The president consulted a piece of paper. “As a result of this, we have only one name to announce this evening, and that is the name of this year’s Woman of the Year—Violet Sephotho.”
To ringing applause, Violet walked onto the stage. The president stepped away from the podium and handed her a scroll and an envelope. There were cheers from the back of the hall and applause from all quarters. Lights flashed across the ceiling, glittering lights sending a message of triumph and glory. Mma Makutsi said nothing. She was frozen; turned, perhaps, into a pillar of salt—like Lot’s wife.
The presentation over, the crowd made its way to the buffet. In the hubbub of chat that filled the ballroom, Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe were silent, at least for several minutes.
“I have no appetite,” said Mma Makutsi at last. “I could not touch food. Not tonight. Not for some days, I fear.”
“Come on, now, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Worse things have happened.”
“I cannot think of anything worse than this, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “My heart is broken, broken, broken.”
Mma Ramotswe fetched her a plate of food from the buffet, but she simply toyed with it. After twenty minutes, during which they sat in morose isolation, Mma Ramotswe suggested that it was time to go.
“We can slip out,” she said. “All these people are too busy admiring one another.”
They made their way towards the door, and it was there that they met Violet Sephotho, her scroll under one arm and wearing the Woman of the Year ribbon.
Violet seemed surprised to see them. “I had not expected you two,” she said. “But it is very kind of you to come and share my evening. Thank you.”
Mma Makutsi swallowed hard. Mma Ramotswe, though, bowed her head politely. “It is a very great evening for you, Violet. Congratulations. I am very happy for you.”
She nudged Mma Makutsi, who looked up slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I am happy too, Violet.”
If there was any irony in Mma Makutsi’s words, Violet did not notice it. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I hope you have had a good meal too.”
Mma Ramotswe extended a hand to Violet, and Violet shook it. Then, after only a few seconds of hesitation, Mma Makutsi did the same.
They left, and outside in the car park, under the high sky of stars, they stood for a moment to breathe in the cool night air.
“You did the right thing back there,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “There is nobody—nobody—whose hand you should refuse to shake.”
“Even the Devil’s?” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. Then she gave her answer. “I used to believe in the Devil, you know, Mma. Now I don’t. So there can be no question of shaking a hand that doesn’t exist.”
Mma Makutsi awaited an explanation.
“You see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He’s not a separate person. He’s inside us. He’s there inside people—as part of what they are.”
“I’m not sure,” said Mma Makutsi.
“Well, I am,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi shook her head in disbelief—not about what Mma Ramotswe had just said, but about what had happened. How could it be that Botswana of all countries—the country that paid more attention to doing what was right than so many other countries—how could Botswana, of all places, choose as its Woman of the Year a person as self-seeking as Violet Sephotho? Did people not realise? Were people such poor judges of character as to be unable to see Violet for what she was?
She expressed these thoughts to Mma Ramotswe, who listened carefully.
“Mma Makutsi,” she said, her voice quiet and even, “there are many things in this world that are not right. You only have to look about you and you see them.”
“But, Mma, everybody should know about Violet Sephotho.”
“I’m afraid they don’t,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Or if they do, they don’t care, or they even admire qualities like that.”
“Selfishness? Wickedness? Is that what you’re saying, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a few moments. “They might not see them as that. They might think that people who are flashy—”
“She’s definitely that,” interrupted Mma Makutsi.
“…or shallow—”
“And that too,” said Mma Makutsi forcefully. “She’s as shallow as the far end of Gaborone Dam after a long drought. That’s how shallow she is, Mma.”
“And so people might vote for somebody like that because they think that’s what a woman of the year should be—ruthless, Mma. They think that a woman of the year should be a real go-getter, determined to succeed.”
Mma Makutsi shook her head again. “How can this be, Mma? How can people be so wrong?”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Fortunately nobody will pay much attention. I don’t think that Violet will be remembered for long.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets Woman of the Year painted on the side of her car.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I hope she does that, Mma. Imagine how we’ll all laugh when we see that car go by.”
Mma Makutsi looked outraged, but only for a short time. Then she started to grin. “It is quite funny, isn’t it, Mma? Violet Sephotho elected Woman of the Year because she probably paid people to vote for her. And all those officials being fooled into thinking she deserves it. There is a funny side to it, isn’t there?”
“Just,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But even when there’s a very small funny side to something—very small in this case—it makes it easier to bear, don’t you think, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi did think that, and her mood lifted.
They walked towards the van, so small and shabby alongside all the official cars parked in front of the hotel that night. But there was not one of those cars—not one—that Mma Ramotswe would have accepted in exchange for her van. Not one.
—
THE NEXT DAY she drove out to the Orphan Farm to visit Mma Potokwane. She had a great deal to tell her friend, who liked to be kept up with developments. There was news of Mr. Polopetsi—Mma Potokwane had not heard about the sorting out of that problem, and would be pleased with the outcome. That had been a troubling situation that could have ended very differently. Then there was the remarkable outcome of the Woman of the Year Award. Mma Potokwane would not be at all pleased to hear that Violet had won that, but she was robust and would get over the shock. And finally there was the Susan story. Mma Ramotswe would enjoy telling her friend all about that and about the outcome, which was clearly a good one. Anger, and its close cousin revenge, had come off second best to forgiveness and to the realisation that current unhappiness is not always helped by delving into the past, but can be dealt with by other, more productive means. “People often make that discovery themselves,” observed Mma Potokwane. “All they need is a bit of a push.”
They went to visit one of the housemothers. She received them warmly and took them into one of the small bedrooms that made up each house. It was afternoon rest time for the younger children, and there, on the lower bunk, lying head to toe, were the brother and sister whom Mma Ramotswe had seen on her last visit. And on the bed with them, curled up and comfortable—against all the regulations—was Fanwell’s dog. When they entered the room he awoke and gave a low, protective growl.
“He is looking after them,” said the housemother. “He is very fond of them.”
Mma Ramotswe turned away. She did not want others to see her tears.
“It is good to have somebody to watch over you,” said Mma Potokwane. “It is very good.” And then she looked at her watch. “And somebody to make you tea too.”
“That is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe, just managing to keep her voice even.
They walked back to Mma Potokwane’s office in silence. Above them the sky of Botswana was empty, except for a small corner in the distance, behind the wind, beyond the hills—a small patch of purple that was a great cloud of life-giving rain
, the rain the parched land so yearned for; small now, but heading their way like an angel of mercy on great wings.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series, and the 44 Scotland Street series. He is a professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and has served with many national and international organizations concerned with bioethics. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and was a law professor at the University of Botswana. He lives in Scotland.
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Alexander McCall Smith, Precious and Grace
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