Charlie sulked. Mma Ramotswe noticed this. There was something wrong, she was sure of it; Charlie was not himself.
“I think I’ll choose the wording myself,” Mma Ramotswe suddenly announced. “I would like to say, I am Mma Ramotswe. I am not much, but I promise you I’ll do my best. Those are the words I want.”
This was greeted mutely as they each contemplated this radically different approach. Then Mma Makutsi broke the silence. “I don’t think you should be too modest, Mma. Those words…well, they don’t say what you want to achieve.”
“That is because I don’t know what that is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I won’t know what I want to do until I’m on the council. I should tell people that.”
“But you cannot admit it, Mma,” countered Mma Makutsi. “If you say that, then people will think: This Mma Ramotswe is not much good—she admits that herself.”
“But I can’t claim to be anything other than what I am,” Mma Ramotswe insisted. “And I can’t promise anything other than to do my best.”
Mr. Polopetsi raised his hand. “I would like to be recognised by the chair,” he said.
Fanwell looked amused. “But everybody recognises you, Mr. Polopetsi. We all know who you are.”
“That’s an expression, Fanwell,” said Mr. Polopetsi reproachfully.
“I recognise Mr. Polopetsi,” said Mma Makutsi. “You may speak now, Mr. Polopetsi. You have been recognised.”
“A good thing he wasn’t in disguise,” muttered Charlie. “Then he might not have been recognised.”
This brought a warning glance from Mma Makutsi. “Please go ahead, Rra.”
Mr. Polopetsi had been perched on a table; now he rose to his feet. “I think that Mma Ramotswe is right,” he said. “People don’t want false promises. They want honesty. If Mma Ramotswe’s posters say what she suggests, then they will think, This Mma Ramotswe is just like us. We must vote for her, rather than for that lipstick-wearing woman with all her hot air and her Jezebel looks.” It was strong language for Mr. Polopetsi. Jezebel looks…he was quite right, Mma Ramotswe thought, but it did not do to throw insults around.
“I think we should get those printed right now,” said Fanwell. “Charlie and I can start putting them up by late afternoon.”
“Then let’s do that, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. She delivered this firmly and Mma Makutsi did not argue—the candidate had spoken.
* * *
—
WHILE THE OTHERS went off to arrange for the printing of the posters, Charlie lingered in the office. From behind her desk, Mma Ramotswe waited until they were alone. “You seem unhappy, Charlie,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
Charlie shook his head. “I’m fine, Mma. There’s nothing wrong.”
She was not that easily put off. “Charlie,” she said, “I know you well enough by now. I can tell when something’s not right.”
He approached her desk.
“You should sit down and tell me,” she said.
He told her about the brick through his window. She listened sympathetically, and then asked whether he was sure that it was intended for him.
“It must have been, Mma,” he replied. “My room, you see, is round the side of the house. Whoever threw it would have had to walk all the way round. If it were just some random brick, thrown by a passer-by, it would have gone through the front window.”
She agreed that this was likely.
“The other day,” she said, “when Eddie came to see you, he threatened you, didn’t he?” She waited for a few moments, and then continued, “What did he say, Charlie?”
Charlie hesitated before replying. He looked abashed. “He told me that he had found out who was involved in that accident with Dr. Marang. He said that he is a very dangerous man and that he had heard I was looking for him. He warned me to be very careful.”
Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. She was the gentlest of people, but every so often it was brought home to her that the job that she did brought her into contact with the bad and the ruthless. She was strong enough for that, of course, and would stand up to such people where necessary, but she did not like that murky world. And the idea that Charlie, who for all his bluster was still really a boy, should be subjected to threats caused her some discomfort. She felt herself responsible for him, and now here he was with a brick through his window—a missile that could well have caused him serious injury had he been in at the time.
Charlie sighed. “It will be that man, Mma. He will want to kill me now.”
She tried to reassure him. “Nonsense, Charlie. He will not.”
“Then why throw a brick through my window?”
“That is a way of saying something to you. He probably doesn’t want to harm you.”
Charlie’s misery was unassuaged. “I think that if you throw a brick through somebody’s window you want to hurt him,” he said. And then, his lip quivering as he spoke, “Mma Ramotswe, I am very frightened. I am not very brave, you see. I’m frightened.”
She rose from her chair and put an arm around the young man’s shoulder. “Oh, Charlie, you mustn’t be frightened.”
“But I am.” His voice was quivering.
“Yes, perhaps you are. But you must remember one thing, Charlie. You are on the right side here. This man—whoever he is—is a criminal. He has knocked over an old man. He has threatened you because you were going to shine a light on his dark deed. Yes, his dark deed, Charlie. And he knows very well that there is only one of him but there are many hundreds of you, thousands, in fact—all the good people of Botswana are lined up behind you, Charlie. The police. The judges. The reverends. The teachers. The President of Botswana himself. They are all on your side, Charlie, and that bad man knows it. He should be the frightened one, I think.”
