Precious and the Monkeys

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I love cake,” said Precious, closing her eyes and thinking of some of the cakes she had enjoyed. Iced cakes. Cakes with jam on top of them. Cakes sprinkled with sugar and then dipped in little coloured sugar-balls. There were so many cakes … and all of them were so delicious.

  “Somebody took my cake,” Tapiwa complained. “I had wrapped it in a small piece of paper. Well, it was gone, and I found the paper lying on the floor.”

  Precious frowned. “Gone?”

  “Eaten up,” said Tapiwa. “There were crumbs on the floor and little bits of icing. I picked them up and tasted them. I could tell that they came from my cake.”

  “Did you tell the teacher?” asked Precious.

  Her friend sighed. “Yes,” she said. “But I don’t think that she believed me. She said, ‘Are you sure you didn’t forget that you ate it?’ She said that this sometimes happened. People ate a piece of cake and then forgot that they had done so.”

  Precious gazed at Tapiwa. Was she the sort of person to eat a piece of cake and then forget all about it? She did not think so.

  “It was stolen,” said Tapiwa. “That’s what happened. There’s a thief in the school. Who do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know,” said Precious. She found it hard to imagine any member of their class doing something like that. Everybody seemed so honest. And yet, when you came to think of it, if there were grown-up thieves, then those thieves must have been children once, and perhaps they were already thieves even when they were young. Or did people only become thieves a bit later on, when they turned sixteen or something like that? It was a very interesting question, and she would have to think about it a bit more. Which is what she did as she walked home that day, under that high, hot African sun. She thought about thieves and what to do about them.

  T MIGHT HAVE BEEN EASY for her to forget about it – after all, it was only a piece of cake – but the next day it happened again. This time it was a piece of bread that was stolen – not an ordinary piece of bread, though: this one was covered in delicious red jam. You can lose a plain piece of bread and not think twice about it, but when you lose one spread thickly with red jam it’s an altogether more serious matter.

  The owner of this piece of bread (with jam) was a small boy called Sepo. Everybody liked this boy because he had a habit of saying funny things. And people like that, because there are enough sad things in the world as it is. If somebody can say something funny, then that often makes everybody feel a bit better. Try it yourself: say something funny and see how pleased everybody is.

  This is a picture of Sepo.

  You will see that he is smiling. And this is a picture of the piece of bread and red jam. Yes, if you saw such a piece of bread sitting on a plate your mouth would surely begin to water. And yes, you might imagine how delicious it would taste. But would you really eat it if you knew it belonged to somebody else?

  Of course not.

  It happened at lunch-time. Every day, at twelve o’clock precisely, the school cook, a very large lady called Mma Molipi (MOLEE -PEE), always called Big Mma Molipi, would bang a saucepan with a ladle. This was the signal for all the children to sit down on the verandah and wait to be given a plate of food that she had cooked with her assistant and cousin. This assistant was called Not-so-Big Mma Molipi, and, as the name tells us, she was much smaller than the chief cook herself. This is a picture of the two of them standing together. You will see how different they are.

  “Time for lunch!” Big Mma Molipi would shout in her very loud voice.

  Then Not-so-Big Mma Molipi would shout, in a much smaller, squeakier voice, “Time for lunch!”

  Big Mma Molipi’s food was all right, but not all that all right. It was, in fact, a bit boring, as she only had one recipe, it seemed, which was a sort of paste made out of corn and served with green peas and mashed turnips.

  “It’s very healthy,” said Big Mma Molipi. “So stop complaining, children, and eat up!”

  “Yes,” said Not-so-Big Mma Molipi. “So stop complaining, children, and eat up!”

  As you can see, Not-so-Big Mma Molipi did not say anything other than what she heard her larger cousin say. She thought it was safer that way. If you said anything new, she imagined, then people could look at you, and Not-so-Big Mma Molipi did not like the thought of that.

  It was no surprise that many of the children liked to make lunch a little bit more interesting by bringing their own food. Some brought a bit of fruit, or a sugar doughnut, or perhaps a sweet biscuit.

  Then, after lunch, when they all had a bit of free time before going back into the classroom, they would eat these special treats. Or, if they had nothing to bring, they could watch other people eating theirs. Sometimes, when you are very hungry, it’s the next best thing just to watch other people eating. But this can also make you even hungrier, unless you are careful.

  Sepo had brought his piece of bread and jam in a brown paper bag. While Big Mma Molipi served lunch, he had left the bag in the classroom, tucked away safely under his desk. He was sure that this is where he left it, and so when he went back in and saw that it had disappeared he was very surprised indeed.

  “My bread!” he wailed. “Somebody’s taken my bread!”

  Precious was walking past the open door of the classroom when she heard this. She looked in; there was Sepo standing miserably by his desk.

  “Are you sure?” Precious asked.

  “Of course I’m sure,” said Sepo. “It was there when we went out for lunch. Now it isn’t, and I didn’t take it.”

  Precious went into the classroom and stared at the spot being pointed out by Sepo. There was certainly nothing there.

