CHAPTER FIVE
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IN SPITE OF her tardiness that morning, Mma Makutsi still arrived at the office in time to forestall Mma Ramotswe’s switching on the kettle for the second cup of tea. “You must let me do that, Mma,” she said. “That is my job, you know.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at her watch—not too pointedly, she hoped, but sufficiently obviously for Mma Makutsi to notice.
“I know it’s rather late,” Mma Makutsi said. “It’s just that…”
Mma Ramotswe relented. “Oh, I know, Mma. A small child. A husband. A house to run.” Mma Ramotswe was keen not to offend her colleague; she knew that Mma Makutsi did not need to work and that her continued involvement with the agency came from the goodness of her heart. She appreciated that, and she could not imagine what the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency would be like without her. Mma Makutsi might say some strange things from time to time, she might be prickly on occasion, she might wind Charlie up the wrong way and even frighten Mr. Polopetsi, but she was part of the agency, in with the brickwork, and it would be inconceivable to lose her.
Mma Ramotswe went on to explain. “It’s just that, if it were possible to let me know whether you would be coming in or not, that would be useful. I’d know, then, whether I could go out, or whether I’d have to leave Charlie looking after the office. And then Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would know whether he would need to allocate Charlie’s time to us or to the garage.”
Mma Makutsi pursed her lips, making Mma Ramotswe fear that she had gone too far.
“It’s just an idea, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said hurriedly. “Just a thought, really. Everything’s working fine—in general, that is. There is no problem with anything, come to think of it.”
Mma Makutsi busied herself with the making of the tea. “I’m glad to hear that, Mma,” she said. “And I’m very happy too.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe, relieved that the moment had passed. She looked at her watch again—this time not in censure. “Mma Potokwane is dropping in,” she said. “She phoned earlier and asked if she could call on us.”
“Should we wait to have tea, then?” Mma Makutsi asked.
Mma Ramotswe did not think that was a good idea. The body expected tea, she believed, and the rhythms of the body, its anticipations and requests, should not be ignored. “We can have another cup of tea when she arrives. That is the best thing to do.”
Mma Makutsi agreed, and the two women sat down to enjoy their brew. It was a warm day, but not too warm, as the hottest months had passed and a body of cooler air had moved up from the south: air that had started its travels far down over the southern oceans, then swept up over the Cape of Good Hope, over the dry reaches of the Karoo, and into Botswana itself; air that brought a hint of something unfamiliar to the nostrils, a hint of salt and iodine, of something beyond the land, of something beyond Africa. Mma Ramotswe sensed it. “This weather, Mma, is from somewhere else, I think.”
Mma Makutsi agreed. “Phuti has ordered some firewood,” she said. “He says that you should always be prepared.”
“Very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe.
She thought of the fireplace in her own house, for much of the year left empty, but prepared for service during the relatively few chilly weeks of the year. The weather in that cold season was only occasionally overcast—grey days were virtually unheard of in Botswana—but even a clear sky, drenched in sunlight, could be chilly once the sun went north. At such times, the dry cold could penetrate to the very bones, and in the early morning people would huddle about such fires as they could make, rubbing their hands to keep them warm. And in the evenings, when the sun disappeared, a fire would again bring comfort. She remembered the fire outside her aunt’s house in Mochudi; she remembered sitting beside it as a young girl and looking up at the night sky, with its fields of stars, its spilt-milk galaxy, and asking her aunt whether that was Botswana too, or whether it was England or India or somewhere else altogether. And her aunt laughing and telling her that there were places where there was nothing, just air and more air, and that what she was looking up at was one of those. “England is far away,” her aunt had said. “They used to be here, you know, but now they have gone back to their own place. There was the Queen, and then there was Seretse Khama and our own people. That is called history, you see.”
“But who asked them here?”
The aunt shook her head. “There are some guests who do not knock.”
“That is very rude.”
“Yes,” said the aunt.
How many years ago was that? And why should such a memory—a brief snatch of conversation—lodge in the mind when so much else of childhood was irretrievably lost? That was what was in Mma Ramotswe’s mind when Mma Makutsi suddenly stood up and peered out of the window beside her desk. “Mma Potokwane is coming,” she announced. “I shall put the kettle back on.”
* * *
—
MMA POTOKWANE settled in the client’s chair, her cup of tea placed before her on Mma Ramotswe’s desk. “I have had a very successful morning,” she announced breezily. “So far. And I’m sure it will get even better.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. Her friend had always been an optimist, and with good reason; but there were also times when her bright view of life had not been justified. “So, Mma?” she encouraged. “Tell us what has happened.”
Mma Potokwane turned to include Mma Makutsi in the conversation. “You’ll be interested in this, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I went to see the people who sell those photocopying machines. The office equipment people. Over in the industrial sites.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I know that firm. They are very big.”
“And generous—as it turned out.” There was a note of triumph in Mma Potokwane’s voice as she continued. “They’re sponsoring one of the children. They’ve just confirmed it. Completely. Everything. School uniform. Books. Food. The lot.”
Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands in delight. “That’s wonderful, Mma. Wonderful.”
