The Kalahari Typing School for Men

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “You look very busy,” said Mma Makutsi.

  The older apprentice looked up at her resentfully. “It’s our tea break, Mma. Same as yours. We can’t work all the time.”

  Mma Makutsi nodded. She was not interested in giving the apprentices one of the periodic dressings-down that had proved to be so effective while Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was away; she wanted their reaction to her idea.

  “I’ve thought of a new thing for the business to do,” she announced, taking a sip of her bush tea. “I wondered what you would think.”

  “You are a lady who is full of ideas,” said the younger apprentice. “Your head must hurt, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled. “Only hard ideas make your head hurt. My ideas are always simple.”

  “I have simple ideas, too,” said the older apprentice. “I have ideas of girls. Those are my ideas. Simple. Girls, and then more girls.”

  Mma Makutsi ignored this, addressing her next remark to the younger apprentice. “There are many people wanting to learn how to drive, are there not?”

  The younger apprentice shrugged. “They can learn. There are lots of bush roads for them to practise on.”

  “But that won’t help them drive in town,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “There are too many things happening in town. There are cars going this way and that. There are people crossing the road.”

  “And lots of girls,” interjected the older apprentice. “Lots of girls walking about. All the time.”

  The younger apprentice turned to look at his friend. “What is wrong with you? You are always thinking of girls.”

  “So are you,” snapped the other. “Anyone who says he does not think of girls is a liar. All men think of girls. That is what men like to do.”

  “Not all the time,” said the younger one. “There are other things to think about.”

  “That is not true,” the older one retorted. “If you didn’t think about girls, then it is a sign that you are about to die. That is a well-known fact.”

  “I am not interested in any of this,” said Mma Makutsi. “And, anyway, I’d heard that one of you has changed.” She paused, looking at the younger one for confirmation; but he merely lowered his eyes.

  “So,” she continued, “I will tell you of an idea that I have had. I think that it is a good idea and I would like to hear what you think of it.”

  “You can tell us,” said the older apprentice. “We are listening to what you have to say.”

  Mma Makutsi dropped her voice, as if there were eavesdroppers in the darker corners of the garage. The apprentices leaned forward to catch her words. “I have decided that we should open a driving school,” she announced. “I will make some enquiries, but I do not think that there are enough driving schools. We could start a new one and give people a lesson after work. We could charge forty pula a time. Twenty pula could go to the teacher and twenty pula to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for the garage and for using his car. It would be a great success.”

  The apprentices stared at her, and for a few moments nothing was said. Then the older one spoke.

  “I do not want to have anything to do with it,” he said. “After work I like to go to see my friends. I do not have time to take people for driving lessons.”

  Mma Makutsi looked at his friend. “And you?”

  The younger apprentice smiled back at her. “You are a very clever lady, Mma. I think that this is a good idea.”

  “There!” said Mma Makutsi, turning to the older apprentice. “You see, your friend here has a more positive way of looking at things. You are just useless. Look what all that thinking about girls has done to your brain.”

  The younger apprentice smirked. “You hear that? Mma Makutsi is right. You should listen to her.” He turned to Mma Makutsi. “What will you call this driving school, Mma?”

  “I have not thought about it,” she said. “I will think of something. The name you give to a business is very important. That is why the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency has been a success. The name says everything you need to know about the business.”

  The younger apprentice looked up at her hopefully. “I have a good idea for the name,” he said. “We could call it Learn to Drive with Jesus.”

  There was a silence. The older apprentice cast a glance in the direction of his friend and then turned away.

  “I am not sure about that,” said Mma Makutsi. “I will think about it, but I am not sure.”

  “It is a very good name,” said the younger apprentice. “It will attract a careful class of driver, and it will mean that we have no accidents. The Lord will look after us.

  “I hope so,” said Mma Makutsi. “I shall talk to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it and see what he thinks. Thank you for the suggestion.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TO KILL A HOOPOE

  M MA RAMOTSWE completed her shopping. Before the two orphans had come to stay, shopping had been an easy task and she found that she rarely had to get supplies more than once a week. Now it seemed that everything ran out shortly after she had replenished stocks. Only two days ago she had bought flour—a large bag, too—and now the flour was finished and the cake baked by the girl, Motholeli, had been all but consumed by her brother, Puso. That was a good sign, of course: boys should have good appetites, and it was natural for them to want to eat large amounts of cake and sweet things. As they grew older, they would move to meat, which was very important for a man. But all this food that was being consumed cost money, and had it not been for the generous contributions made by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—contributions which in fact covered the entire cost of keeping the children—Mma Ramotswe would have begun to feel the pinch.

