Aunty Emang turned slightly, and it seemed for a moment that she was going to storm out of the room without saying anything further. Yet she did not leave immediately, but glanced at Mma Makutsi and Mr Polopetsi and then back at Mma Ramotswe.
“Yes,” she said.
“YOU LET HER GO,” said Mma Makutsi afterwards, as they sat in the office, discussing what had happened. They had been joined by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who had finished work in the garage and who had witnessed the angry departure of Aunty Emang, or the former Aunty Emang, in her expensive car.
“I had no alternative,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She was right when she said that we had no proof. I don’t think we could have done much more.”
“But you had other cases of blackmail,” said Mr Polopetsi. “You had that doctor and that man who was having an affair.”
“I made up the one about the man having an affair,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I thought it likely that she would be blackmailing such a person. It’s very common. And I think I was right. She didn’t contradict me, which confirmed that she was the one. But I don’t think that she was blackmailing Dr Lubega. I think that he is a man who needed money because he liked it.”
“I am very confused about all this,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I do not know who this doctor is.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. It was time to go home, as she had to cook the evening meal, and that would take time. So they left the office, and after saying goodbye to Mr Polopetsi, she and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gave Mma Makutsi a ride home in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck. The tiny white van could stay at the garage overnight, said Mma Ramotswe. Nobody would steal such a vehicle, she thought. She was the only one who could love it.
On the way she remarked to Mma Makutsi that she was not wearing her new blue shoes that day. Was she giving them a rest? “One should rotate one’s shoes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is well known.”
Mma Makutsi smiled. She was embarrassed, but in the warm intimacy of the truck, at such a moment, after the emotionally cathartic showdown they had all just witnessed, she felt that she could speak freely of shoes.
“They are a bit small for me, Mma,” she confessed. “I think you were right. But I felt great happiness when I wore them, and I shall always remember that. They are such beautiful shoes.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Well, that’s the important thing, isn’t it, Mma? To feel happiness, and then to remember it.”
“I think that you’re right,” said Mma Makutsi. Happiness was an elusive thing. It had something to do with having beautiful shoes, sometimes; but it was about so much else. About a country. About a people. About having friends like this.
THE FOLLOWING DAY was a Saturday, which was Mma Ramotswe’s favourite day, a day on which she could sit and reflect on the week’s events. There was much to think about, and there was good reason, too, to be pleased that the week was over. Mma Ramotswe did not enjoy confrontation—that was not the Botswana way—and yet there were times when finding oneself head-to-head with somebody was inevitable. That had been so when her first husband, the selfish and violent Note Mokoti, had returned unannounced and tried to extort money from her. That moment had tested her badly, but she had stood up to him, and he had gone away, back into his private world of bitterness and distrust. But the encounter had left her feeling weak and raw, as arguments with another so often do. How much better to avoid occasions of conflict altogether, provided that one did not end up running away from things; and that, of course, was the rub. Had she not faced up to Aunty Emang, then the blackmail would have continued because nobody else would have stood up to her. And so it was left to Mma Ramotswe to do so, and Aunty Emang had folded up in the same way that an old hut made of elephant grass and eaten by the ants would collapse the moment one touched its fragile walls.
Now she sat on her verandah and looked out over her garden. She was the only one in the house. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had taken Puso and Motholeli to visit one of his aunts, and they would not be back until late afternoon, or, more likely, the evening. That particular aunt was known for her loquaciousness and had long stories to tell. It did not matter if the stories had been heard before—as they all had—they would be repeated that day, in great detail, until the sun was slanting down over the Kalahari and the evening sky was red. But it was important, she thought, that the children should get to know that aunt, as there was much she could teach them. In particular, she knew how to renew the pressed mud floor of a good traditional home, a skill that was dying out. The children sometimes helped her with this, although they would never themselves live in a house with a mud-floored yard, for those houses were going and were not being replaced. And all that was linked to them, the stories, the love and concern for others, the sense of doing what one’s people had done for so many years, could go too, thought Mma Ramotswe.
She looked up at the sky, which was empty, as it usually was. In a few days, though, perhaps even earlier, there would be rain. Heavy clouds would build up and make the sky purple, and then there would be lightning and that brief, wonderful smell would fill the air, the smell of the longed-for rain, a smell that lifted the heart. She dropped her gaze to her garden, to the withered plants that she had worked so hard to see through the dry season and which had lived only because she had given them each a small tinful of water each morning and each evening, around the roots; so little water, and so quickly absorbed, that it seemed unlikely that it would make a difference under that relentless sun. But it had, and the plants had kept in their leaves some green against the brown. When the rains came, of course, then everything would be different, and the brown which covered the land, the trees, the stunted grass, would be replaced by green, by growth, by tendrils stretching out, by leaves unfolding. It would happen so quickly that one might go to bed in a drought and wake up in a landscape of shimmering patches of water and cattle with skin washed sleek by the rain.