Mma Makutsi looked proud. This reflected well on the whole secretarial world. “That is very good news for the child,” she said. She paused before she went on, “And maybe one day that child will even go to the Botswana Secretarial College. Who knows?”
“Anything is possible,” agreed Mma Potokwane. “That little boy is very lucky.”
There was a brief silence, bringing with it a slight drop in temperature, as if the cool air outside had suddenly penetrated the office itself. Then Mma Makutsi asked, “Boy, Mma?”
Mma Potokwane had not noticed the effect of her words. “Yes, I have already chosen the boy.”
Mma Makutsi’s glasses flashed, throwing a tiny reflected chit of light on the office wall. It was, as Mma Ramotswe knew very well, a sign of disapproval.
“Why not a girl?” And then came Mma Makutsi’s point: “There are very few boys who go to the Botswana Secretarial College.” Very few was an overestimate. There were, she thought, none at all.
Mma Potokwane frowned. “That may be, Mma. But there are other forms of training.”
“But you said the child could go to the Botswana Secretarial College, Mma. You said that.”
Mma Potokwane was firm. One did not argue with a matron, and, if one did, the result was a foregone conclusion. “No, Mma. I did not say that—not in so many words. I did not. I said that it was possible, and that is completely different from saying that something will definitely happen.” She turned to Mma Ramotswe for support. “Isn’t that so, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe glanced in Mma Makutsi’s direction. “Does it matter?” she asked. “The important thing is that this money is being made available for a child. Does it matter which child?”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. But then she relented. “Maybe no. All children are deserving.”
“There you are,” said Mma Ramots
we, relieved at the defusing of the disagreement.
“And yet,” said Mma Makutsi, “I’m sure that firm would have liked to think that the child could maybe grow up to use their equipment.”
“I’m very grateful, whatever happens,” said Mma Potokwane.
Mma Makutsi cleared her throat and turned to Mma Potokwane. “Who is this boy, Mma?” she asked.
Mma Potokwane explained that it was a small boy whom Mma Ramotswe had met. “Oh,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is the one who stole the eggs?”
Mma Makutsi was quick to react. “Stole eggs? Why is a boy who steals eggs being given that chance? Are there not plenty of children—including girls, I might add—who have not stolen eggs? If you have to choose between those who steal eggs and those who do not, then surely you should reward those who do not steal eggs?”
Mma Ramotswe tried to explain. “They were guinea fowl eggs, Mma. They were in the bush…”
“That is no excuse, Mma,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “It doesn’t matter if the eggs belonged to a bird or to a person.”
“And he is a very small boy,” interjected Mma Potokwane. “Boys do silly things—all the time, Mma.” She paused. “I will use some of the money to buy him new shoes. His current shoes are old—and too small for him, I think. I shall get him some shoes with rubber soles because he is very frightened of lightning.”
They waited for further explanation.
“If you wear shoes with rubber soles,” explained Mma Potokwane, “you are much better protected against lightning strikes.”
Mma Makutsi considered this for a few moments. She still took issue with favouring a boy who had stolen eggs, even if the theft was being made light of by Mma Potokwane. There were standards to be kept up here, she thought, and it seemed to be falling to her to do that. “It is very wrong to take eggs from a bird,” she muttered. “There will be no birds left if everybody starts doing that, you know.”
Mma Ramotswe pointed at her teacup. “You must not let your tea get cold, Mma. In this cooler weather, you know, it gets cold rather quickly.”
They all took a sip of tea, and Mma Ramotswe tried to think of something to divert the conversation into safer territory. Before she had the opportunity, though, Mma Potokwane took the initiative. “I had the opportunity to call in at the council offices this morning,” she said. “I obtained the form.”
Mma Ramotswe looked puzzled. “Form, Mma?”
“The nomination form,” the matron replied, digging into the bag she had brought with her. “Here it is. You just have to sign it. It’s very simple. Then it needs two signatures of registered voters.” She turned to face Mma Makutsi. “That could be Mma Makutsi and myself. Or even Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, if he’s not too busy.” From the garage there came the sound of a car engine being revved. “Perhaps he is too busy.”
“What is this form?” asked Mma Makutsi. This may have been business between Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe, but if she was going to be asked to sign anything, she felt she had the right to know.
Mma Potokwane turned to give her answer, holding up the form for Mma Makutsi to see. “It’s the nomination for the council elections. If Mma Ramotswe is to be a candidate…”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head vigorously. “No, Mma. I do not want to…”
Mma Potokwane seemed not to have heard. “If she is going to be a candidate,” she continued, “then she must fill this in. I’ll return it to them for you. I have put my own name down as your election agent.”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Her glasses flashed. “You’re going to stand for election to the council?”
The answer came from Mma Potokwane rather than Mma Ramotswe. “Yes, she is. There’s a vacancy coming up, and Mma Ramotswe will surely win it.”
“I won’t win,” protested Mma Ramotswe. “I don’t want to stand, Mma.”
Mma Potokwane shook a finger at her friend. It was a playful gesture, but its point was a serious one. “That’s defeatism, Mma. That’s giving up before you’ve even started. And if we all took that approach, where would we be? Where would anyone be, Mma?”
