“This car has its sneaky side,” said Mr. Matabane. “You know that sort of car, Rra? A good car at heart, but with what these days they call issues.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “Many cars have issues, Rra. That is why I am in business here. If cars didn’t have issues, then there would be no Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.”
“And you would be doing something else, J.L.B.?”
He did not like the abbreviation. There were one or two people who called him J.L.B.—uninvited—and it grated. He was tempted to say, “I have issues with being called J.L.B.,” but was too mild to do so. Instead he said, “I have never thought of doing anything else. I think I could only work with cars.”
Mr. Matabane nodded. “That is what a true artist says. My dentist says that too. He says he would be very unhappy if there were no teeth. Teeth are everything to him. It is always teeth, teeth, teeth.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his watch. “Your car, Rra? This noise?”
“It is a sort of groan, I think. Everything is going normally, and then there is this groan when we get up to eighty kilometres. Groan. All the time, as if it has a sore stomach. Just like that. And it stays until the speed drops right back.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni stared at the car. There came a time with vehicles, and a mechanic usually knew when that time was. The problem, though, was that the owner of the vehicle often did not. There had been that old people carrier that Mma Potokwane had used to transport children—that had reached its time well before it was eventually scrapped; closer to home, indeed at home, there was Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van; and now there was Mr. Lefa Matabane’s blue saloon with its bald tyres, its cracked upholstery, and its flaking paint that he had jokingly referred to as car dandruff—a comment that had not gone down well with Mr. Lefa Matabane, who had sighed and looked at him reproachfully.
All of these cars, he thought, had simply reached their time and should be allowed to go. We did that with people. A person who was very old and very tired, who did not want to linger too long, would be allowed to sit outside the house in the morning sun and dream about the past and would not be made to run about and do things that nobody of that age would want to do. Why would people not do the same with cars?
“I think your car may be tired,” he said to Mr. Matabane. “Cars reach a point, Rra—”
He was not allowed to finish. “But it still goes, J.L.B.,” came the retort. “If a car goes, why get rid of it? This car has been going for a long time, right from the beginning. It was over in Swaziland, you know. Before it came to Botswana. It gave good service there to a man in Manzini. It was a well-known car there, I believe.”
And so there had been no alternative but to set out with Mr. Lefa Matabane for a test drive, which was inconclusive, because the evening traffic, with everybody wanting to get home, had prevented them from reaching the speed at which the groan would appear. The car had been left at the garage, with a promise that it would be looked at again the following day. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been required to drive Mr. Lefa Matabane back home, and had been cajoled there to come inside and meet his brother-in-law, who was on a visit from Mahalapye, and who had gone on at some length about a car he had almost bought that had turned out to be stolen. It was a long story, and in spite of frequent glances at his watch, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been unable to extricate himself for over half an hour.
Mma Ramotswe understood, of course. And it was not inconvenient for her, because there was rather more to do in the evenings now that there was a young child in the house. The helper, whose name was Pretty, had settled into the room in the back yard and had proved to be easy company and helpful in the kitchen. She was liked, too, by Puso and Motholeli, and they had all cooked their own dinner that evening, leaving Mma Ramotswe free to repair some of the clothing Daisy had brought with her.
By the time that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni returned, the children were already in bed. Pretty had settled Daisy, who was tired and dropped off to sleep almost immediately, before she herself had taken a plate of food back to her own room. She had been shy about eating in the kitchen—“It is your place, Mma”—but Mma Ramotswe hoped that this would pass. “If you are with us, Pretty, then this is your place too.” But Pretty had demurred—“You have a husband, Mma. You will want to be with your husband.”
“She’s very easy, that Pretty,” Mma Ramotswe said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as they sat down together on the verandah before dinner. This was their time together, and Mma Ramotswe had always cherished it—a time when the day’s events could be talked about and put in perspective. It was a time, too, for silences—not long ones, or heavy ones, but silences during which they could think about what had just been said, or sometimes about what might have been said, but, for some reason, had not been.
“Daisy,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And then he sighed.
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I’m not sure…”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing, and after a short silence, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued, “You see…”
“Yes, Rra?”
“It’s just that…”
And then silence, and he asked himself, How could I? How could I close my heart to that child? The answer was unspoken, but was as clear and unambiguous as if it had been announced at the top of his voice, or written in clouds across the sky: You cannot. You simply cannot, because life was full of tears and suffering, and if it was given to you to do something—anything, really—a big thing or a small thing, to make that suffering easier, then how could you refuse to do it? How could you dodge that moment? So he said, “I hope she is happy.”