  It was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s idea to foster the children in the first place, and although she never regretted taking them in, she wished that he had consulted her first. It was not that she resented the fact that Motholeli was confined to a wheelchair and that she was now responsible for a handicapped child, it was just that she had imagined that something quite as important as this would have been the subject of some discussion. But it was not in Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s heart to say no—that was the problem. And she loved him all the more for that. Mma Silvia Potokwani, matron of the orphan farm, had understood that very well and, as usual, had been able to ensure the best possible arrangements for her orphans. She must have been planning for months to place the orphans with him, and of course she must have realised that they would end up living in Mma Ramotswe’s house in Zebra Drive rather than in Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s house near the old Botswana Defence Club. Of course, after the marriage (whenever that would be), they would all live together under one roof. The children had already been asking about that, and she had told them that she was waiting for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to decide on a date.

  “He does not rush things,” she had explained. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is a very careful man. He likes to do things slowly.”

  Puso had seemed impatient, and she had realised that his need was for a father. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would be that in due course, but in the meantime the boy, who had never had a parent, would be wondering whether he ever would. At the age of six, a week was a long time; a month would be interminable.

  Motholeli, who had suffered so much and who had been so brave, understood. She had been used to waiting and of course it took her much longer to do anything, manoeuvring her wheelchair with difficulty through doorways that always seemed too small or along corridors that ended in awkward steps. Only now and then did she seem to register disappointment, and that was never for more than a few moments. So when Mma Ramotswe returned from her shopping and struggled into the kitchen, laden with brown paper bags, she was surprised to find that there was no cheerful greeting from Motholeli, only a downcast look.

  She lowered her parcels onto the table. “So much shopping,” she said. “Lots of meat. A sort of chicken.” She paused. She knew that Motholeli liked pumpkins. “And a pumpkin,” she said, adding: “A big one. Very yellow.”

  At first the girl said nothing
. Then, when she replied, her voice was flat: “That is good.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her. Motholeli had left that morning in good spirits, and so it must have been something which had happened at school. She remembered her own school days and the ups and downs which she had experienced. They had been such little dramas—at least when looked at from her current perspective—but they had seemed so grave and frightening at the time. She remembered the occasion when the head teacher of her school at Mochudi had tried to flush out a thief. One of the children had been stealing, and the teacher had summoned every child into his office and had insisted that he or she place a hand on the large Setswana Bible which he kept on his table. Then each child had been asked to say, beneath the head teacher’s piercing gaze: I swear that I am not a thief.

  “Nobody who is innocent has anything to fear,” the teacher had announced before the whole school, assembled on the dusty playing field. “But the person who lies with his hand on the Bible will be struck down. That is one thing that is sure. Maybe not straightaway, but later, when you are not expecting it. That is when the Lord will strike you down.”

  The silence had been complete. She had looked up into the sky but had seen only utter emptiness. It was undoubtedly true, of course; people were struck by lightning, and it must have been because they deserved it: thieves, perhaps, or even worse. She had no doubt but that the thief, whoever it was, would know this just as she did and would falter before he uttered the fateful words. But when the last pupil had filed out of the office and the head teacher had come out looking angry, she realised that she had been wrong and that one of their number was now in mortal danger. Who could it be? She had her suspicions, of course; everybody knew that Elijah Sebekedi could not be trusted, and although nobody had actually seen him stealing anything, how could he afford to buy those tins of condensed milk which he drank so conspicuously on his way home from school? His father, as was well known, was a drunkard and spent all his money on traditional beer, leaving nothing for his family. The children survived on handouts; the shoes they wore, the clothes, were recognised by the other children as those which they had abandoned, thinking that no more wear could be extracted from them. So there was only one explanation for Elijah’s tins of condensed milk.

  She thought about him that night as she lay on her sleeping mat, watching the square of moonlight move slowly across the wall opposite her bedroom window. The rainy season was not far away, and there would be storms. Elijah Sebekedi should be worried about that; there would be lightning about. She closed her eyes, and then, her heart pounding, she opened them again. She herself had lied! Only a week ago she had helped herself to a doughnut which she had found in the kitchen. She had been unable to resist it and had felt immediately guilty after she had finished licking the last of the sugar off her fingers. She had said I swear that I am not a thief, blatantly, falsely, and had repeated it as the head teacher had not heard her the first time that she had uttered those fateful, damning words. And now she would be struck by lightning; there was no escape.

  ———

  SHE DID not sleep well, and the next morning she was silent as she ate her breakfast in the kitchen. Mma Ramotswe had lost her mother when she was still young and was looked after by her father and several of his female relatives who took it in turns to keep house for them. There was a seemingly endless supply of these relatives—competent, cheerful women who appeared to look forward to their turn to come to Mochudi and to rearrange and reverse everything which their predecessor had done in the house. These were house-proud women, who kept the yard spotless, the sand brushed and raked every day, the chicken manure cleared away and deposited on the melon patch; women who understood the importance of scouring your pans until the black was scraped away and the metal below was shining. These were not small things. These were the things which showed children growing up in the house how they should live their lives as clean, upright people.

