There was a brief pause.
“No,” Mma Makutsi continued. “I do not think that she will be able to help you, Rra. I’m very sorry.”
The call was ended. Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Who was that, Mma?” she asked. “Was that for me?”
Mma Makutsi was businesslike. “Just a cold call, Mma. Nothing more than that.” She looked to Mma Potokwane for support. “We cannot have all sorts of riff-raff calling every ten minutes asking for Mma Ramotswe to do things. Where would it end?”
Mma Ramotswe wanted to know who the riff-raff had been, but there was something in Mma Makutsi’s manner that suggested the subject was closed. Mma Potokwane, though, felt that she should know. “You should tell Mma Ramotswe who that was,” she insisted. “This riff-raff person—Mma Ramotswe might need to know about him.”
Mma Makutsi shrugged. “It was somebody calling himself Maphephu. He was wanting Mma Ramotswe to speak to somebody about a job. I told him it was impossible.”
Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. John Maphephu—the man who had been so complimentary when she had met him outside the polling station. He had sung her praises because she had not promised anything very much, and yet here he was asking her for a favour on the very first day of her membership of the council. Was this what being a politician was going to be like?
“Riff-raff,” said Mma Makutsi.
* * *
—
MMA RAMOTSWE attended her first council meeting two days later. She had, as promised, received the papers for the meeting in advance, and had been able to go over them with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Potokwane, on the understanding that they respected the HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL stamp that appeared at the top of the agenda. “We have a proper interest in seeing these papers,” reasoned Mma Potokwane. “We are your private office, so to speak, Mma. People in a private office have to see these confidential things in order to give advice. Everybody knows that.” As expected, the main item on the agenda was the planning application for the Big Fun Hotel. This matter took up thirty of the forty-five pages that made up the meeting’s papers. It included several internal memos, a business consultant’s report, letters from a variety of government bodies, and a slew of submissions from objectors to the proposal. The issue was finely balanced; the council’s own planning officers had recommended in favour of the proposal and, according to the records included of past council meetings, the project had been enthusiastically supported by a number of councillors.
“It’s going to be a difficult business,” observed Mma Potokwane, shaking her head. “Your vote is going to be very important, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe did not relish the prospect of an acrimonious argument. “I hope it doesn’t go on too long,” she said.
“The public is admitted to these meetings,” said Mma Potokwane. “We shall be there, won’t we, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni?” Then she added, “And Mma Makutsi too. She will want to come.”
This did not make it any easier for Mma Ramotswe. The thought of speaking in public was bad enough, but the prospect of doing so in the presence of family and friends seemed considerably worse. Mma Makutsi would be on the lookout for mistakes—she was sure of that—and these would be brought up later. And if she failed to impress the other councillors and the vote was lost as a result, then she would have to live with the thought that it was her fault—or partly her fault.
In the event, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was unable to make the meeting as he had to attend to the breakdown of a client’s car. Mma Potokwane was there, though, and brought Mr. Polopetsi with her. He was wearing an ill-cut brown suit, several sizes too large for him, and a small pork-pie hat. Mma Potokwane had on a blouse and skirt in the colours of the national flag. They were conspicuous, but Mma Ramotswe tried not to catch their eyes as she took her place at the council table. She knew she was being watched—not only by her supporters, but by the existing members of the council, whom she had first met only a few minutes earlier.
The chairman introduced the main item on the agenda. It was, he said, the most important issue that the council had been obliged to deal with for many years. He acknowledged that the proposal was a controversial one, but he believed, as many of the other councillors did, that the matter was of immense significance for the well-being of the city. “We must have hotels,” he said. “Hotels provide a place for visitors to stay, and visitors are the life-blood of the tourism industry.”
This brought nods of approval from a number of councillors, but solemn disapproval from what appeared to be an equal number of others. Sensing this division, the chairman dropped his bombshell.
“I feel very strongly about this,” he declared. “As do many of my colleagues. In fact, we feel so strongly that, if this proposal is rejected, we have decided to tender our resignations.”
There were gasps of astonishment from the public benches. Mma Potokwane exchanged glances with Mr. Polopetsi, who whispered something in her ear. In the front row, only recently spotted by Mma Ramotswe, sat Mr. Gobe Moruti. He smiled when the chairman made his threat, nodding in grave agreement. His body language was clear: good commercial sense would prevail; this was not some tin-pot country up north, this was Botswana.
The debate started. There was a great deal of invective. Dire predictions were made by the opponents—the next step, they warned, would be to dig up the graves of the late people in the cemetery so that more hotels could be built. Nonsense, replied the supporters of the Big Fun Hotel—there were no plans to do anything else in the vicinity. And the Big Fun Hotel, they claimed, would be perfectly respectable.
After two hours of intense discussion and argument the chairman announced that it was time to put the matter to a vote. On the public benches, Mr. Polopetsi fingered the band of his pork-pie hat; Mma Potokwane narrowed her eyes in anticipation.
There was a show of hands. A nervous council official, standing behind the chairman, began to count. The vote was evenly split.
