He stared at her, almost reproachfully, and Mma Ramotswe looked away. The subject was too awkward, too raw, to be discussed openly, and so she did not pursue the matter. It seemed as if he was frightened of marriage, which must be the reason why he was proving so slow to commit himself. Well, there were men like that; nice men who were fond enough of women but who were wary of getting married. If that was the case, then she would be realistic about it and continue to be an engaged lady. It was not a bad situation to be in, after all; indeed, there were some arguments for preferring an engagement to a marriage. You often heard of difficult husbands, but how often did you hear of difficult fiancés? The answer to that, thought Mma Ramotswe, was never.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni left the room, and Mma Ramotswe picked up her mug of bush tea. If she was going to remain an engaged lady, then she would make the most of it, and one of the ways to do this would be to enjoy her free time. She would read a bit more and spend more time on her shopping. And she might also join a club of some sort, if she could find one, or perhaps even form one herself, perhaps something like a Cheerful Ladies’ Club, a club for ladies in whose lives there was some sort of gap—in her case a gap of waiting—but who were determined to make the most of their time. It was a sentiment of which her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, would have approved; her father, that good man who had always used his time to good effect and who was always in her thoughts, as constantly and supportively as if he were buried under the floor directly beneath her.
CHAPTER TWO
HOW TO RUN AN ORPHAN FARM
MMA SILVIA POTOKWANE, the matron of the orphan farm, was sorting out bits of carpeting for a jumble sale. The pieces of carpet were scattered about the ground under a large syringa tree, and she and several of the housemothers were busy placing them in order of desirability. The carpets were not old at all, but were off-cuts which had been donated by a flooring firm in Gaborone. At the end of every job, no matter how careful the carpet layers were, there would always be odd pieces which simply did not fit. Sometimes these were quite large, if the end of a roll had been used, or the room had been a particularly awkward shape. But none of them was square or rectangular, and this meant that their usefulness was limited.
“Nobody has a room this shape,” said one of the housemothers, drawing Mma Potokwane’s attention to a triangular piece of flecked red carpet. “I do not know what we can do with this.”
Mma Potokwane bent down to examine the carpet. It was not easy for her to bend, as she was an unusually traditional shape. She enjoyed her food, certainly, but she was also very active, and one might have thought that all that walking about the orphan farm, peering into every corner just to keep everybody on their toes, would have shed the pounds, but it had not. All the women in her family had been that build, and it had brought them good fortune and success; there was no point, she felt, being a thin and unhappy person when the attractions of being a comfortable person were so evident. And men liked women like that too. It was a terrible thing that the outside world had done to Africa, bringing in the idea that slender ladies, some as thin as a sebokoldi, a millipede, should be considered desirable. That was not what men really wanted. Men wanted women whose shape reminded them of good things on the table.
“It is a very strange shape,” agreed Mma Potokwane. “But if you put together two triangles, then do you not get a square, or something quite close to a square? Do you not think that is true, Mma?”
The housemother looked blank for a moment, but then the wisdom of Mma Potokwane’s suggestion dawned upon her and she smiled broadly. There were other triangular pieces, and she now reached for one of these, and held it in position alongside the awkward red piece. The result was an almost perfect square, even if the two pieces of carpet were a different colour.
Mma Potokwane was pleased with the result. Once they had sorted out the carpets, they would put up a notice in the Tlokweng Community Centre and invite people to a carpet sale. They would have no difficulty in selling everything, she thought, and the money would go into the fund that they were building up for book prizes for the children. At the end of each term, those who had done well would receive a prize for their efforts; an atlas, perhaps, or a Setswana Bible, or some other book which would be useful at school. Although she was not a great reader, Mma Potokwane was a firm believer in the power of the book. The more books that Botswana had, in her view, the better. It would be on books that the future would be based; books and the people who knew how to use them.