  Now, sitting at the kitchen table with her father and his aunt from Palapye, watching the soft rays of the early morning sun streaming in through the door, Precious Ramotswe was aware that if it clouded over—as it might—and if there were lightning—as there might be—then she might not be sitting here the next morning. Of course there was only one thing to do, which was to confess, which she did, there and then to her father and the aunt, and Obed Ramotswe, after listening to her with astonishment, had turned to his aunt, and she had laughed and said: “But that was meant for you, that doughnut. You did not steal it.” And at this, overcome with relief, Precious had burst into tears and told the adults of the fate that awaited Elijah. Obed Ramotswe exchanged glances with his aunt.

  “That is a very unkind thing to do to children,” he said. “That poor boy will not be struck by lightning. Maybe he will learn one day not to be a thief. It is for his father to teach him that, but he is always drinking.” He paused. It was a grave thing to criticise a teacher, especially in front of a child, but the words came out before he could stop them: “The Lord is more likely to strike the head teacher than that boy.”

  Mma Ramotswe had not thought of this incident for years, and now, looking at Motholeli, she wondered what local torment was causing her unhappiness. People said that school days were happy, but they often were not. Often it was like being in prison; wary of older children and terrified of teachers, unable to talk to anybody about troubles because you thought that there would be nobody who would understand. Perhaps things had changed for the better, and in some ways they had. Teachers were not allowed to beat children as they did in the past, although, Mma Ramotswe reflected, there were some boys—and indeed some young men—who might have been greatly improved by moderate physical correction. The apprentices, for example: would it help if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni resorted to physical chastisement—nothing severe, of course—but just an occasional kick in the seat of the pants while they were bending over to change a tyre or something like that? The thought made her smile. She would even offer to administer the kick herself, which she imagined might be oddly satisfying, as one of the apprentices, the one who still kept on about girls, had a largeish bottom which she thought would be quite comfortable to kick. How enjoyable it would be to creep up behind him and kick him when he was least expecting it, and then to say: Let that be a lesson! That was all one would have to say, but it would be a blow for women everywhere.

  But those were not serious thoughts and would not help the immediate problem, which was to find out what was troubling Motholeli and making her so palpably miserable.

  Mma Ramotswe put away the last of her groceries and then put on the kettle to make a pot of red bush tea. Then she sat down.

  “You’re unhappy,” she said simply. “And it’s something at school, isn’t it?”

  Motholeli shook her head. “No,” she said. “I am not.”

  “That is not true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are a happy girl normally. You are famous for your happiness. And now you are almost crying. I do not have to be a detective to know that.”

  The girl looked down at the ground.

  “I have no mother,” she said quietly. “I am a girl who has no mother.”

  Something caught at Mma Ramotswe’s throat: a feeling of sudden, overwhelming sympathy. So that was it. She was missing her mother; of course she was. She was missing her mother in exactly the same way in which she, Precious Ramotswe, had missed her own mother, whom she had never known, and in the same way, too, that she missed her father, every day of her life, every day, her good, kind father, Obed Ramotswe, of whom she was so proud. Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and crossed the kitchen floor. Now she crouched down and embraced the girl.

  “Of course you have a mother, Motholeli,” she whispered. “Your mummy is there, in heaven, and she is watching you, watching you every day. And I’ll tell you what she’s thinking: she’s thinking, I am very proud of that fine girl, my daughter. I am very proud of how hard she is working and how she is looking after her little brother. That is what she is thinking
.”

  She felt the girl’s shoulder heave beneath her and she felt the warm tears of the child against her own skin.

  “You mustn’t cry,” she said. “You mustn’t be unhappy. She would not want you to be unhappy, would she?”

  “She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care what happens to me.”

  Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. “But you mustn’t say that. That is not true. It is not. Of course she cares.”

  “That is not what this girl is telling me at school,” said Motholeli. “She says that I am a girl who has no mother because my mother did not like me and left. That is what she says.”

  “And who is this girl?” asked Mma Ramotswe angrily. “Who is she to tell you these lies?”

  “She is a very popular girl at school. She is a rich girl. She has many friends, and they all believe what she says.”

  “Her name?” said Mma Ramotswe. “What is the name of this popular girl?”

  Motholeli gave the name, and Mma Ramotswe immediately knew. For a moment she said nothing, then, wiping the tears away from Motholeli’s cheek, she spoke to her.

  “We will talk about this more later on,” she said. “For now, you just remember that everything that this girl has said to you—everything—is just not true. It doesn’t matter who she is. It doesn’t matter one little bit. You lost your mother because she was sick. She was a good woman, I know that. I have asked about her, and that is what Mma Potokwani told me. She said she was a strong woman who was kind to people. You remember that. You remember that and be proud of it. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  The girl looked up. Then she nodded.