Mma Ramotswe’s heart went out to him. This was the man she loved above all other men—apart from her father, of course, the late Obed Ramotswe. Not that there was any rivalry between them, nor conflict in their claims. Her father had never got to know Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, but she knew that he would have approved of him because they both stood for all that was best in Botswana. If only he could come back—even for the shortest time, even a day—so that she could show him the man she had married and tell him how good he had been to her. Perhaps he knew, of course; perhaps he could see what was happening from that other Botswana where the late people were—that place of light and happiness and unfailing, gentle rain.
Rain…There were people, she knew, who did not like rain, who called rain bad or a nuisance; people for whom rainy weather was a curse to be endured. It was hard to believe that anybody could think that way, but she had been led to believe that in those far-off places, this is how people thought.
“I have been thinking of rain,” she said now, because there was nothing more to be said about Daisy.
“Ah, rain,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Well, we need rain, Mma. We would be blessed if there were rain soon.” He shook his head. He had been out at the dam from which the town drew its water and had seen that it was reduced to a few disheartened puddles, and all about there was dry, caked mud, cracked by the sun.
“We are very fortunate that they decided to build that pipeline,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued.
“Even if it turned out to be a bit leaky.”
“Even so, Mma. It has saved us.”
It had, she thought. The pipeline that brought water down from the far north of the country had allowed so much of their precious water to leak out, but it had still saved them from disaster.
“But still we need rain,” she said. And then she changed the subject again and began to tell him about the day’s uncomfortable discovery.
“You remember Calviniah’s daughter, Rra? We talked about her.”
“The one who works in the diamond office? The one who is ignoring her mother?”
She nodded. “She is treating her very cruelly. But now I think I have found the reason.”
He looked interested. “It is unusual for a daughter to be like that. Sometimes a
son won’t care about family, but daughters usually do. So what lies behind it, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe told him of their discoveries. He shook his head disapprovingly as she related her conversation with the neighbour, but when the second man was mentioned, his disapproval prompted him to groan. “That’s very shocking, Mma. Two boyfriends. I have never heard of such a thing. Never!”
Mma Ramotswe expressed her surprise. “But, Rra, that is what they call two-timing. It is very common—surely you have heard of it.”
“No, Mma, I have not come across it personally. I have heard of married men who have had a girlfriend—and I believe there is a lot of that going on—but this—”
Mma Ramotswe interrupted him. “Hold on, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “This is exactly the same thing.”
“No, it’s different, Mma. This is a woman with two boyfriends.”
Mma Ramotswe was patient. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was an old-fashioned man, and she should not be surprised if he were to express old-fashioned views, but she could not let such double standards go unrebuked—at least gently. Mma Ramotswe did not approve of the strident hectoring of others that some people now engaged in, but she did believe that you could tactfully let people know that the world had moved on.
“No, Rra,” she began. “We must expect the same standards from both men and women. Men cannot say there is one rule for them and another rule for women. We are all bound by the same rules these days.”
“But you do not expect a woman to have two boyfriends,” protested Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.
“Then you must not expect a man to have two girlfriends,” Mma Ramotswe countered. “We must treat men and women equally.”
“Are you saying there is no difference between men and women?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.
“I am not saying that, Rra.”
He was smiling. It was a serious discussion, but he was nonetheless amused by it. Women were always insisting that no distinction should be made, but who did they turn to if there was some hard piece of physical work to be done? To men, he told himself. And if there was noise outside at night that needed investigating, then who was sent out to look into it? Who had to take the risk of coming face-to-face with a leopard, or even a lion? Men. That is what he thought. Men were still expected to do things that women were reluctant to do.
“I know that women do not think very highly of men these days,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued. “I know that they think men are useless, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe denied this vigorously. “I do not think that,” she said. “I am not one of those women who run down men.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni knew that this was true. Mma Ramotswe liked men, and was kind to them, just as she was kind to everyone. But there were women, he was sure of it, who seemed to enjoy belittling men. And it seemed to him that these women were allowed to say disparaging things about men, whereas men were definitely not permitted to say such things about women. Only the other day a member of the legislative assembly—a man—had found himself in terrible trouble for having said a political rival—a junior government minister—should go back to cooking in her kitchen. He had been heavily criticised for this—and rightly so, thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—but there had been no criticism of a female politician who had recently expressed the view that girls were doing better at high school than boys because they were more intelligent. “Boys can be very stupid,” she had said. “They are good at making noise and disturbing the class—they are not so good at learning things and writing examinations.” That was a double standard, thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and he was fed up with people saying unpleasant things about men and not being pulled up on it.
It was a complex issue—and a fraught one. But on one thing, at least, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni agreed: they did not want the country torn apart by a war of accusation and counter-accusation between men and women—an argument that seemed to have made so many other countries unhappy with themselves. How can you have a peaceful country where one half of the population thinks that the other is wrong, or hostile, or determined to do them down? What better recipe for unhappiness was there than that?