It would be wonderful, she thought, to write a book which would help other people. In her case, she would never have the time to do it, and even if she had the time, then she very much doubted whether she would have the necessary ability. But if she were to write a book, then the title would undoubtedly be How to Run an Orphan Farm. That would be a useful book for whomever took over from her when she retired, or indeed for the many other ladies who ran orphan farms elsewhere. Mma Potokwane had spent some time thinking about the contents of such a work. There would be a great deal about the ordinary day-to-day business of an orphan farm: the arranging of meals, the sorting out of duties and so on. But there would also be a chapter on the psychology which went into running an orphan farm. Mma Potokwane knew a great deal about that. She could tell you, for example, of the importance of keeping brothers and sisters together, if at all possible, and of how to deal with behavioural problems. These were almost always due to insecurity and had one cure and one cure alone: love. That, at least, had been her experience, and even if the message was a simple one, it was, in her view, utterly true.
Another chapter—a very important one—would be on fund raising. Every orphan farm needed to raise money, and this was a task which was always there in the background. Even when you had successfully performed every other task, the problem of money always remained, a persistent, nagging worry at the back of one’s mind. Mma Potokwane prided herself on her competence in this. If something was needed—a new set of pots for one of the houses, or a pair of shoes for a child whose shoes were wearing thin—she would find a donor who could be persuaded to come up with the money. Few people could resist Mma Potokwane, and there had been an occasion when the Vice-President of Botswana himself, a generous man who prided himself on his open door policy, had thought ruefully of those countries where it was inconceivable that any citizen could claim the right to see the second most important person in the country. Mma Potokwane had made him promise to find somebody to sell her building materials, and he had agreed before he had thought much about it. The building materials had been purchased from a firm which was prepared to sell them cheaply, but it had taken up a great deal of time.
At the very head of Mma Potokwane’s list of supporters was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. She had relied on him for years to take care of various bits of machinery on the orphan farm, including the water pump, which he had now insisted on being replaced, and the minivan in which the orphans were driven into town. This was an old vehicle, exhausted by years of bumping along on the dusty road to the orphanage, and had it not been for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s expert hand, it would have long since come to the end of its life. But it was a van which he understood, and it was blessed with a Bedford engine that had been built to last and last, like a strong old mule that pulls a cart. The orphan farm could probably afford a new van, but Mma Potokwane saw no reason to spend money on something new when you had something old which was still working.
That Saturday morning, as they sorted out the carpet pieces for the sale, Mma Potokwane suddenly looked at her watch and saw that it was almost time for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to arrive. She had asked him whether he could come out to look at a ladder which was broken and needed welding. A new ladder would not have cost a great deal, and would probably have been safer, but why buy a new ladder, Mma Potokwane had asked herself. A new ladder might be shiny, but would hardly have the strength of their old metal ladder, which had belonged to the railways and had been given to them almost ten years ago.
She left the
housemothers discussing a round piece of green carpet and returned to her office. She had baked a cake for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, as she usually did, but this time she had taken particular care to make it sweet and rich. She knew that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni liked fruit cake, and particularly liked raisins, and she had thrown several extra handfuls of these into the mixture, just for him. The broken ladder might have been the ostensible reason for his invitation, but she had other business in mind and there was nothing better than a cake to facilitate agreement.
When Mr J.L.B. Matekoni eventually did arrive, she was ready for him, sitting directly in front of the fan in her office, feeling the benefit of the blast of air from the revolving blades, looking out of the window at the lushness of the trees outside. Although Botswana was a dry country, at the end of the rainy season it was always green, and there were pockets of shade at every turn. It was only at the beginning of the summer, before the rains arrived, that everything was desiccated and brown. That was when the cattle became thin, sometimes painfully so, and it broke the heart of a cattle-owning people to see the herds nibbling at the few dry shreds of grass that remained, their heads lowered in lassitude and in weakness. And it would be like that until the purple clouds stacked up to the east and the wind brought the smell of rain—rain which would fall in silver sheets over the land.
