The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Because she never liked her brother,” said Mma Makutsi. “She was always in his shadow. People were always saying that she was the sister of Mr. Government Keboneng rather than saying that he was her brother. That can be very hard for people. They do not like to be in the shadow. I’m afraid she hated him, Mma. That is a terrible thing, but it is true.”

  It took Mma Ramotswe a few moments to absorb this. “But why would a sister want to stop the naming of a street for her own brother, even if she did not have friendly feelings towards him?”

  “Because it was the last straw,” answered Mma Makutsi. “Because all her life she had heard people saying what a great man he was. When she was a little girl, he was described as a great boy. Then he became a great man. She could not bear it.”

  “And so she told the council about a scandal? Did she know of anything?”

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think she told them about it and then she decided that she would try to find something real—some real scandal—to back up her allegations. That is why she came to us. She did not want us to prove that there was nothing, as she claimed when she first consulted the agency; on the contrary—she wanted us to find something, on the grounds that if you dig deep enough around any politician, you will find something. And then, I’m afraid, after I put in a preliminary report that we were not uncovering anything, she set up the scandal herself.”

  “And how did she do that, Mma?” Mma Ramotswe posed this question not as a challenge, in the spirit of disbelief, but to receive an explanation.

  “Well,” Mma Makutsi continued, “she was never very fond of Naledi Potokwane. She thought she was a bit fast—and she may be, but only a little, I think. So she decided to create a story that Government had had an affair with Naledi, and that Naledi had had an affair with virtually everybody else. She put this idea into the head of Saint Potokwane, knowing that he would always talk about something without worrying about its effect. She imagined that we would find out about him and speak to him. So she put all that nonsense in his head.”

  There was something that Mma Ramotswe did not understand. “But how do you know that she told Saint this?”

  Mma Makutsi smiled. It was the first smile of the morning, and there was a ring of triumph to it.

  “As it happens, Mma,” she said, “I know somebody who goes to the same church as Saint and that woman who looks after him. So I went there on Sunday and while everybody was drinking tea outside, as they do at that place, I went up to Saint. He was standing about and nobody was with him. So I went up and asked him about the family and whether he knew Government Keboneng well and so on. He spoke quite freely. A lot of it was about the Defence Force and helicopters, but when I asked him about Government he said that Mma Potokwane—the client Mma Potokwane—had told him to say that Government was seeing Naledi and Naledi was seeing other men. He told me all this in a very matter-of-fact way, because these people who are like that often speak very openly. And that, Mma, is how I discovered what our client was up to.”

  Mma Ramotswe listened in silence. She thought: Did I teach this woman to do all this?

  “And then,” continued Mma Makutsi, “I went to see Naledi and put the whole thing to her, and she was incensed. She said that it was all lies. She said that she had never had any affairs while she was married to Saviour and now she was happily married again to a very respectable man. She was very cross.”

  “I see.”

  There was still resentment in Mma Makutsi’s voice. “Yes, Mma, I’m glad that you see.”

  Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes, allowing her feelings of relief to wash over her. Not only was she pleased that the case had been resolved, but she could now put out of her mind any possibility that Mma Sylvia Potokwane’s husband had been involved with Naledi. That had been an uncomfortable possibility, and it was now firmly disposed of. Good.

  But there remained something that had not been cleared up, which she now raised with Mma Makutsi. “May I ask you, Mma, why you haven’t tackled the client over this? Are you proposing to let her get away with it?”

  Mma Makutsi seemed prepared for this. “I did not speak to her, Mma. When I found out what I found out, I realised that it might be difficult to prove any allegation I made against her. So what I did was to go to the council and tell them that we had made a full investigation and that we had discovered nothing. We told them that Mr. Government Keboneng’s reputation was sound, and that any charge to the contrary was motivated by malice and came, moreover, from a source we knew about but were not at liberty to divulge.” She paused, savouring this last phrase. “Not at liberty to divulge, Mma.”

  “Why did you do that, Mma?”