They skirted round the question of double standards. “The important question,” Mma Ramotswe said, “is this: Is this the reason why Nametso is avoiding her mother?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not long in answering. “I think so,” he said. “If you do something that you know your mother will not like, what do you do? You keep her away from the thing that will disturb her. And you say to yourself: I am going to lead my life without her poking her nose into my affairs. That is what you do, Mma.”
“And that is what has happened here, Rra? Is that what you think?”
“It is exactly what has happened,” he said, adding, “I think.”
She asked him what she should do. Should she tell Calviniah that her daughter was seeing two men? How did one put that tactfully? Did you say, “Your daughter is being very wise, Mma. If you want to avoid being left with one boyfriend, make sure that you have a spare one all the time”? That was one way of conveying the information, but she was not sure that it would make much difference to the recipient. No parent likes to hear that sort of news about their offspring.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought for a while before he gave his answer. When he spoke, his opinion was firm. “You do not tell her anything about this, Mma Ramotswe. That is my advice to you. Stay quiet. Forget that you ever found this out about this Nametso lady. Say nothing, Mma.”
She asked him why.
“Because it will not help for her to know this about her daughter. It will only make it worse if the mother comes along and chides her for carrying on with men.”
“Why, Rra? Why will it make it worse?”
“Because the young woman will be angry with her mother. She will tell her to mind her own business.”
As she considered this answer, Mma Ramotswe suddenly had a moment of epiphany. Yes, that would explain it. It was obvious, once one came to think of it.
“I think I know what to do,” she said. “I think it is clear now.”
He waited for her to explain.
“When a child behaves badly,” Mma Ramotswe said, “it is often because it wants attention. That is so, don’t you think, Rra?”
He shrugged. “I am not a great expert in these things, Mma. Usually it is women who know why children do the things they do.”
“Well, I think that is true,” Mma Ramotswe said. “Children behave badly because their parents are not giving them the attention they want. So the child thinks: If I do something bad, then at least my mother or my father will have to look at me.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked out at the darkening garden. The last rays of sun had gone now, and there was only a faint glow left in the sky. “But if she wanted her mother to see what she was doing, she would have told her about it. How can she expect to get her mother’s attention if the mother has no idea what she’s doing?”
“That is a very difficult question, Rra.”
He nodded. “Well, what’s the answer?”
Mma Ramotswe had a cup of red bush tea on the table beside her. She reached for this, but she had let it become cold, and so she put it down without taking a sip.
“What if the mother does know?” she asked.
“But you said that she’s avoiding her mother. That is why I thought that Calviniah wouldn’t know.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Perhaps, Rra. Perhaps. But what if she does know and doesn’t want me to know that she knows? What if it is the mother who is ashamed of the daughter? What if Calviniah wants me to do something, but cannot bring herself to tell me what her daughter is up to?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. This was becoming too complicated for him. He was on firm ground when it came to mechanical issues and the like, but he felt that the sort of complexities with which Mma Ramotswe had
to concern herself in her work were sometimes beyond him. “Who can tell, Mma?” he said at last.
They lapsed into silence. A bird flew past the house, a late returner to the safety of its branch. Mma Ramotswe smiled to herself, a memory triggered. As a child, she had walked one evening with her father in the bush on the edge of Mochudi, a place of thorn trees and scrub grass, criss-crossed by meandering paths. Cattle walked that way, and somewhere in the distance there was the sound of cattle bells. The sun had set, but there were a few precious minutes of light left—a time when the sky was still pale with the day’s last moments. And a pair of guinea fowl had suddenly clattered up in front of them, fussing and anxious, and had flown up into the branches of a nearby tree. Her father had said—and she remembered his words—“Night is not always a friend, my darling.” It was a strange thing for him to say, and it was equally strange that she should remember his words with such clarity after all these years. But she nurtured any memory of that great man, her father, tended it as one might tend a delicate plant; always, forever.
She wondered what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was thinking about. She had reflected in the past on how two lives might be led as one, but only on the outside; on the inside very different thoughts might be in the minds of husband and wife. Was he thinking right now, for instance, of something somebody had said to him at the garage? Or of some mechanical problem that had not been resolved that day and would have to be dealt with the following morning? Or was he thinking of something altogether different? Money? Cattle? Or rain, perhaps, because everybody was thinking of rain now, so great was their longing.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” she said quietly. “You may be thinking of something important.”
He laughed. “I am not thinking of anything very much, Mma. Just my dinner.”
“Is that what men think about?” she asked playfully. “Mma Potokwane says it is. She says that men think of meat all the time. Steak. That is what she says.”
“Some of the time, maybe,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I was wondering when we would be having dinner tonight.” He glanced at his watch and then, becoming aware that she had noticed, he looked apologetic. “Although I am still happy to talk about this lady with her two boyfriends—and to tell you what I think you should do.”
To the Land of Long Lost Friends Page 18