Mma Ramotswe continued to stare at the picture. She had a plate with a picture of the Queen on it, and a biscuit tin with Prince Charles on the top. ‘My father met Seretse,’ she said. ‘When he came to Mochudi, he met him.’
Mma Molapo absorbed this. ‘You know who my father was, Mma?’
‘I do, Mma. He was a good friend of Seretse’s.’
Mma Molapo smiled. ‘I met him too. Many times. He came to this house once and sat in that chair over there, Mma – that very chair.’
Mma Ramotswe looked at the shabby green armchair that suddenly seemed so important.
‘Why don’t you sit in it, Mma?’ said Mma Molapo. ‘I’ll fetch tea.’
Mma Ramotswe lowered herself into the armchair. It felt much as any other armchair, if perhaps a little bit harder, but she was aware of the historical significance of the moment. She was sitting in an armchair that had once supported the greatest man in Botswana’s history, a man who had set an example to all of Africa, and to the world, in much the same way as Mr Mandela had done. And here was she, an ordinary woman from Mochudi, of no particular distinction – at least in her mind, even if she was the first lady private detective in Botswana – seated in the great man’s chair.
Mma Molapo returned with two cups of tea. ‘Is everything going all right with the execution?’ she asked.
Mma Ramotswe was puzzled. ‘Execution, Mma? Who is being executed? I do not know of anybody who is going to be executed.’
‘The will,’ said Mma Molapo. ‘Lawyers make a big fuss over the execution of the will.’
Mma Ramotswe laughed. ‘That is executry, I think, Mma. They call it executry.’
Mma Molapo waved a hand airily. ‘I often get words mixed up. I’m hopeless that way, Mma.’
Mma Ramotswe found herself warming to the other woman. She knew that it was too early to reach any conclusion, but she found it difficult to think of this well-mannered and modest woman being a liar.
‘Mma Sheba is taking a long time,’ said Mma Molapo as she sipped her tea. ‘Are there any difficulties, Mma? Is that why she sent you?’
Mma Ramotswe detected a note of anxiety in Mma Molapo’s voice, but thought that anybody would be anxious when discussing the timescale against which lawyers conducted their business. ‘I don’t think there is any particular problem,’ she said. ‘These things are slow. They have to check and double-check everything. She sent me to find out that everything was all right at this end.’ That, she thought, is true; I have not told any lies.
Mma Molapo sighed. ‘I know about lawyers. They are like tortoises. Some people say that they are the tortoise’s cousins. And I also know that I shouldn’t be impatient; it’s just that my nephew would like to get everything sorted out. You know how young men are.’
Mma Ramotswe saw her opportunity. ‘Is your nephew here? Could I meet him, do you think?’
‘Certainly you can, Mma. He is outside, working in the shed. I shall go and fetch him.’
Mma Molapo left the room and Mma Ramotswe sat in the Seretse Khama armchair, deep in thought. After a minute or two, she got up and crossed the room to the window, and looked out. Her eye was first caught by the windmill; the breeze had stopped and the blades were still, etched sharply against the blue of the sky. But then she saw, standing in front of the shed, Mma Molapo and a tall young man wearing a bright red T-shirt and one of the narrow-brimmed round hats that were all the fashion with young men. Mma Ramotswe did not like those hats, which she thought made the wearers look like children; but that, she reflected, might be the idea behind them. Some young men did not want to grow up and seemed to cling to the things of boyhood. But then she thought: perhaps they have good reason to do that. Perhaps what they saw in the world of adults was conflict and competition that scared them. And anyway, hats were nothing much – young people had always worn hats that older people considered ridiculous. It had always been so, probably since hats were first invented.
She watched the two figures, making sure that she was standing well enough back from the window so as not to be seen. Mma Molapo appeared to be lecturing her nephew about something. He made a defensive gesture and then nodded his head, as if agreeing to the terms of some bargain. She watched them. Something was happening, but she had no idea what it was.