“I am not being defeatist, Mma. I’m simply saying that standing in an election is not what I want to do. There are plenty of people who like that sort of thing, but I am not one of them.”
That should, she believed, have clinched the argument, but Mma Potokwane had the bit between her teeth. “But if you don’t stand, Mma, then who will show these people that they can’t get away with it?”
Mma Makutsi now joined in. “Get away with what?” she asked.
Mma Potokwane waved a hand airily. “With all their nonsense.”
Mma Makutsi snorted. “Oh, there is always a lot of nonsense. Nonsense about this thing; nonsense about that thing. A lot of nonsense.”
“Precisely,” said Mma Potokwane. “And now we can do something about it. Not a big thing, maybe, but electing Mma Ramotswe would mean there’d be at least one sensible voice on the council.” She paused. “And it would be a good thing for women in general. We need to have more women in politics, rather than all those men.”
“With all their nonsense,” Mma Makutsi chimed in. This was very much what she had always thought, even if it had not occurred to her that Mma Ramotswe, of all people, would be the one to lead the charge. Still, somebody had to take the first step…She stopped herself as she remembered what had happened earlier that morning. The shoes…
Mma Potokwane was talking. “I know you may have reservations, Mma, but I’m sure you’ll get used to it. In fact, you’ll enjoy yourself, I think. Most people in politics enjoy themselves very much.”
The shoes, thought Mma Makutsi. The shoes. Don’t get mixed up in politics! Why should her shoes say that on the very morning when Mma Potokwane came into the office and produced a nomination form? It was an unsettling coincidence. She cleared her throat. “But if Mma Ramotswe doesn’t want to, Mma Potokwane…If she doesn’t want to…”
“I don’t,” interjected Mma Ramotswe. “I don’t.”
Now it was simple. Mma Ramotswe needed Mma Makutsi’s support, and she would give it. “I don’t think you should press her,” said Mma Makutsi. “Politics may not be for everybody.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her colleague gratefully. “That’s what I think,” she said. “I’m glad there are people who stand for these things, but it’s not me. I have other work to do, Mma Potokwane.”
It was at this point that Charlie entered the room. The young man had been helping Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in the garage, but had been told that he was now free to see if there was anything for him to do in the office. This was the arrangement they now had: Charlie was a part-time trainee detective and a part-time unqualified—but enthusiastic—mechanical apprentice. Whether his apprenticeship would ever be finished was uncertain, but the set-up suited him as much as it suited both businesses, neither of which could afford to give him a full-time position.
“Dumela, ladies,” Charlie said cheerfully, wiping his hands on a blue paper towel. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He crossed the room to pour himself a mug of tea.
Mma Potokwane had a soft spot for Charlie. She knew about his irresponsibility, she knew he had an eye for girls, she knew about his fecklessness, but all young men were like that, she thought, to a greater or lesser extent. Now she detected an ally, and so she said, “Mma Ramotswe is thinking of standing for the council, Charlie. I’m sure you’ll vote for her, won’t you?”
Charlie stopped in his tracks. He stared at Mma Ramotswe. “You, Mma? You, go on the council?”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “We talked about it, but—”
He did not let her finish. “But that’s fantastic, Mma. I’ll vote for you. Fanwell will vote for you too. I’ll get all the girls to vote for you. There are hundreds of girls, hundreds, who’ll give you their vote.” He shook his head at
the thought of hundreds of girls, all lining up to vote for Mma Ramotswe, marshalled by himself.
This was exactly what Mma Potokwane had wanted to hear. “There you are, Mma Ramotswe. I told you that there’d be plenty of people to vote for you.”
Mma Makutsi was scornful. “Who are these girls, Charlie? Where do they come from, these hundreds of girls?”
Charlie looked smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mma Makutsi?” he snapped back.
“That’s why I’m asking.” She paused. “And if they’re the sorts of girls you know, Charlie, they won’t be interested in politics. Hair, maybe. Fingernails. Dancing. But not politics. Girls like that, you see, don’t vote.”
Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but Mma Ramotswe, keen to avoid disharmony, gave him a warning glance. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Since I’m not going to be standing, it doesn’t matter whether Charlie’s friends vote or not.” She turned to Charlie. “But thank you anyway for your support, Charlie.”
Mma Potokwane had been observing this contretemps without intervening. Now she made her move. “Of course, if Mma Ramotswe doesn’t stand, then somebody else will get in.” She sighed. “That will be most unfortunate, in view of who the other candidate is likely to be.”
This remark was greeted with complete silence. Mma Makutsi looked up sharply. Her glasses caught the light again. Mma Ramotswe frowned. Charlie, who had been fiddling with a paper clip he had found on top of the filing cabinet, tossed it aside.
Mma Potokwane appeared to relish the drama of the moment. “Yes,” she said, lingering over what she had to say. “Most unfortunate indeed. In fact…” She saw that they were all hanging on her words. “In fact, very bad.”
Mma Ramotswe spoke next. A name had come to her immediately after Mma Potokwane had spoken. Now she sought confirmation. “Violet Sephotho, by any chance, Mma?”
The Colors of All the Cattle Page 6