It was a stirring speech, and Charlie felt a bit better after it. But he still asked, “What if he comes again, Mma? What if he waits for me and he has a knife. What then?”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. She could tell him that one should not run away from bullies, but she knew that such advice, though true at one level, was of little comfort to those who felt at risk. Daylight was one thing, but there would always be the night, when the shadows provided cover for the things that dared not show their face by day but were emboldened by darkness. Who would there be to protect Charlie in the crowded warren that was the back streets of Old Naledi? There were few streetlights there, and the people who occupied the dwellings, the bottom end of the housing market, were famous for not seeing anything. There were often no witnesses to what happened in Old Naledi.
Mma Ramotswe acted on impulse. An hour later, on reflection, she realised that she might have discussed it first with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, but now she acted without further thought. It was, she felt, the right thing to do—indeed, it was the only thing to do.
“You must come and stay with us in Zebra Drive,” she said. “You will be safe with us, Charlie. Stay with us until this case is closed.”
He looked at her in complete astonishment. “With you, Mma?”
“Yes. We have a spare room at the back. It isn’t a big room, but you will be comfortable. Then, when it is safe for you to go home, you can do that.”
He asked whether anybody else lived in the room. Would he be sharing with Puso, perhaps?
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “No, Puso has his own room. You will be by yourself. Just you.”
Charlie looked up at the ceiling. This was almost too good to be true. His own room…with nobody else in it. His own room…But then he thought: What about the rent? A room in Zebra Drive would be considerably above his means—it would be impossible.
He raised the subject of what payment he would need to make.
“Payment, Charlie?” exclaimed Mma Ramotswe. “No, no: you will be our guest. Guests do not pay to stay in a house.”
Charlie swallowed hard. “Oh, Mma, you are so kind to me.”
“You can get Fanwell to help you collect your things,” she said. “You can take the van.”
He thanked her, his voice shaking with emotions of relief and gratitude. She put an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Charlie,” she said. “We would never let you be harmed. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do, Mma,” he said. “I know that well.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AN HONEST WOMAN SPEAKS
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, the election campaign, until then something of a phony war, heated up. For its part, Violet Sephotho’s headquarters issued several press statements in which Violet set out her plans. If she were to be elected—and she was confident, she said, that the electorate would make a wise decision—then she would be tireless in improving the lives of the citizens of Gaborone. Not only would the roads become better following her election, but so would standards in schools and hospitals. There would be a marked reduction in crime, too, as she would press for a rise in police pay and the equipping of the police with faster, more powerful cars that would enable them to apprehend lawbreakers “more swiftly and with no nonsense.” And added to all these was the suggestion that some of the things that people currently had to pay for—various registration charges and so on—would in future be done for no payment. There would be free tea in libraries, schools, and hospitals. There would be free car wash stations for all motorists, and all bus journeys within the city bounds would be free every first Sunday of the month.
At Mma Ramotswe’s headquarters, these claims were met with hoots of derision. “Who does she think she is?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Miss Can-Do-Anything?”
“She can do none of these things,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Not one. If she wins—and we shall do all we can to make sure she does not—she will not have all those powers. She will just be one member of the council. She will not even be anything to do with the main government. She will be an elected nobody.”
But there was one power that she would have if victorious, and that was specifically, and ominously, alluded to in another of her press statements. We do not have enough first-class hotel accommodation in Gaborone, it said. What do visitors think when they come here and find out that there are not enough good hotel rooms? They go right home. This must change: we must make sure that there are plenty of hotels, especially ones that cater for those who want to have a good time.
Mma Makutsi seized on these last thirteen words. “There,” she said knowingly. “There is the evidence to confirm what Mr. Gobe Moruti told me. There it is in print—on the page—for all to see.”
The press showed a strong interest in the contest. Violet’s press releases were given prominent coverage, as were several lengthy interviews with her. Then, in a development that caused dismay at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, a newspaper opinion poll revealed that Violet was far ahead of Mma Ramotswe and was expected to take almost seventy per cent of the vote. Violet Sephotho Expected to Romp Home, said the headlines. Major Victory Ahead for Radical Lady.
Mma Makutsi’s reaction was to question the poll. “I just don’t believe those figures,” she said. “Who did they question? A group of Violet’s relatives? People called Sephotho?”
“Or Violet paid them to say that,” suggested Fanwell. “Like an advertisement. You have to pay for those things.”
“On the other hand,” warned Mr. Polopetsi, “it could be true. Perhaps people actually like Violet’s promises of free this and free that.”
Mma Ramotswe listened carefully. She thought that Mr. Polopetsi was probably right: people loved presents—of course they did. And if the offer of presents came from a politician, even if that meant that the money used to buy the presents came from the taxpayer, people seemed not to mind too much. But she would not participate in that sort of thing, even if it meant that she lost the election. If you won on the basis of lies and false promises—bribes, really—then your victory would be a hollow one.