They began to walk towards the house, and Mma Ramotswe went back to her chair. A few minutes later the door opened and Mma Molapo came into the room, followed by the tall young man. Mma Ramotswe noticed that the red T-shirt had been replaced by a smart white open-necked shirt; of the ridiculous round hat there was nothing to be seen.
Mma Molapo effected the introduction, and Liso stepped forward to offer his hand politely. He spoke in Setswana to begin with before switching to English, and Mma Ramotswe noticed that his Setswana was perfectly enunciated. If he had been brought up in another country, it certainly did not show in his accent.
‘So, Liso,’ Mma Ramotswe began. ‘You are going to be a farmer soon.’
Liso was modest. ‘I will have to learn how to do it, Mma.’
‘You’ve never lived on a farm?’
He hesitated, but only slightly. ‘I used to come here when my uncle was alive.’
‘He stayed with us,’ said Mma Molapo. ‘Every school holiday, he stayed with us.’
‘But back in… where was it? Swaziland? On that side you stayed…’
‘In a hotel,’ supplied Mma Molapo. ‘His father, my other brother, who is late too, was the manager of a hotel in the Ezulweni Valley. Do you know Swaziland, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. ‘I would like to go some day, but I only really know Botswana, I’m afraid.’
It seemed that Mma Molapo was pleased to hear this answer. ‘It is a much smaller country, Mma, and much greener too.’
‘I have heard that they have forests,’ said Mma Ramotswe. She directed the comment to Liso, but again it was intercepted by Mma Molapo.
‘There are many forests,’ said Mma Molapo.
‘And rivers,’ said Mma Ramotswe. She turned to Liso. ‘Liso, there are some good rivers in Swaziland, aren’t there? Always full of water. Do you like that one, the river that…’
She was interrupted by Mma Molapo. ‘The Umbeluzi,’ she said. ‘That is the one you like, isn’t it, Liso?’
The young man nodded. He had been looking at Mma Molapo, but now he turned to Mma Ramotswe and beamed at her. ‘There are crocodiles in the Umbeluzi, Mma. I used to walk beside it when I was a little boy and my father used to say, “You be careful of old croc! Old croc would like you for his dinner!”’
‘I do not like crocodiles much,’ said Mma Ramotswe.
‘Nobody likes crocodiles,’ said Mma Molapo.
This brought a chuckle from Mma Ramotswe. ‘Except their mothers, perhaps.’
This remark seemed to have a strange effect. Liso looked at Mma Molapo, who pursed her lips together discouragingly. Mma Ramotswe was puzzled. Why, she wondered, should a remark about nobody liking crocodiles produce this reaction?
Mma Molapo changed the subject. ‘When Liso is the owner of this farm,’ she said, ‘he is going to get the fences fixed. I’m afraid that my late brother allowed them to deteriorate and now they are in a very bad state in some places.’
Liso greeted this comment enthusiastically. ‘I can do a lot of it myself,’ he said. ‘I have helped to mend the fences here before.’
Mma Ramotswe was watching him. ‘When was that, Liso?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘Last time.’
‘Last year?’
Mma Molapo looked at her watch. ‘My goodness,’ she said hurriedly. ‘It gets late so quickly.’
Mma Ramotswe decided to ignore the intervention. ‘You helped your uncle last year?’
Liso looked away briefly, but then turned to smile at Mma Ramotswe. ‘Yes, Mma.’
‘But your uncle was very ill then, wasn’t he? Was he strong enough to work?’
Mma Molapo rose to her feet. ‘My poor brother was ill but he was able
to walk until the very last day of his life. Now, Mma Ramotswe, I must go and do some work. You must excuse me.’
Mma Ramotswe replied quickly, ‘That is quite all right, Mma. You do your work and Liso can show me the outbuildings. We have to make sure that everything is correct on the inventory, you see. You can do that, can’t you, Liso?’
Had Liso not answered, Mma Molapo would probably have vetoed the suggestion. Certainly she began to say something, but the young man had already accepted. ‘I can do that, Mma. Yes, I can do that.’
It was clear that Mma Molapo was reluctant to allow the two of them to go outside together, but she had insisted that she had work to do and she could hardly go back on that. ‘Very well, Mma,’ she said. ‘He can show you. But he must not take too long. He has some work to do too, I think.’
