“You are very kind, Rra,” she said. “I suppose the truth of the matter is that none of us can imagine the world without ourselves in it, but it always carries on, doesn’t it, even after we’ve left?”
She gestured towards the verandah. “There is a place to sit there, Rra. And there is a pot of tea.”
He followed her and sat down on one of the verandah chairs. “We do not have a verandah,” he said. “I have often thought I would build one, but I have never got round to it.”
“I am sorry that you have no verandah, Rra,” she said as she poured him a cup of tea. It was time, though, to stop this talk of walking and becoming late and verandahs and get down to the real reason for his visit. “But now, Mr. Polopetsi, you might like to tell me what’s going on.”
He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mma, I was not trying to conceal anything from you. It’s just that Mma Makutsi is a bit…”
She held up a hand. “You don’t need to apologise, Rra. I know that Mma Makutsi is a bit…” She paused. “Tell me: What’s happening? Who is this client?”
He drained his teacup in a single swig. “I shall tell you, Mma, and I shall begin with that very first day of your holiday. We were in the office and a lady came in. She had not made an appointment, but we were all there—Mma Makutsi, me, and Charlie. I was sitting in Mma Makutsi’s chair—at her desk.”
She nodded politely, willing him to continue. “And Mma Makutsi at mine?”
“Yes, she was sitting at your desk. Charlie has no desk.”
“No.” And she thought: Please, Rra, get to the point!
“There is no room for a desk for him.”
She sighed; she had not intended it, but a sigh escaped.
He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, Mma Ramotswe?”
“I am perfectly all right, Rra. I just feel that it is as if we are walking around in the dark and not getting anywhere. You know those dreams we have—those dreams where we are trying to get somewhere and we can’t get there because for some reason we can’t move? It is a bit like that.”
His expression brightened. “Oh, I have those dreams, Mma; I know what you’re talking about. Last night, for instance, my wife woke me up and said that I was kicking about in the bed and she thought—”
She had to interrupt. “Mr. Polopetsi! We are not talking about dreams.”
He was a picture of injured innocence. “But you raised the subject, Mma. You’re the one who mentioned dreams.”
She sighed again. “Yes, you are right, Rra. I raised the subject of dreams. But I feel that we need to get back to what you were saying about the office. This woman came in…Carry on from there.”
He became businesslike. “She came in. We were all there—as I have said. She came in and said: ‘I am Mma Potokwane.’ ”
Mma Ramotswe gave a start. This was the last thing she had expected. She could not imagine Mma Potokwane as a client—it simply made no sense. And why would she need to introduce herself: even if Mr. Polopetsi had not come across Mma Potokwane, then Mma Makutsi and Charlie had; they knew exactly who Mma Potokwane was.
Mr. Polopetsi realised that an explanation was needed. “Oh no, Mma—not that Mma Potokwane. Not the Mma Potokwane who’s a friend of yours. Not the matron at that place for orphans. That very big lady.”
Mma Ramotswe did not think of Mma Potokwane as being particularly large; she was not small, of course, but then Mr. Polopetsi was a very slight man. She imagined that in his eyes just about everybody would look big, perhaps even intimidatingly so, and that might explain Mr. Polopetsi’s rather diffident manner. “Another Potokwane?” she asked.
“Yes, precisely that, Mma. Another Potokwane.”
She reached for the teapot. “So this Potokwane lady,” she said, “this different Potokwane lady, came into the office. What then, Rra?”
Mr. Polopetsi leaned forward in his seat. “It is a very delicate story, Mma. Some of these matters, as you well know, are very delicate indeed.”
She assured him that her years of experience as a private detective had already taught her that. “Ours is a very delicate profession, Rra. It really is.”
Mr. Polopetsi appeared pleased by the reference to our profession. “Yes,” he said, beaming with the pleasure that comes with inclusion in a club. “Yes, we have to be very careful. We have to tread like mice.”
For a moment Mma Ramotswe saw Mr. Polopetsi as a mouse. He would suit the role, she thought, with his rather small nose and his dainty feet; he would be a very convincing mouse. She, by contrast, would not be much of a mouse; more of a cat, perhaps—a traditionally built cat.
Mr. Polopetsi continued with his story. “This Mma Potokwane explained that it was a family matter. She said that she is the wife of a man called Pound Potokwane. Her own name—before she got married—was Keboneng.”
Mr. Polopetsi waited for her reaction.
“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a well-known name, isn’t it?”
Mr. Polopetsi nodded. “That man—the well-known Keboneng—was her brother. It was a small family, with just those two—Mma Potokwane, as she now is, and her brother, Government Keboneng.”
“Of course he’s late, isn’t he? Government Keboneng was bitten by a snake, wasn’t he? It was all over the papers.”
Mr. Polopetsi recalled the story. “I remember it very well. I read all about it. It was a very shocking thing. He was at a church picnic out near the dam. He went into the bush to obey a call of nature and he was bitten by a mamba. They rushed him into the Princess Marina, but it was too late—those snakes are too poisonous. He was already late by the time they arrived in Gaborone.”