That, of course, was if the rain came. Sometimes there were droughts, and a whole season would go by with very little rainfall, and the dryness would become an ache, always there, like dust in the throat. Botswana was lucky of course; she could import grain, but there were countries which could not, for they had no money, and in those places there was nothing to stand between the people and starvation. That was Africa’s burden, and by and large it was borne with dignity; but it still caused pain to Mma Potokwane to know that her fellow Africans faced such suffering.
Now, though, the trees were covered with green leaves, and it was easy for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to find a shady place for his car outside the orphan farm offices. As he emerged from the car, a small boy came up to him and took his hand. The child looked up at him with grave eyes, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled down on him. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a handful of wrapped peppermints, and slipped these into the palm of the child’s hand.
“I saw you there, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” said Mma Potokwane, as her visitor entered her room. “I saw you give sweets to that child. That child is cunning. He knows you are a kind man.”
“I am not a kind man,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am an ordinary mechanic.”
Mma Potokwane laughed. “You are not an ordinary mechanic. You are the best mechanic in Botswana! Everybody knows that.”
“No,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Only you think that.”
Mma Potokwane shook her head vigorously. “Then why does the British High Commissioner take his car to you? There are many big garages in Botswana who would like to service a car like that. But he still goes to you. Always.”
“I cannot say why,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I think that he is a good man and likes to go to a small garage.” He was too modest to accept her praise, and yet he was aware of his reputation. Of course, if people knew about his apprentices, and how bad they were, they might think differently of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, but the apprentices were not going to be there forever. In fact, they were due to complete their training in a couple of months and that would be the end of them. How peaceful it would be once they had moved on! How comfortable it would be not to have to think of the damage that they were doing to the cars entrusted to him. It would be a new freedom for him; a release from a worry which hung about his shoulders each day. He had done his best to train them properly, and they had picked up something over the years, but they were impatient, and that was a fatal flaw in the personality of any mechanic. Donkeys and cars required patience.
One of the older girls had made tea, and now she brought this in, together with the rich fruit cake on a plate. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni saw the cake, and for a moment he frowned. He knew Mma Potokwane, and the presence of a large cake, specially made for the occasion, was an unambiguous signal that she had a request to make of him. A cake of this size, and emitting such a strong smell of raisins, would mean a major mechanical problem. The minivan? He had replaced the brake pads recently, but he was concerned about the engine seals. At that age, engine seals could go and the block could heat up and …
“I’ve made you a cake,” said Mma Potokwane brightly.
“You are a very generous person, Mma,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni flatly. “You always remember that I like raisins.”
“I have many more packets of raisins,” said Mma Potokwane, making a generous gesture, as might one with an unlimited supply of raisins. She reached over to the plate and cut a large portion of cake for her guest. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni watched her, and he thought: once I eat this cake I will have to say yes. But then he went on to think: I always say yes anyway, cake or no cake. What difference is there?
“I should think that Mma Ramotswe makes you many cakes these days,” said Mma Potokwane as she slid a generous portion of cake onto her own plate. “She is a good cook, I think.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “She is best at cooking pumpkin and things like that,” he said. “But she can also make cakes. You ladies are very clever.”
“Yes,” agreed Mma Potokwane, pouring the tea. “We are much cleverer than you men, but unfortunately you do not know that.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his shoes. It was probably true, he thought. It was difficult being a man sometimes, particularly when women reminded one of the fact that one was a man. But there were clever men about, he thought, and these men would give ladies like Mma Potokwane a good run for their money. The problem was that he was not one of these clever men.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked out of the window. He thought that perhaps he should say something, but nothing came into his mind. Outside the window, the branch of the flamboyant tree, on which a few red flowers still grew, moved almost imperceptibly. New seed pods were growing, while last year’s pods, long blackened strips, clung to branches here and there. They were good trees, flamboyants, he thought, with their shade and their red flowers, and their delicate fronds of tiny leaves, like feathers, swaying gently in the wind … He stopped. The thin green branch just outside the open window seemed to be unwinding itself and extending tentatively, as if some exaggerated process of growth were occurring.