Mma Ramotswe rose from the Seretse Khama armchair and started to make her way towards the door, followed by Liso. Once outside, she pointed to one of the sheds and asked the young man what it contained. ‘There are some ploughs in there,’ he said. ‘And there is a tractor. It is quite new, I think. It is a good one.’
They walked across to the shed to inspect the ploughs and the tractor. ‘Where were you at school in Swaziland?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.
He did not hesitate. ‘Manzini. I was at school there, Mma.’
She absorbed the information. She did not know very much about Swaziland, but she knew that the two major towns were Mbabane and Manzini.
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to go to Mbabane?’ she asked.
He said nothing.
‘Don’t you think so?’ she pressed.
‘Why, Mma?’
‘Well, it’s closer than Manzini. Your father ran a hotel, didn’t he? Wasn’t that in the Ezulweni Valley?’
‘It was,’ he said. ‘Manzini was further away but it has a very good school. There is one down by the hospital there – you know the place? It was run by the Fathers. They are Catholic. I came top of the class for two years, Mma.’
Of course she did not know the school, but she nodded.
He opened the door of the barn. The air inside was stale and hot, and it smelled of a mixture of spilled oil – a scent she knew very well from Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors – and straw. She saw the straw – bales of it at the back, stacked almost to the ceiling like giant building bricks. She wanted to sneeze.
‘That’s the tractor,’ he said proudly. ‘I have started it to make sure that the battery doesn’t go flat, but I have not driven it yet. Driving a tractor is different, you know, Mma, from driving a car.’
‘You can drive, Liso?’
‘Yes, I can drive, Mma. I do not have a car yet, but I can drive.’
‘You passed your test in Swaziland?’
He nodded. ‘Last year.’
She stored the information away. Mma Sheba had not told her the age of the real Liso. If this Liso, whether or not he was the real one, had passed his test in Swaziland last year, he must be at least eighteen, assuming that the minimum driving age there was the same as it was in Botswana.
They left the barn, and he led her to a shed a short distance away. ‘This is where they keep the dip for the cattle, Mma,’ he said. ‘It has a very strong smell – you will not like it.’
She smiled. ‘I know that smell well,’ she said. ‘I used to count the cattle going through the dip when I was a little girl. It is a bit like tar, but different. I will never forget that smell, Liso.’
He grinned back at her. ‘I spilled some on my shirt once when I was helping my uncle. I had to throw the shirt away.’
He spoke so naturally that she knew the story was true. But then one could spill cattle dip on one’s shirt in any circumstances, and he might well have a memory of such an incident that had happened elsewhere.
‘I can show you the septic tank, if you like,’ Liso now offered. ‘It is over there, Mma.’
She declined the offer. ‘I mustn’t hold you up, Liso,’ she said. ‘I have things to do in Gaborone and your aunt says you have some work to do too. I have seen that everything is in good order. I will tell the lawyers.’
He smiled at her. ‘That is kind, Mma. And could you ask them to hurry up? I do not want to waste too much time.’
‘I’ll do that, Liso. But you have plenty of time, don’t you think? You are still seventeen, and that is not old.’
‘Eighteen,’ he corrected.
‘Of course – eighteen. But when you’re eighteen you still have most of your life ahead of you. You will be staying on this farm for a long, long time.’
She searched his expression as she pronounced the sentence of years on the farm. She was not sure what sign she was looking for, but it had something to do with an awareness on his part that he knew that he was not going to be there for the rest of his life, a sign that he had other plans. But he showed no emotion, and appeared to accept what she said with equanimity.
As she walked back towards her van, she saw a movement at the window. She was not surprised; Mma Molapo would have been watching them. There was an innocent explanation for that. If you lived out in the bush as they did, and somebody came to see you, you would be watching. There was not much else to do out here, and a stranger was intriguing, whatever her business.
‘Thank you for showing me round,’ said Mma Ramotswe, offering Liso her hand to shake. He took it, and used the proper formalities, placing his right hand on the forearm of his left: a sign of respect. Top marks again, she thought… for what? For acting?