“It was very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was a very popular man. He was a politician, wasn’t he?”
“He was.” Mr. Polopetsi paused. “It was a good name for a politician. I wonder if it was his real name or whether he just took it when he went into politics. Do you know, Mma Ramotswe?”
She did not. “It would not have suited him when he was a boy, I think. But I agree with you, Rra. If you have a name like that on the ballot paper—Government—then you surely are going to think, This man is destined for power. And if you think that, then you may well put your cross right there, opposite the good name.”
“There are some very odd names,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “People seem to like these odd names for some strange reason.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled; she had encountered strange names on many occasions. “But this lady, Rra, this Mma Potokwane—what had brought her to the agency? Is she in trouble of some sort?”
Mr. Polopetsi thought for a moment. “I’m not sure that one would describe it as trouble, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be expecting her to say something.
“Well,” she said, “if she is not in trouble, then is somebody else in trouble?” Many people, she knew, felt too embarrassed to cross the threshold of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and sent friends or relatives in their stead. That could complicate matters, with a layer of misunderstanding, or sometimes embellishment, being added to the account of the facts.
But this was not the case. “No,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “She is the one who wants our help. Her trouble, though, could be imagined rather than real.”
“You must explain, Rra.”
He drew a deep breath. “You see, Mma Ramotswe,” he began, “this Mma Potokwane’s brother, this Mr. Government Keboneng, had many people who were in his party. These people were very upset when he died, Mma—it was a very sad blow for them. Not only had they lost a friend—somebody they admired very much—but they had lost their leader. He was very good at making a speech.”
Mma Ramotswe remembered that. “Oh yes, Rra, I can vouch for that. I went to hear him one day and we were laughing so much that we cried. He told some very funny stories and then, when we were all in a very good mood, he told us that there was bad economic news and we would all just have to accept it and pay more tax. But because we had b
een laughing so much, when he finished his speech we all felt very cheerful, and nobody mentioned the tax.”
Mr. Polopetsi raised a finger in the air. “People do not like to pay too much tax,” he said. “I have always said that, Mma. They like to hold on to their money.”
“I think they do,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Yet they like the government to give them as much as possible,” Mr. Polopetsi went on. “They think that the government has a big pot of money somewhere that is always full. That is what they think.”
“Yes,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “People like to be given things.”
“If I stood for election,” said Mr. Polopetsi, “and I said, ‘Free sunglasses for everybody, and free—’ ”
“—mobile phones,” interrupted Mma Ramotswe. “And free sandwiches. If you said those things, then you would get many, many votes.”
“It’s called bribery,” said Mr. Polopetsi, shaking his head sadly.
“Or politics,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “You could call it politics. But let’s get back to Mma Potokwane.”
Mr. Polopetsi took another deep breath. “The people who liked this Keboneng, Mma, did not know what to do, we were told. They ran this way and that. They were looking for a man who was just like Government Keboneng, but the truth of the matter is that there was nobody else in Botswana who was at all like him. His shoes were empty, yes, but there was nobody to step into them.”
Mma Ramotswe understood that. There were some empty shoes that she could never imagine being filled—the shoes of the late Seretse Khama, for instance: How could anyone ever occupy those? Or the shoes of her late daddy, Obed Ramotswe, that great judge of cattle who embodied everything that was finest in Botswana; there was not love or decency or compassion enough in all the land to fill that particular pair of shoes—there simply was not. And all those years ago, when she had said farewell to him on his final afternoon, when she knew that so much would die with him, she had thought there would never be enough tears to weep for him and what he stood for.
She looked at Mr. Polopetsi, who had known sadness in his life, and for a moment they were both silent. What had started as a straightforward account had suddenly become something else: a reflection on how we believe in people, how we need them, and how their loss diminishes us.
He broke the spell. “So these people—the supporters of Mr. Keboneng—were always writing to the newspapers to remind people of what he had done and of how much Botswana owed to him. Some people said that they exaggerated, that, yes, he had been a good man, but there were many other good men whose followers were not always speaking about what they had done and were prepared to start talking about other people—people who were not yet late and who were anxious for people to vote for them and allow them to start doing good things for the benefit of the entire community.”
She did not wish to break the flow, but she felt that she had to say something. So she said, “I see,” and left it at that.
Mr. Polopetsi drew a deep breath. “These people—these Kebonengites, as some people called them—were very persistent, Mma. They were not the sort of people to give up, and they pestered and pestered the mayor. There were more letters to the papers—you probably saw them—and they even said that there should be some new building named after Mr. Government Keboneng. But the mayor said to them that he could do nothing about that, as it was up to the people who built buildings to choose what they called them and nobody had offered to give their new building this name. They even suggested that some new airport building might be called after him.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. She thought that was going too far, as the airport already had a name, Sir Seretse Khama Airport, and to call one of its buildings something different would not only cause confusion, but could well be considered disrespectful.