  “Because it achieved everything necessary. It meant that Mr. Government Keboneng’s reputation was restored and the whole issue could be put to bed. And that, Mma Ramotswe, was very important because it saves poor Saint from being drawn further into something he can’t understand.”

  Mma Ramotswe understood that—and thought that it was exactly the right thing to do. “There was something about cattle, though—something about Saint’s cattle having been taken away from him.”

  “There is no truth in that, Mma. I think she put him up to saying that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Not perhaps, Mma—definitely. I made further enquiries, you see. And his cattle are down at that place where he lives—they are very fine cattle.”

  Mma Ramotswe realised these were the cattle she had seen—and they were indeed fine beasts.

  Mma Makutsi was now fully composed. “But our client does not get away with it altogether,” she said. “I did what you have always done, Mma. I decided to give her a second chance—along with a warning.”

  “What did you do, Mma?”

  “I told her that I had discovered that she was the informant who had gone to the council. I had not discovered this, of course, but her reaction to it confirmed that it was true. Then I told her that she should go to Naledi and apologise. She should ask for her forgiveness and she should promise not to spread any more rumours. If she did not, then people might just discover that she had tried to destroy her own brother’s reputation. And there are many followers of Mr. Government Keboneng who would be very angry if they were to hear that.”

  “So she agreed.”

  “She agreed, Mma—people usually agree to do what they really have to do. And I said something else to her, Mma Ramotswe. I told her that she would need to forgive her brother—to forgive him for being a good man.”

  Mma Makutsi looked intently at Mma Ramotswe. “At first she didn’t know what I meant, Mma, but then, after a while, I think she did.”

  Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. She looked at Mma Makutsi. “Mma,” she said, “I should never have doubted that you were on top of this case. I am very, very sorry, Mma. I have done you a great injustice.”

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. “If you have done me an injustice, Mma, you did it for a good reason. And I know how hard it is to let go of things. I know how hard it is for you to realise that I am fully capable.”

  “It is not hard now, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are the most capable lady I have ever met.”

  “Oh, Mma, you are very kind…” The coldness and the anger had all gone; Mma Makutsi, the familiar Mma Makutsi, was back. And that familiar Mma Makutsi seemed to be thinking about something, as there came a flash of light from her glasses—a coincidence, of course, the sun can catch glasses at all sorts of times, but it so often seemed to catch Mma Makutsi’s just at the point where she was thinking about something. “Mr. Polopetsi…,” she said.

  Mma Ramotswe looked up. “Yes. What about him, Mma?”

  “I think that I might have been unfair to him. I think that it was a bit unkind to throw him into the middle of the river.”

  Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile as she imagined the scene: Mma Makutsi, who was considerably bigger than Mr. Polopetsi, picking him up, tottering to the bank of the Limpo
po River, and then tossing him, arms flailing, into the middle of it. Then Mma Makutsi would adjust her glasses, rub her hands together, and stand there as poor Mr. Polopetsi floundered in the water. Of course, there were people who really did throw others into rivers—it had happened a few years ago in the Okavango Delta when one person had thrown another into a river, but had slipped and fallen in as well. And then the person who had thrown the other person in was bitten by a crocodile, while the first person (the person thrown in by the second person) had clambered out in time and avoided being bitten. That had been widely reported in the newspaper because it somehow made a point about justice.

  Mma Makutsi continued with her self-examination. “It was wrong, I think. I shouldn’t have left him to make enquiries that I knew would get nowhere.”

  Mma Ramotswe was glad that Mma Makutsi had raised this, because it was something that had been worrying her. She could not see why Mma Makutsi should have used Mr. Polopetsi in this way: What was the point of wasting his time in the investigation of an issue she had already solved? She chose her words carefully. “I have been wondering about that, Mma,” she said. “I have tried to figure out why you should think you needed to mislead him”—and here she hesitated, but decided to go ahead anyway—“and I was wondering why you told me that everything was in hand. You might have brought me into your confidence, Mma.”

  There was reproach in that final sentence; she had not intended it, but reproach came through.