Mma Ramotswe leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She knew that there were places where the world was always green and lush, where water meant nothing because it was always there, where the cattle were never thin and listless; she knew that. But she did not want to live in such a place because it would not be Botswana, or at least not her part of Botswana. Up north they had that, near Maun, in the Delta, where the river ran the wrong way, back into the heart of the country. She had been there several times, and the clear streams and the wide sweeps of Mopani forest and high grass had filled her with wonder. She had been happy for those people, because they had water all about them, but she had not felt that it was her place, which was in the south, in the dry south.
No, she would never exchange what she had for something else. She would never want to be anything but Mma Ramotswe, of Gaborone, wife of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and daughter of the late Obed Ramotswe, retired miner and fine judge of cattle, the man of whom she thought every day, but every day, and whose voice she heard so often when she had cause to remember how things had been in those times. God had given her gifts, she thought. He had made her a Motswana, a citizen of this fine country which had lived up so well to the memory of Sir Seretse Khama, that great statesman, who had stood with such dignity on that night when the new flag had been unfurled and Botswana had come into existence. When as a young girl she had been told of that event and had been shown pictures of it, she had imagined that the world had been watching Botswana on that night and had shared the feelings of her people. Now she knew that this was never true, that nobody had been at all interested, except a few perhaps, and that the world had never paid much attention to places like Botswana, where everything went so well and where people did not squabble and fight. But slowly they had seen, slowly they had come to hear of the secret, and had come to understand.
She opened her eyes. The old van driven by Mma Potokwane had arrived at the gate, and the matron had manoeuvred herself out of the driver’s seat and was fiddling with the latch. Mma Potokwane had been known to come to see Mma Ramotswe on a Satu
rday morning, usually to ask her to get Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to do something for the orphan farm, but such visits were rare. Now, the gate unlatched and pushed back, Mma Potokwane got back into the van and drove up the short driveway to the house. Mma Ramotswe smiled to herself as her visitor nosed her van into the shady place used by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to park his truck. Mma Potokwane would always find the best place to park, just as she could always be counted upon to find the best deal for the children whom she looked after.
“So, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe to her visitor after they had greeted one another. “So, you have come to see me. This is very good, because I was sitting here with nobody to talk to. Now that has changed.”
Mma Potokwane laughed. “But you are a great lady for thinking,” she said. “It does not matter to you if there is nobody around, you can just think.”
“And so can you,” replied Mma Ramotswe. “You have a head too.”
Mma Potokwane rolled her eyes upwards. “My poor head is not as good as yours, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “Everybody knows that. You are a very clever lady.”
Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of disagreement. She knew that Mma Potokwane was astute, but, like all astute people, the matron was discreet about her talents. “Come and sit with me on the verandah,” she said. “I shall make some tea for us.”
Once her guest was seated, Mma Ramotswe made her way into the kitchen. She was still smiling to herself as she put on the kettle. Some people never surprised one, thought Mma Ramotswe. They always behave in exactly the way one expects them to behave. Mma Potokwane would talk about general matters for ten minutes or so, and then would come the request. Something would need fixing at the orphan farm. Was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni by any chance free—she was not expecting him to do anything immediately—just to take a look? She thought about this as the kettle boiled, and then she thought: And I’m just as predictable as Mma Potokwane. Mma Makutsi can no doubt anticipate exactly what I’m going to do or say even before I open my mouth. It was a sobering thought. Had she not said something about how I liked to quote Seretse Khama on everything? Do I really do that? Well, Seretse Khama, Mma Ramotswe told herself, said a lot of things in his time, and it’s only right that I should quote a great man like that.
Mma Makutsi, in fact, cropped up in the conversation after Mma Ramotswe had returned to the verandah with a freshly brewed pot of red bush tea.
“That secretary of yours,” said Mma Potokwane. “The one with the big glasses …”
“That is Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. There had been a number of minor clashes between Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi—she knows her name, thought Mma Ramotswe; she knows it.
“Yes, of course, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Potokwane. “That is the lady.” There was a pause before she continued, “And I hear that she is now engaged. That must be sad for you, Mma, as she will probably not want to work after she is married. So I thought that perhaps you would like to take on a girl who comes from the orphan farm but who has now finished her training at the Botswana Secretarial College. I can send her to you next week …”
Mma Ramotswe interrupted her. “But Mma Makutsi has no intention of giving up her job, Mma,” she said. “And she is an assistant detective, you know. She is not just any secretary.”
Mma Potokwane digested this information in silence. Then she nodded. “I see. So there is no job?”
“There is no job, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m sorry.”