She started the van. The young man was standing there respectfully, waiting for her to leave. She caught his eye, and it seemed to her that there was between them a momentary exchange of fellow feeling. She felt ashamed. You should trust people, she thought, and not seek to trip them up or unmask them. Unless, of course, you were a private detective, and were paid by others to do just that. As she turned the tiny white van down the farm track, she found herself thinking something that had not occurred to her during all the years she had been running the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. And that thought was this: Should I be doing something else? Should I return to a world where there was no call to be suspicious? She wondered about that. That was how she wanted the world to be, and that, in a way, was what her work was intended to bring about. She sighed, and decided to focus on something quite different. Fruitcake came to her mind unbidden – a large fruitcake rich in sultanas and candied peel; the sort of cake that would torment and tantalise those on a diet. But Mma Ramotswe was neither dieting nor planning to do so, and she welcomed the vision wholeheartedly. She had not had fruitcake for a long time, and the idea of a generous slice – or possibly even two slices – seemed very attractive. It meant, of course, a slight detour on her journey back. There were two ladies in Botswana who made good fruitcake, and Mma Potokwani was one of them.
Chapter Eight
He Was the Light of Our Lives
There were two places called Mokolodi. There was the small game reserve to the south of Gaborone, barely a mile off the Lobatse Road, and there was the farm with its large stone house, the original Mokolodi, where Mma Ramotswe’s friend Gwithie lived. They had all been one large farm in the past, until the land was given to the children of Botswana for a nature reserve. Mma Ramotswe knew the reserve well, and had some years previously helped them with an issue of superstitious staff being frightened by the presence of a ground hornbill. That bird! Now here was Mma Soleti being driven into a state of fear by a single feather. It was ridiculous, completely ridiculous, that otherwise sensible people should believe in things like that. Except that they did. People believed all sorts of things and were not easily persuaded that what they feared was really harmless. And the things they believed by day were often different from the things they believed at night. The shadows you saw on the ground at midday were just that: shadows caused by some very ordinary object that blocked out the sun. The shadows you saw by night, by contrast, could be the shapes of things with no name: things that moved silently and chan
ged their form; things that could touch the skin with icy coldness; things that could draw the breath out of your body and leave you gasping for air. It was all very well saying that such things did not exist, but to the people who saw them and felt them they were as real as the ground beneath their feet.
The gates of Mokolodi were topped, as it happened, with an ornamental hornbill worked in iron. This was the ordinary hornbill, though – the cousin of the bird that spent much of its time grounded – and it did not have the same power to frighten. Perhaps, she thought, if you wanted gates to do the job of discouraging unwanted visitors, you might put the ground hornbill there.
She passed through the gates and drove up to the main house. Here she parked in the shadow of the house itself – a cool well of shade that would keep the cab of the van from feeling like an inferno when she returned to it. As she got out, her friend appeared from the side of the house, a gardening trowel in one hand and a basket of plant cuttings in another.
Gwithie put down the basket and walked over to the van to welcome Mma Ramotswe.
‘Mmapuso,’ said Mma Ramotswe as she got out of the car. ‘Dumela, Mmapuso.’ She used the name by which the other woman was generally known – Mmapuso, the mother of Puso. She too had a Puso, the same name as one of Mma Ramotswe’s foster children. Mmapuso had lost hers some time ago now, but the name remained.
The two old friends embraced and then Mma Ramotswe took Gwithie’s hand and pressed it, not once but several times. No words were exchanged, but the gesture of sympathy was understood. They had both lost the one thing in this life that is hardest to lose.
They went into the garden at the side of the house, crossing an expanse of grass that was dominated by a large jacaranda tree whose umbrella branches stretched out to provide an enticing circle of shade. In spite of the late dry season, the beds around the edge of the grass still had colour, surviving on the tiny amounts of water doled out to them by a drip-feed system of irrigation. The husbandry of water was well understood here: the using of every precious drop, the giving of water to those plants that needed it while the waxy desert plants like cacti were left to wait until the rain eventually brought them relief.
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