  Mma Makutsi looked at her with an intensity that took Mma Ramotswe slightly by surprise. “Oh, Mma…,” she began, but then her voice trailed off.

  Fearing another emotional moment, Mma Ramotswe was quick to reassure her. “It was just a thought, Mma, just a thought.”

  “No,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is a very good question. It is just the question that anybody would ask. And you have asked it, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded—and waited.

  “It is all to do with Mma Potokwane,” Mma Makutsi pronounced.

  “Which Mma Potokwane?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “There are many, many Mma Potokwanes.”

  “Our Mma Potokwane. Mma Sylvia Potokwane. The matron. Her.”

  There was a further pause, and then Mma Makutsi continued, “You see, I found out that one of the people that Naledi was said to have been involved with was her husband—Mma Sylvia Potokwane’s husband, that is. Yes, Mma: that is what that poor man, Saint Potokwane, said to me.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “But I do not understand, Mma. You said that Saint told you that he had been instructed to relate that story about Naledi and her affairs.”

  “That was on our second meeting,” explained Mma Makutsi. “We had two meetings, you see. The first meeting had been set up by the client. She told me that as it happened there was a family member I might like to talk to. She was looking after him for a couple of days while the woman who normally did that was away. I met him at the client’s house. She left us alone together but told me that I could ask him about the family. Out it all came—obviously, just as she had intended. I was suspicious, but at that stage I could not put my finger on anything. So I worked out a way of seeing him again—when the client would not be around. That was the meeting at the church, the one that I’ve told you about. He forgot that I had spoken to him earlier—and out came the truth. He said that he had been told to tell a story.”

  Mma Makutsi watched as Mma Ramotswe thought about this. “Do you see, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked.

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I see. At least, I think I see.”

  “I wanted to keep you from finding out about Mma Sylvia Potokwane’s husband. I wanted to protect you from this information about your friend’s husband. I wanted to protect Mma Sylvia Potokwane too. Even when I realised that it was a lie, I didn’t want anybody to hear about it. Lies can sometimes be as powerful as the truth, Mma. A lie about somebody can hurt that person even if everybody knows it’s a lie.”

  “So you thought you could keep the whole thing from coming out into the open?”

  “Yes. I thought that I would deal with it myself. I would keep the client Potokwane quiet. I would protect the reputation of an innocent man. And nobody would be upset.”

  Now Mma Ramotswe understood. If Mma Makutsi had concealed things from her, it had been done for the very best of reasons: to protect her—and her close friend too—from distress. It had been selfless; it had been kind.

  “It was very difficult for me,” Mma Makutsi continued. “I was very stressed by the knowledge that I was hiding things from you. That is why I haven’t been myself, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of reassurance. “I noticed that. Now I understand. And I can see why you felt you needed to use Mr. Polopetsi in all this.”

  “I had to, Mma, but I shall apologise to him. I shall tell him that he did very well—which I think he did.”

  “He is a very good man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If I were ever to make a list of the good men in Botswana, then he would be on it, I think.”

  Mma Makutsi liked the idea of a list of good men. “We could publish an annual list, Mma: ‘The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Official List of Good Men in Botswana.’ It would be a very important list.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “And it would be led by two names,” she said. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Mr. Phuti Radiphuti.”

  “Naturally, Mma. Then the other names would come.”

  Mma Ramotswe continued the fantasy. “And Charlie?”

  Mma Makutsi made a face. “Poor Charlie. He would have to work to get on that list. Perhaps there would be a secondary list of young men who might grow up to be good men but who are not there quite yet.”

  That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was a very sound idea. “It is always helpful to give people something to aim for,” she said, and then added, “But here’s another thing, Mma. I am going to take a proper holiday now. I am going to go up to Mochudi for a few days, just by myself. I promise that I shall not interfere with the agency.” She shook her head, as if in incredulity that she could ever have done anything to the contrary. “I promise you that.”

  Mma Makutsi now got up and crossed the room to sit beside Mma Ramotswe. She put her arm on her friend’s shoulder briefly, and squeezed it in a gesture of wordless but unambiguous reconciliation.