Mma Potokwane took a sip of her tea. “Oh well, Mma,” she said. “I shall ask some other people. I am sure that this girl will find a job somewhere. She is very good. She is not one of those girls who think about boys all the time.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That is good, Mma.” She looked at her visitor. One of the attractive things about Mma Potokwane was her cheerfulness. The fact that she had failed in her request did not seem to upset her unduly; there would be plenty of other such chances.
The conversation moved on to other things. Mma Potokwane had a niece who was doing very well with her music—she played the piano—and she was hoping to get her a place in David Slater’s music camp. Mma Ramotswe heard all about this and then she heard about the troubles that Mma Potokwane’s brother was having with his cattle, which had not done well in the dry season. Two of them had also been stolen, and had appeared in somebody’s herd with a new brand on them. That was a terrible thing, did Mma Ramotswe not agree, and you would have thought that the local police would have found it easy to deal with such a matter. But they had not, said Mma Potokwane, and they had believed the story offered up by the man in whose herd they had been found. The police were easy to fool, Mma Potokwane suggested; she herself would not have been taken in by a story like that.
Their conversation might have continued for some time along these lines had it not been for the sudden arrival of another van, this time a large green one, which drove smartly through the open gate and drew to a halt in front of the verandah. Mma Ramotswe, puzzled by this further set of visitors, rose to her feet to investigate as a man got out of the front of the van and saluted her cheerfully.
“I am delivering a chair,” he announced. “Where do you want me to put it?”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I have not bought a chair,” she said. “I think that this must be the wrong house.”
“Oh?” said the man, consulting a piece of paper which he had extracted from his pocket. “Is this not Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house?”
“It is his house,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But …”
“Then this is the right place after all,” said the man. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni bought a chair the other day. Now it is ready. Mr Radiphuti told me to bring it.”
So, thought Mma Ramotswe, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been shopping, and she could hardly send the chair back. She nodded to the man and gestured to the door behind her. “Please put it through there, Rra,” she said. “That is where it will go.”
As the chair was carried past them, Mma Potokwane let out a whistle. “That is a very fine chair, Mma,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has made a very good choice.”
Mma Ramotswe did not reply. She could only imagine the price of such a chair, and she wondered what had possessed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to buy it. Well, they could talk about it later, when he came back. He could explain himself then.
She turned to Mma Potokwane and noticed that her friend was studying her, watching her reaction. “I’m sorry,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that he did not consult me. He does that sort of thing from time to time. It is a very expensive chair.”
“Don’t be hard on him,” said Mma Potokwane. “He is a very good man. And doesn’t he deserve a comfortable chair? Doesn’t he deserve a comfortable chair after all that hard work?”
Mma Ramotswe sat down. It was true. If Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wanted a comfortable chair, then surely he was entitled to one. She looked at her friend. Perhaps she had been too hard in her judgement of Mma Potokwane; here she was selflessly supporting Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, praising his hard work. She was a considerate woman.
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are right, Mma Potokwane. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been using an old chair for a long time. He deserves a new chair. You are quite right.”
There was a brief silence. Then Mma Potokwane spoke. “In that case,” she said, “do you think that you could give his old chair to the orphan farm? We would be able to use a chair like that. It would be very kind of you to do that, Mma, now that you no longer need it.”
There was very little that Mma Ramotswe could do but agree, although she reflected, ruefully, that once again the matron had managed to get something out of her. Well, it was for the orphans’ sake, and that, she felt, was the best cause of all. So she sighed, just very slightly, but enough for Mma Potokwane to hear, and agreed. Then she offered to pour Mma Potokwane a further cup of tea, and the offer was quickly accepted.
“I have some cake here,” said Mma Potokwane, reaching for the bag she had placed at her feet. “I thought that
you might like a piece.”
She opened the bag and took out a large parcel of cake, carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper. Mma Ramotswe watched intently as her visitor sliced the slab into two generous portions and laid them on the table, two pieces of paper acting as plates.
“That’s very kind of you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think that I’m going to have to say no thank you. You see, I am on a diet now.”
It was said without conviction, and her words faded away at the end of the sentence. But Mma Potokwane had heard, and looked up sharply. “Mma Ramotswe!” she exclaimed. “If you go on a diet, then what are the rest of us to do? What will all the other traditionally built ladies think if they hear about this? How can you be so unkind?”
“Unkind?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I do not see how this is unkind.”
“But it is,” protested Mma Potokwane. “Traditionally built people are always being told by other people to eat less. Their lives are often a misery. You are a well-known traditionally built person. If you go on a diet, then everybody else will feel guilty. They will feel that they have to go on a diet too, and that will spoil their lives.”
Mma Potokwane pushed one of the pieces of cake over to Mma Ramotswe. “You must take this, Mma,” she said. “I shall be eating my piece. I am traditionally built too, and we traditionally built people must stick together. We really must.”
Mma Potokwane picked up her piece of cake and took a large bite out of it. “It is very good, Mma,” she mumbled through a mouth full of fruit cake. “It is very good cake.”