At the suggestion of Mma Makutsi, Mma Ramotswe gave an interview to the Botswana Daily News. The journalist sent to do this was a young man of earnest manner, who wore large, red-framed spectacles of the sort that would appeal to Mma Makutsi. He sat, notebook on knee, pencil in hand, ready to ask Mma Ramotswe a series of searching questions, while Mma Makutsi, who had introduced herself as Mma Ramotswe’s press officer, made tea in the background.
“Mma Ramotswe,” he began, “it says on your poster that there is not much you can do. Is that so, do you think?”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “If I said it, Rra, then I think it means it is so. We should not say what we do not mean. That is well known, I think.”
The young man wrote this down. Then he asked, “But, if there is nothing you can do, then why stand for election?”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. “Because there is not nothing I can do—what I can do is do the things I can do.”
“And these things would be what?” he asked.
“You cannot tell,” replied Mma Ramotswe. “Nobody knows what you need to do until you need to do it. It is better to be honest about these things.”
Now the journalist moved on to Violet Sephotho. “What do you think of your opponent, Mma? She is offering many important reforms.”
“That is very kind of her,” said Mma Ramotswe.
The journalist wrote that down. Then he asked, “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
Mma Ramotswe smiled again. “What really matters is whether you think you’re telling the truth. I think that Violet may think she is telling the truth, but I cannot say: you must ask her yourself. She can then answer. That is my view of the matter.”
“And this issue of the Big Fun Hotel, Mma? Where do you stand on that?”
Mma Ramotswe chose her words carefully. “It is not a good thing, Rra. It would be disrespectful of all those late people to put a hotel next to their place. It would make their families sad if they visited the graves of their late relatives and heard lots of drinking and shouting going on just over the fence. That is no way to treat late people.”
Finally, the journalist said, “Do you think you will win, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment, and then answered, “No.”
The interview was published the following day. There was a large photograph of Mma Ramotswe followed by her answers, printed verbatim. But then there was the headline and sub-heading, and it was these that counted. An Honest Woman Speaks, was the headline, followed by: Mma Ramotswe says no to drinking and shouting next door to late people. It was as powerful a statement of principle as one could wish for, and it resonated with the electorate. The electorate listened, and since in the heart of every voter there was a place for a late relative, the message struck home.
* * *
—
CHARLIE HAD SETTLED IN QUICKLY at Zebra Drive. He was popular with the children, particularly with Puso, who gazed at him with unconcealed admiration. And for his part Charlie was happy to reciprocate the attention, spending time with the boy in the construction of an elaborate balsa-wood model of an aeroplane, and wheeling him around the garden in Mma Ramotswe’s wheelbarrow, to whoops of delight from both of them. Observing this from the verandah, Mma Ramotswe said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, “Maybe Charlie would make a good father now, Rra. Just look at him.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni followed her gaze, and smiled. “He has come a long way.” He remembered the earlier days of Charlie’s apprenticeship, when he had spent virtually every lunch hour and every tea break sitting on an upturned oil barrel, flirting with any young woman who passed by. The flirtatious behaviour seemed to have gone now, along with the constant glancing into the mirror and preening, and in a curious, unexpected way Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni missed that.
“It’s a pity he does not have a girlfriend,”
mused Mma Ramotswe. “Fanwell told me that there was somebody, but they have recently split up.”
“That happens,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Young people are always splitting up. It’s what they do.”
Charlie helped put Puso to bed, telling him a rambling bedtime story that was all about a man who got lost in the Kalahari and was saved by a San tracker. Puso listened wide-eyed, before drifting off to sleep, allowing Charlie to join Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for the evening meal. This was stew and pumpkin—the meat being good Botswana beef, the pumpkins having been grown by one of Mma Potokwane’s housemothers from the Orphan Farm. Mma Ramotswe watched Charlie tuck in with relish and suddenly thought that for all she knew he was not being properly fed in that overcrowded house in Old Naledi. She gave him a second helping, and a third one after that, and Charlie then wiped his plate clean with a crust of bread.
“You should eat more, Charlie,” she said. “You need building up.”
After the meal, they moved through to the living room, where Mma Ramotswe served red bush tea and small, dry biscuits known as Marie biscuits. Charlie dunked these in his milky mug of red bush tea before swallowing them whole.
Then she mentioned the Marang case. “We need to do something,” she said. “We can’t leave things as they are.”
Charlie looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know what to do, Mma,” he said.
“Would you like me to help you?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Charlie nodded gratefully. “I would, Mma. I could be your assistant.”
She smiled. “Then we shall go to Mochudi, I think. You and I. We shall go on the day of the election, so that I can get away from all the fuss.”
Charlie nodded his assent. “You can vote in the morning, Mma—I’ll vote in the afternoon, after we get back. If you vote in the morning, you can pick me up at the garage. I will go there early, early, Mma, and work until you are ready to leave.”
The Colors of All the Cattle Page 18