  “I’ll ask people if they saw anything,” she said. “In the meantime, you can have half of my biscuit. I hope that will make you feel better.”

  It did. Sepo was still upset, but not quite as upset as he had been when he made the discovery.

  “There must be a thief in the school,” said Sepo as they walked out into the playground. “Who do you think it is, Precious?”

  Precious shrugged. “I just don’t know,” she said. “It could be …” She paused. “It could be anyone.”

  Sepo looked thoughtful. “I think I may know who it is,” he said. He did not speak very loudly, even though there was nobody else about.

  Precious looked at him quizzically. “How do you know that? Did you see somebody taking it?”

  Sepo looked furtively over his shoulder. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see anybody actually take it. But I did see somebody walking away from the classroom door.”

  Precious held her breath, waiting for Sepo to say more. He stayed silent, though, and so she whispered to him, “Who?”

  Sepo did not say anything, but after hesitating for a moment or two he very carefully pointed to somebody standing in the playground.

  “Him,” he whispered. “It’s him. I saw him.”

  Precious frowned. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  Sepo thought for a moment. If you ask somebody what they saw, they often have to think for a while before they answer. And they often get it wrong. But now Sepo said, “I’m sure – I really am. And look at him. Don’t you think that he looks as if he’s been eating too much!”

  “Don’t say anything,” said Precious. “You can’t accuse another person of doing something unless you actually saw it happen.”

  Sepo looked doubtful. “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because you could be wrong,” said Precious.

  “But I’m not,” said Sepo.

  HAT NIGHT, as Precious lay on her sleeping mat, waiting for her father to come in and tell her a story – as he always did – she thought about what had happened at school. She did not like the thought of there being a thief at school – thieves spoiled everything: they made people suspicious of one another, which was not a good thing at all. People should be able to trust other people, without worrying about whether they would steal their possessions.

  But even if she d
id not like the thought of there being a thief, neither did she like the thought that an innocent person might be suspected. She did not know the boy whom Sepo had pointed out – she had seen him, of course, and she knew his name, Poloko (PO-LOW-KO), but she did not know very much about him. And she certainly did not know that he was a thief.

  This is Poloko.

  You’ll see that he was a rather round boy. If you saw walking along the street, you might think that perhaps that was a boy who ate a little bit too much. And if you got to know him a bit better, then you might be sure that this was so and that those bulges in his pockets were indeed sweets – a large number of them. But just because somebody has lots of sweets does not mean that he has stolen them. One thing, you see, does not always lead to another. That is something that all detectives learn very early in their career, and Precious had already learned it. And she was only seven.

  The next day at school, when they were copying out letters from the board, Sepo, who was sitting on the bench next to Precious, whispered, “Have you told anybody about the thief?”

  Precious shook her head. “We don’t know who it is. How can I tell the teacher about something I don’t know?”

  Sepo looked cross. “But I know who it is,” he said. “And Big Mma Molipi told me that somebody has stolen three iced buns from her kitchen! She told me that this morning. Poloko’s probably eaten them already!”

  Precious listened in silence. She thought it a very unfair thing to say and she was about to tell Sepo that when the teacher gave them a severe look. So Precious just said, “Shh!” instead and left it at that. But later, when the children were let out to play while the teachers drank their tea, Sepo and Tapiwa came up to her and said they wanted to speak to her.

  “Are you going to help us deal with the thief?” Tapiwa said.

  Precious tried to look surprised. She knew what they meant, but she did not want to help them without any proof. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “How can we deal with the thief if we don’t know who it is?”

  “But we do know,” said Sepo. “It’s Poloko, that’s who it is.”

  Precious stared at Sepo. “You don’t know that,” she said. “So I’m not going to help you until you have some proof.”

  Sepo smiled. “All right,” he said. “If you want some proof, we’ll get it for you. We’re going to look at his hands.”

  Precious wondered what he meant by that, but before she had the time to ask him, Sepo and Tapiwa ran off to the other side of the playground where they had seen Poloko sitting on a rock. Precious ran behind them – not because she wanted to help them, but because she wanted to see what was happening.

  “Hold out your hands,” Tapiwa said to Poloko. “Come on. Hold them out.”

  Poloko was surprised, but held out his hands. Tapiwa bent down to examine them. After a few moments, she pointed out something to Sepo, and he also bent down to look. Then Tapiwa reached out to feel Poloko’s hands.

  “Hah!” she shouted. “It’s just as we thought. Your hands are sticky!”

  Poloko tried to say something, but his words were drowned by the shouts of Tapiwa and Sepo. “Thief!” they cried out. “Thief! Thief!” It was a shrill cry, and it froze Precious’s blood just to hear it. She wondered what it would be like to hear somebody shout that out about you – especially if you were not a thief and never had been.

  Precious stood quite still.

  The others were now making such a noise that one of the teachers had been alerted and was coming to see what was wrong.

  “What’s all this noise?” the teacher asked. “Can’t you children play quietly?”