“What about a bridge?” she asked. “Could they not call a bridge after him? They are always building bridges, these people, even if this is meant to be a dry country. Sometimes I think they are like little boys with a toy bulldozer.”
“Or a new drain?” suggested Mr. Polopetsi, smirking at the suggestion. “Government Keboneng Drainpipe? How about that?”
“That would be a bit unkind,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We must remember that Government Keboneng was a good man.”
Mr. Polopetsi looked apologetic. “Of course,” he said. “So, anyway, all this discussion went on and on, and then the city council said that they would name a street after him. The supporters were very pleased, although some of them were concerned that the new street was on the very edge of town and was not important enough for their hero. They wanted them to change the name of one of the streets in the middle of town and give him that.”
Mma Ramotswe was not in favour of this. “You cannot change the name of a street,” she said. “People would get very confused. They become used to a name for the place they live and they do not like to find that they are living in a new place.” She imagined what would happen if Zebra Drive suddenly became Mr. Government Keboneng Drive or even The Late Mr. Government Keboneng Drive. She did not think that she would like to put “The Late” in her address. Of course they did change street names from time to time—she had seen a notice saying “formerly Wilson Road” or something like that. This happened when some of the names from the old Protectorate days were abandoned, which was understandable enough, as people wanted something that reflected themselves rather than those who had a less rooted connection with the country. But it should be done sparingly, she thought: some of the people from those very old days had a memory that should be cherished. There was more than one Moffat Road in Botswana, and rightly so, because Robert Moffat had been such a great man. He had been a friend of the Batswana people; he had been the first to put the Setswana language into writing; and he had done so much to help those in need. And then there was Livingstone himself, who had married Moffat’s daughter and been attacked by a lion out by Molelopole, not far away.
“Livingstone,” she said to Mr. Polopetsi.
He looked at her blankly.
“I thought of Livingstone,” she explained, “when I was thinking of changes in names. They have not changed the name of Livingstone up in Zambia, have they? That place is still called Livingstone.”
Mr. Polopetsi prided himself on his knowledge of history. “He was a very good man,” he said. “You would not want to change anything named after a man like Livingstone.” He paused. “He was a very brave man, Mma Ramotswe. He was one of those who brought slavery to an end.” He paused, and looked at her intently. “Many terrible things have happened in Africa, Mma.”
She returned his gaze. So much had occurred, and so many of the things that had happened were bad. And yet there had been good things—acts of kindness, acts of loyalty and generosity of spirit; why did we forget these and remember only the bad? She had always preferred to remember the positive points in a person’s life, but she knew that there were those who thought less of her for that. To dwell on such things was said by some to be a sign that you were not aware of how things really were; but she was, she was. She knew as well as anyone that the world could be a place of trial and sorrow, that there was injustice and suffering and heartlessness—there was enough of all that to fill the great Kalahari twice over, but what good did it do to ponder that and that alone? None, she thought.
Even Clovis Andersen, who was mostly concerned with practical matters of detection, referred to this in his great work. He wrote: Do not allow the profession of which you are a member to induce you to take a bleak view of humanity. You will encounter all sorts of bad behavior but do not judge everybody by the standards of the lowest. If you did that, he pointed out, you would misjudge humanity in general and that would be fatal to discerning judgement. If everybody is a villain, then nobody is a villain, he wrote. That simple expression had intrigued her, even if it was some time before its full meaning—and the wisdom that lay behind it—became apparent.
She returned to the subject of Mr. Gover
nment Keboneng. “So the city council said that they would have to be content with a new street?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “They said that they would not change the name of one of the streets in the middle of town because people would become confused.”
“They would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They would wonder what was happening.”
“And so Mr. Keboneng’s supporters grumbled a bit, apparently, but they realised that they would have to make do with what they were offered. They felt that they had won a bit of a victory, even if not the full victory they would have liked.”
“Very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Second prize is often better than first prize.”
She was not sure why she said that, and she was not even sure that it was true. Why would second prize sometimes be preferable? Perhaps it was because being at the top brought unwelcome attention or onerous responsibilities. That must be it. It was surely better to be Deputy Chief than Chief. A disturbing thought came to her unbidden: Was it better to be Mma Makutsi rather than Mma Ramotswe? She thought that Mma Makutsi might perhaps take the view that being Head of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was better than being Deputy Head—the position that she currently occupied. Now, of course, she was Acting Head, which had its compensations, as being “Acting” anything meant that there would come a time when you could simply hand the reins back to the permanent Head no matter how complicated and difficult the situation had become. She asked herself whether Mma Makutsi would do that. “Here is your desk back, Mma Ramotswe,” she might say. “And here is a list of all the outstanding cases that we have been unable to solve during your absence. We are very sorry about those. You can solve them now, Mma.” She could just hear that.
Mr. Polopetsi had said something that she missed. “I’m sorry, Rra,” she said. “I was thinking about Mma Makutsi. What did you say just then?”
“I said that the supporters planned a party to celebrate the naming of the street. They even bought a large amount of food, which was a pity.”
She asked him why.
The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine Page 11