too late. When you love another person, you must tell her, but you must also show her. You must do that thing that says to the world that you love that person. And this must never be put off, never.”
She paused, watching the effect of her words on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He was staring at her, his eyes slightly moist, as if he was about to burst into tears.
“You do wish to marry Mma Ramotswe, do you not?” Mma Potokwane urged.
Now there was a further silence. The Reverend Trevor Mwamba slipped a small piece of cake into his mouth and chewed on it. Mma Ramotswe herself looked down at the ground, at the edge of Mma Potokwane’s carpet. And then Mr J.L.B. Matekoni spoke.
“I will marry Mma Ramotswe right now,” he said. “If that is what Mma Ramotswe wishes, then I shall do that. I shall be proud to do that. There is no other lady I would ever wish to marry. Just Mma Ramotswe. That is all.”
It was a long speech for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but every word was filled with passion and a new determination.
“In that case,” said the Reverend Trevor Mwamba, wiping the crumbs from the edge of his lips. “In that case I have the prayer books in my car and I have the Bishop’s authority to perform the ceremony right here.”
“We can do it under the big tree,” said Mma Potokwane. “I will tell the children’s choir to get ready. And I will also tell the guests to prepare themselves. They will be surprised.”
THEY ASSEMBLED under the boughs of the great jacaranda tree. A table had been covered with a clean white sheet and served as an altar, and before this altar stood Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, waiting for Mma Ramotswe to be led up to him by Mma Potokwane’s husband, who had offered to give the bride away on behalf of her late father, Obed Ramotswe. Mma Potokwane had produced a suitable dress for Mma Ramotswe, in just the right size as it happened, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been put into a suit by Mma Potokwane’s husband. The Reverend Trevor Mwamba had fetched his robes from his car.
When Mma Ramotswe came out of the office and walked with Mma Potokwane’s husband up to the group of people and the waiting groom, there were enthusiastic ululations from the crowd. This was how people showed their delight and pleasure and the sound was strong that day.
“Dearly beloved,” began the Reverend Trevor Mwamba, “we are gathered here together in the sight of God and in the presence of this congregation to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate …”
The words which Mma Ramotswe had heard so many times for others, those echoing words, she now heard for herself, and she made the responses clearly, as did Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Then, taking their hands and placing them together, in accordance with the authority vested in him, the Reverend Trevor Mwamba pronounced them man and wife, and the ladies present, led by Mma Potokwane, ululated with pleasure.
The choir had been waiting, and now they sang, while Mma Ramotswe and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat down on chairs which had been placed before the altar, and signed the register which the Reverend Trevor Mwamba had also happened to have in the back of his car. The choir sang, the sweet voices of the children rising through the branches of the tree above them, and filling the still, clear air with sound. There was an old Botswana hymn, one which everybody knew, and then, because it was a favourite of Mma Ramotswe’s father, they sang that song which distils all the suffering and the hope of Africa; that song which had inspired and comforted so many, “Nkosi Sikeleli Afrika,” God Bless Africa, give her life, watch over her children.
Mma Ramotswe turned to face her friends, and smiled, and they smiled back. Then she and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood up and walked down through the crowd to the place where the children had taken more tables and where, quite miraculously, as at Cana of Galilee, the housemothers had set out large plates of food, ready for the wedding feast.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is a professor of medical law at Edinburgh University. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He is the author of more than fifty books: novels, stories, children’s books, and specialized titles such as Forensic Aspects of Sleep. He lives in Scotland.
ALSO BY
ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
Copyright © 2003 by Alexander McCall Smith
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Published simultaneously in Canada by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in Great Britain by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn, Ltd., Edinburgh, in 2003.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McCall Smith, Alexander, 1948–
The full cupboard of life / Alexander McCall Smith.
p. cm.
1. Ramotswe, Precious (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—Botswana—Fiction. 3. Botswana—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.C326F85 2004 823'.914—dc22 2003062379
www.pantheonbooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-375-42324-6
v3.0
Alexander McCall Smith, The Full Cupboard of Life
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