But then Mma Ramotswe remembered to vote. She had been watching the other councillors and had momentarily forgotten that she was a councillor herself—and that she had a vote. She caught the chairman’s eye. “Excuse me, Rra,” she said. “I haven’t cast my vote yet.”
The chairman looked aghast. “But Mma…”
There was a chorus of shouts from some of the other councillors. “You must let her vote, Rra. She is entitled.”
The chairman looked about him. Mma Potokwane was later to say that she thought she had seen him look for guidance from Mr. Gobe Moruti, but she could not be absolutely sure.
“Very well,” the chairman conceded. “I suppose you are entitled to vote, Mma. Which way is it?”
“I vote against the proposal,” said Mma Ramotswe. She spoke clearly, as it was her maiden speech and she did not want there to be any mistaking her views. And, bearing in mind what had happened last time she had voted, she felt that clarity was of the essence.
In the uproar that followed, Mma Ramotswe lost track of what was actually being said. The chairman tried to speak, but was shouted down by people on the public benches. Mr. Gobe Moruti rose to his feet and stalked out of the room. Then, when things died down, the chairman stood up and announced that he, and six other councillors, were now resigning. “And that means that the entire council is inquorate and out of office. There will have to be fresh elections for every seat.”
Mma Ramotswe stared at the papers on the table in front of her. Hers had been a brief political career, but she had done what Mma Potokwane and others had asked of her. The Big Fun Hotel would not be, and she imagined that the late people might be grateful to her for that. And it was better, she thought, to be held in high regard by late people than to incur their wrath.
Mma Potokwane and Mr. Polopetsi were waiting for her outside.
“Well done, Mma,” enthused Mma Potokwane. “You did it.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “That
was masterly.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mma Ramotswe modestly. “I didn’t say very much.”
“Five words,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I counted them. But they were five words that meant everything, Mma.”
“And now I’m out of office,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am an ordinary citizen again.”
“You are an ex-councillor,” Mma Potokwane pointed out. “That counts for something.”
“I feel very relieved,” said Mma Ramotswe. “All my cares are over, I think.”
“Then you should take the day off,” said Mma Potokwane, looking at her watch. “It will be lunch time soon, and I think we should have a picnic.”
The suggestion was a spontaneous one, but it met with the approval of both Mma Ramotswe and Mr. Polopetsi. Mma Ramotswe was too overcome to work, and for his part Mr. Polopetsi was too excited by what he had seen. A picnic would allow everybody to relax and reflect on what had happened.
“I shall go back and collect a few of the children,” said Mma Potokwane. “They’ll enjoy running around.” And then, as an afterthought, “And I’ll pick up some cake too. I’ve been baking.”
In her state of elation—and relief—Mma Ramotswe would have agreed to anything. But a picnic was just right, she thought; there was no better way of celebrating a deliverance—and that was what had happened—than with old friends, and particularly with old friends who liked cake as much as Mma Potokwane did.
* * *
—
MMA RAMOTSWE drove back to the office in an almost dazed state. She had not imagined that this first day of her political career would be anything like this—this first and last day, in fact. She felt freed of more than one burden. Her obligation to Mma Potokwane had been discharged; by remaining in office until the dissolution of the council—even if that was only for a period of a few hours—she had done her duty by the voters; and she had helped to save the town from the indignity of that noisy and unwelcome hotel. Now she could get back to work, and to the affairs of her friends and family.
Mma Makutsi had opted to stay and look after the office while Mma Ramotswe was at the meeting. She had already heard, though, of the result of that morning’s deliberations, as Mma Potokwane had called her almost immediately after the vote had been taken. She had also mentioned the picnic, which had given Mma Makutsi time to slip out to the stores to buy food, leaving Charlie in sole charge of the office. He had set himself up at Mma Ramotswe’s desk and had occupied himself drafting a memo on the Marang case.
But then, a few minutes after Mma Ramotswe returned to the office, Dr. Marang himself arrived, accompanied by his daughter, Constance. Mma Ramotswe had been expecting to hear from him, but she had not thought he would call on her quite so quickly. The visitors were offered chairs and, while Mma Makutsi made tea, Mma Ramotswe enquired after Dr. Marang’s health.
“I am very much better,” he replied.
Constance looked disgruntled. “He is still weak,” she muttered.
“I am feeling better now that everything is settled,” he continued. “Knowing what happened has made it possible for me to—”
“—move on,” interjected Mma Makutsi.
Dr. Marang turned to her and smiled. “Exactly, Mma. I never wanted revenge, you know.”
Constance pursed her lips. “That young man should go to prison,” she said.
Her father reached out and placed his hand on hers. “No, Constance, sending people to prison helps nobody. It generally just makes people worse.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” snapped Constance.
Mma Ramotswe guided the conversation away from this disagreement. “I take it that Mma Lelotong came to see you.”
Dr. Marang inclined his head. “She did, Mma. I have known that lady for many years. She is a good woman.”
“With a bad son,” said Constance.
“Nobody is entirely bad,” soothed Dr. Marang.
“He is,” answered Constance.
Dr. Marang sighed. “That is a matter of opinion, I think. And anyway, he is selling his car. There will be compensation for us from the proceeds of that.”