  “We’ve found the thief,” Tapiwa shouted. “Look, Mma, look! His hands are covered in stickiness. If you want to know where those iced buns are, they’re right there – in Poloko’s stomach!”

  HE TEACHER FROWNED. “What’s all this?” she asked. “Are you children fighting?”

  The two accusers were quick to deny this. “We’re not fighting, Mma,” cried Tapiwa, pointing a finger at Poloko. “We’ve found the thief. It’s this boy! This boy right here!”

  The teacher looked at Poloko. “Have you stolen something, Poloko?”

  Poloko hung his head. “No, Mma, I have not stolen anything.”

  The teacher turned to stare at Tapiwa and Sepo. “Why do you say he’s a thief?”

  “Because some iced buns have been stolen,” Sepo blurted out. “And his hands are sticky. Look at them, Mma!”

  The teacher sighed. “Lots of people have sticky hands,” she said. “That doesn’t mean to say that they’re thieves.” She paused, looking down at Poloko. “You’re sure you haven’t stolen anything, Poloko?”

  The boy was close to crying. “I have not stolen anything, Mma. I promise you.”

  The teacher shook a finger at Tapiwa and Sepo. “You be careful about accusing people of things when you have no proof,” she said. “Now everybody go off and play and no more trouble, please.”

  Tapiwa and Sepo walked off, but only after throwing a disapproving look at Poloko. It was the sort of look that said You’re still a thief, you know. And Poloko, who was clearly feeling very miserable, walked off in the other direction.

  Precious waited for a moment before following the dejected-looking boy. “Poloko,” she said, as she caught up with him. “I believe you. I don’t think you’re a thief.”

  He stopped. “Thank you, Precious. I know you don’t think that.” He paused, looking over his shoulder to where other children were standing, listening to Tapiwa and Sepo. “But they’ll all think I’m a thief.”

  Precious knew that what he said was true. But she did not like to think that he was still unhappy, and so she tried to comfort him further. “It doesn’t matter what people like that think,” she said. “What matters is what your friends think. I’m your friend, and I know that you’re telling the truth.”

  He listened to what she said and was about to say something when the bell sounded for them to return to the classroom. So he simply muttered “Thank you” and left it at that.

  But Precious was not going to leave it there. That afternoon, when all the children left the school and began to walk back home under the hot African sun, she found Poloko and asked him to walk with her. They were going in the same direction, as he did not live far away from her.

  He was pleased that she asked, as they could both see the other children looking at him suspiciously.

  “You see,” he said. “They’ve told everybody. Now they all think I’m a thief.”

  “Pay no attention to them,” said Precious. “They can think what they like.”

  She knew, though, that it was not that simple. All of us worry about what other people think, even if we do not have to. It was easy to tell somebody to ignore that sort of thing; it was much harder to put such advice into practice.

  They set off, following the path that wound down the hill. It was a narrow path and a winding one – here and there great boulders had rolled down the hill thousands of years ago and the path had to twist around these. In between the boulders, trees had grown up, their roots working their way through gaps in the stone. These trees made the places in between the rocks a cool refuge from the heat of the sun, and sometimes Precious would sit down there and rest on her way home. But these places were also good hiding places for snakes, and so you had to be careful or …

  There was a noise off among the rocks, and they both gave a start.

  “A snake?” whispered Poloko.

  “Perhaps,” said Precious. “Should we look?”

  Poloko nodded. “Yes, but we must be careful.”

  They heard the noise again. This time Precious thought that it might be coming from the tree, and she looked up into the branches.

  “There!” she said, pointing into the tangle of leaves.

  Poloko looked up. He had expected to see a snake wound round one of the branches, but that was not what he spotted.

  “Monkeys!” he sai
d.

  Precious smiled. “They were watching us.”

  And then, just as she spoke, one of the monkeys dropped something. It fell down from the tree, caught in a shaft of light through the leaves. Poloko watched it, and then ran forward to pick it up, paying no heed to the excited chattering of the monkeys above his head.

  For a moment or two he stared at it before passing it to Precious.

  It was a piece of iced bun.

  OW SHE WAS SURE. But it was one thing to be sure about something and quite another to prove it to others. That was something that all detectives knew, and although she had only just started being a detective, Precious was well aware that you had to be able to show people something if you wanted them to believe it.

  That night, as she lay on her sleeping mat, she went over in her mind what she had seen. The monkeys were the culprits – they had given themselves away – but it would not be easy to catch them in the act. Monkeys were very nimble, and, in their own, special monkeyish way, very cunning. It was much easier to catch a human being red-handed than to catch a monkey.

  Red-handed … It was just an expression, a couple of words that meant to catch somebody in the middle of doing something wrong, but it was a good way of putting it and … red-handed?

  She closed her eyes and imagined how monkeys would steal buns. They would dart in through the window when nobody was looking and their little hands, so like human hands in every respect, but a bit hairier, would stretch out and snatch. Those little hands … What if the thing they were trying to snatch was even stickier than the stickiest of iced buns? What if it was a cake filled with … icing sugar and GLUE?