He rose to his feet, putting down his half-finished piece of cake.
“You’ve seen something?” asked Mma Potokwane. “Are the children up to something out there?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took a step closer to the window and then stopped. “There is a snake on that branch out there, Mma. A green snake.”
Mma Potokwane gasped and stood up to peer out of her window. She narrowed her eyes briefly, peering into the foliage, and then reached suddenly for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s arm.
“You are right, Rra! There is a snake! Ow! Look at it!”
“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “It’s a long snake too. Look, its tail goes all the way down there.”
“You must kill it, Rra,” said Mma Potokwane. “I will fetch you a stick.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. He knew that people were always telling you not to kill snakes on sight, but you could not allow snakes to come so close to all the orphans. It might be different in the bush, where there was a place for snakes, and they had their own roads and paths, going this way and that, but here it was different. This was the orphan farm front yard, and at any moment the snake could drop down on an orphan as he or she walked under that tree. Mma Potokwane was right; he would have to kill the snake.
Armed with the broomstick which Mma Potokwane had fetched from a cupboard, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, followed at a discreet distance by the matron, walked round the corner of the office building. The syringa tree seemed higher when viewed from outside, and he wondered whether he would be able to reach the branch on which the snake had b
een sitting. If he could not, then there was nothing that he could do. They would simply have to warn the orphans to stay away from that tree for the time being.
“Just climb up there and hit it,” whispered Mma Potokwane. “Look! There it is. It is not moving now.”
“I cannot go up there,” protested Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “If I get too close, it could bite me.” He shuddered as he spoke. These green tree snakes, boomslangs they called them, were amongst the most poisonous snakes, worse even than the mambas, some people said, because they had no serum in Botswana to deal with their bite. They had to telephone through to South Africa to get supplies of it if somebody was bitten.
“But you must climb up,” urged Mma Potokwane. “Otherwise, it will get away.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her, as if to confirm the order. He looked for some sign that she did not really mean this, but there was none. He could not climb up the tree, into the snake’s domain; he simply could not.
“I cannot,” he said. “I cannot climb up there. I shall try to reach him with my stick from here. I shall poke at the branch.”
Mma Potokwane looked doubtful, standing back as he took a tentative step forward. She raised a hand to watch as the broom handle moved up into the foliage of the tree. For his part Mr J.L.B. Matekoni held his breath; he was not a cowardly man, and indeed was braver than most. He never shirked his duty and knew that he had to deal with this snake, but the way to deal with snakes was to keep an advantage over them, and while it was in the tree this snake was in its element.
What happened next was the subject of much discussion amongst the staff of the orphan farm and amongst the small knot of orphans which was by now watching from the security of the office verandah. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni might have touched the snake with the broom handle or he might not. It is possible that the snake saw the stick approaching and decided on evasive action, for these are shy snakes, in spite of their powerful venom, and do not seek confrontation. It moved, and moved quickly, slipping through the leaves and branches with a fluid, undulating motion. Within a few seconds it was sliding down the trunk of the tree, impossibly attached, and then was upon the ground and darting, arrow-like, across the baked earth. Mma Potokwane let out a shriek, as the snake seemed to be heading for her, but then it swerved and shot away towards a large hibiscus bush that grew on a patch of grass behind the office. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gave a shout, and pursued it with his broom, thumping the end of the stick upon the earth. The snake moved faster, and reached the grass, which seemed to help it in its flight. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stopped; he did not wish to kill this long green stripe of life, which would surely not linger here any longer and was no danger to anyone. He turned to Mma Potokwane, who had raised her hand to her mouth and had uttered a brief ululation, as was traditional, and quite proper, at moments of celebration.
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