Mma Ramotswe was pleased to hear this. “His mother has made him do that?”
“Yes,” said Constance. “He would never have done that without her. It’s only because of her that he has apologised to my father and will be making that payment. He would never do that himself.”
“And was anything said about the brick through Charlie’s window?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“The mother is going to make sure that that is properly dealt with,” said Dr. Marang. “And I have found some work for that young man to do—supervised work that will help him to become a better person.”
“Fat chance of that,” said Constance.
Dr. Marang glanced at her briefly. He was patient, with the understanding that came from years of looking after others. “There is a youth project. They were looking for somebody to teach young people basketball. That young man is very tall—that’s what you need for basketball.”
Giraffe, thought Mma Ramotswe. She made a gesture that indicated that she, at least, was satisfied. “I think everybody deserves a second chance,” she said. “Even somebody like Eddie.”
“Third chance?” asked Constance, her voice rising. “Fourth chance? Fifth chance?”
“However many chances are necessary,” said Mma Ramotswe evenly.
Constance said nothing.
“So,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is another successful outcome for the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.”
“Bah!” said Constance.
* * *
—
THEY HAD THEIR PICNIC out at the dam, finding a suitable spot under a cluster of acacia trees. Charlie made a fire between some stones, and on this they fried sausages and sliced potatoes. A blackened range kettle, perched on the edge of the fire, was soon hissing from the fire beneath it. Mma Potokwane had brought several cakes, and there was enough to provide three slices each, if the appetite were there. She had also brought three children with her from the Orphan Farm. Mma Ramotswe recognised one of these, the small boy, Mpilo, who had stolen the bird’s eggs. He had seemed sullen and withdrawn then, but now he was bright and communicative. She beckoned him over, and he stood politely before her, his eyes fixed on the ground at her feet. She asked him if he was enjoying himself, and he replied that he was. He looked up, and he smiled. She put her hand on his shoulder and then, on impulse, took him into her arms and hugged him. He did not resist. She felt him against her, a sliver of humanity called a small boy, with the smell of boy and cake and the dust in which he had been playing with the other children. Then she released him, as we release children into their own lives, and he ran off.
Mma Potokwane, witnessing this, said simply, “Some things work out, Mma.”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Some things work out.” But she was puzzled. “How did you do it, Mma?”
Mpilo had run over to join his friends. Mma Potokwane pointed to his shoes. “The new shoes,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe waited.
“Sometimes,” said Mma Potokwane, “small things can lead to big things.”
“But…” Mma Ramotswe was thinking of the lightning.
“He had never been given anything like that,” said Mma Potokwane. “Never. Not once in his short life had he been given anything that was special to him. He loved his shoes. He loved them, Mma, and they…well, they made him feel very much better.”
“I suppose it’s sometimes that simple,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Often,” said Mma Potokwane. “Not just sometimes, Mma—often.”
Mma Ramotswe lay back on one of the rugs they had brought with them. A small platoon of tiny black ants had ventured onto this rug, but she did not disturb their reconnaissance—the rug was big enough for all
of them, and for others too, if they should wish to join her. As she lay there, waiting for the sausages to cook and the kettle to boil, she listened with half an ear to a conversation that Charlie was having with Mma Makutsi on the other side of the fire. He was planning on seeing Queenie-Queenie that evening, he said. He had contacted her and she seemed keen to see him again. “You never know,” said Charlie. “It may work.” And then she heard Charlie say, “She has a brother, you know. Hercules. Apparently he told her that he liked me—we arm-wrestled, you see. And she thought that was a big point in my favour. So there might be a chance after all.”
Of course there is, thought Mma Ramotswe. Of course there is—there always is a chance. And she wanted Charlie to have a chance; she wanted that a great deal.
“She has invited me to her parents’ place,” said Charlie. “I have said yes. But I am a bit worried, Mma. Her father is a big man, you see.”
Mma Makutsi shook a finger at him. “You’re a big man too, Charlie.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, Charlie. You are. And I don’t want to hear you ever saying you aren’t. You are.”
Mma Ramotswe let her mind wander, which was what it always wanted to do when she was out in the bush—her beloved Botswana bush. She thought, This is where I am happiest—here on the earth of the land that I love so much, and always will, always. And she thought of her father, and of where she imagined he might be. She was not entirely sure—who could ever be completely certain about such a thing?—but she thought that he would be in the place to which late people went, just above this Botswana, that other Botswana which is the place of those who are late, where there would be green grass, rich and abundant, and water, and all the other things that people need. And because he was who he was, Obed Ramotswe, fine judge of cattle, he would be helping to look after the cattle in heaven, which were special cattle, broad of back and shoulder, with sweet-smelling breath, and wide brown eyes. And the late children would be riding on the backs of those cattle, those white cattle, and the other cattle too, as there were cattle of all colours in that place, gentle cattle, who knew that they were loved and who loved their keepers in return. For that was a very special sort of love, she realised—love given back to one who loved you; that love was like the first rain, the longed-for rain, which washed away the pain and sadness of the world so that you forgot that those things had ever been there.
The Colors of All the Cattle Page 22