  They sat together in silence for a while. In the background, somewhere deep within the house, they heard a baby’s cry.

  “That’s Itumelang,” said Mma Makutsi. “He’s sometimes difficult to settle once he has been up. He is tired, but he does not want to get back to sleep.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “It is good that you have such a hands-on husband, Mma. Some men just walk away when the child cries.”

  “Not Phuti,” said Mma Makutsi. “He’s so…” She waved a hand in the air. “He’s so…” She dropped her hand. “What is the time, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe, glancing at her watch, told her.

  Mma Makutsi rose to her feet. “I have an appointment, Mma,” she said. “And I think you might like to come with me. I know you’re meant to be on holiday, but this is a very tricky issue and I would like to have you with me.”

  Mma Ramotswe indicated that she was willing. “I take it that it’s a client, Mma; but who is it?”

  Mma Makutsi hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled as she answered the question. “In a sense it is you, Mma.”

  —

  MMA MAKUTSI seemed to take pleasure in keeping Mma Ramotswe on tenterhooks. Rather than reveal where she was going, she merely told her friend to follow her in the white van. Mma Makutsi had a newish car, a white car with a red stripe down the side, and it was considerably more powerful than Mma Ramotswe’s van; she drove slowly, though, to allow Mma Ramotswe to keep up with her as they made their way along the road leading from the block of plots around the Radiphuti house. Mma Ramotswe was vaguely irritated by Mma Makutsi’s reticence, but any feelings of this sort were outweighed by her surprise—and, to an extent, relief—over the resoluti
on of the Keboneng affair. She felt real pleasure that the other woman had managed to deal with what could otherwise have been an unusually messy investigation.

  Yes, she thought, everything had worked out as Mma Makutsi had hoped, but even so there had been an extraordinary number of misunderstandings. She had misunderstood what Mma Makutsi had been up to, and Mma Makutsi had not only misinterpreted what she herself had been trying to do but had also been unaware of what she knew. Mr. Polopetsi had likewise been under a misapprehension about Mma Makutsi’s inability to handle things. It was a web of misunderstanding and deceit, but ultimately it was truth that had come to the fore. Which so often happened, thought Mma Ramotswe. Truth had a way of coming out on top—and it was just as well for everybody that it did. If there ever came a day when truth was so soundly defeated that it never emerged, but sank, instead, under the sheer volume of untruth that the world produced, then that would be a sad day for Botswana, and for the people who lived in Botswana. It would be a sad day for the whole world, that day.

  —

  AT FIRST SHE THOUGHT that they were going to the office, but instead of turning off as Mma Ramotswe expected her to do, Mma Makutsi continued along the Tlokweng Road before taking a right turn into the area of the town known as the Village. Perhaps, thought Mma Ramotswe, the mysterious appointment was with somebody who lived in one of the older houses there, but if it was, why should Mma Makutsi have been so coy about telling her? And what did she mean by the tantalising remark that she—Mma Ramotswe herself—was, in a sense, the client?

  For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that Mma Makutsi was preparing a surprise present for her. It was her birthday in a few days and Mma Makutsi always gave her a present. In the days when she had been a secretary pure and simple, the present had of necessity been modest, but it had always been chosen with thought and worked with love—a crocheted cover to keep flies out of her teacup, a set of table napkins made from salvaged squares of material, a shoe horn fashioned from a cow’s horn. After her marriage to Phuti Radiphuti, it had been possible for her to buy rather than make presents, and these had sometimes been so generous as to cause Mma Ramotswe a tinge of anxiety. Now she looked down the road on which they were travelling—there was a dressmaker who lived in one of the flats round the corner; Mma Makutsi knew that she occasionally had dresses made by this woman, and she wondered if perhaps her birthday surprise was a fitting. It was just the sort of gift that Mma Makutsi liked to give, she thought; yes, that was where they were heading. And what a pleasant surprise it would be; she did not think she was entitled to a new dress, and to get it as a present would remove all the guilt that a fresh outfit would otherwise have spawned.