The Full Cupboard of Life

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “You brave man!” she shouted. “You chased that snake away!”

  “Not really,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I think it had decided to go anyway.”

  Mma Potokwane would have none of this. Turning to the group of orphans, who were chattering excitedly amongst themselves, she said, “You see this uncle? You see how he has saved us all from this snake?”

  “Ow!” called out one of the orphans. “You are very brave, uncle.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked away in embarrassment. Handing back the broom to Mma Potokwane, he turned to go back into the office, where the rest of his cake was awaiting him. He noticed that his hands were shaking.

  “NOW,” SAID Mma Potokwane as she placed another, particularly generous, slice of cake on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s plate. “Now we can talk. Now I know you are a brave man, which I always suspected anyway.”

  “You must stop calling me that,” he said. “I am no braver than any other man.”

  Mma Potokwane seemed not to hear. “A brave man,” she went on. “And I have been looking for a brave man now for over a week. At last I have found him.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “You have had snakes for that long? What about the men around here? What about the husbands of all those housemothers? Where are they?”

  “Oh, not snakes,” said Mma Potokwane. “We have seen no other snakes. This is about something else. I have a plan which needs a brave man. And you are the obvious person. We need a brave man who is also well-known.”

  “I am not well-known,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni quickly.

  “But you are! Everybody knows your garage. Everybody has seen you standing outside it, wiping your hands on a cloth. Everybody who drives past says, ‘There’s Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in front of his garage. That is him.’”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate. He felt a strong sense of foreboding, but he would eat the cake nonetheless while Mma Potokwane revealed whatever it was that she had in store for him. He would be strong this time, he thought. He had stood up to her not all that long ago on the question of the pump, and the need to replace it; now he would stand up to her again. He picked up the piece of cake and bit off a large piece. The raisins tasted even better now, in the presence of danger.

  “I want you to help me raise money,” said Mma Potokwane,“We have a boy who can sing very well. He is sixteen now, one of the older boys, and Mr Slater at the Maitisong Festival wants to send him to Cape Town to take part in a competition. But this costs money, and this boy has none, because he is just an orphan. He can only go if we raise the money for him. It will be a big thing for Botswana if he goes, and a big thing for that boy too.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni put down the rest of the cake. He need not have worried, he thought: this sounded like a completely reasonable request. He would sell raffle tickets at the garage if she wanted, or donate a free car service as a prize. Why that should require courage, he could not understand.

  And then it became clear. Mma Potokwane picked up her tea cup, took a sip of tea, and then announced her plan.

  “I’d like you to do a sponsored parachute jump, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MMA RAMOTSWE VISITS HER COUSIN IN MOCHUDI, AND THINKS

  MMA RAMOTSWE did not see Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that Saturday, as she had driven up to Mochudi in her tiny white van. She planned to stay there until Sunday, leaving the children to be looked after by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. These were the foster children from the orphan farm, whom Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had agreed to take into his home, without consulting Mma Ramotswe. But she had been unable to hold this against him, even if many women would have felt that they should have been consulted about the introduction of children into their lives; it was typical of his generosity that he should do something like this. After a few days, the children had come to stay with her, which was better than their living in his house, with its engine parts that littered the floor and with its empty store cupboards (Mr J.L.B. Matekoni did not bother to buy much food). And so they had moved to the house in Zebra Drive, the girl and her brother; the girl in a wheelchair, for illness had left her unable to walk, and the brother, much younger than she, and still needing special attention after all that had happened to him.

  Mma Ramotswe had no particular reason to go up to Mochudi, but it was the village in which she had grown up and one never really needed an excuse to visit the place in which one had spent one’s childhood. That was the marvellous thing about going back to one’s roots; there was no need for explanation. In Mochudi everybody knew who she was: the daughter of Obed Ramotswe, who had gone off to Gaborone, where she had made a bad marriage to a trumpet player she had met on a bus. That was all common knowledge, part of the web of memories which made up the village life of Botswana. In that world, nobody needed to be a stranger; everybody could be linked in some way with others, even a visitor; for visitors came for a reason, did they not? They would be associated, then, with the people whom they were visiting. There was a place for everybody.

  Mma Ramotswe had been thinking a great deal recently about how people might be fitted in. The world was a large place, and one might have thought that there was enough room for everybody. But it seemed that this was not so. There were many people who were unhappy, and wanted to move. Often they wished to come to the more fortunate countries—such as Botswana—in order to make more of their lives. That was understandable, and yet there were those who did not want them. This is our place, they said; you are not welcome.

  It was so easy to think like that. People wanted to protect themselves from those they did not know. Others were different; they talked different languages and wore different clothes. Many people did not want them living close to them, just because of these differences. And yet, they were people, were they not? They thought the same way, and had the same hopes as anybody else did. They were our brothers and sisters, whichever way you looked at it, and you could not turn a brother or sister away.

  Mochudi was busy. There was to be a wedding at the Dutch Reformed Church that afternoon, and the relatives of the bride were arriving from Serowe and Mahalapye. There was also something happening at one of the schools—a sports day, it seemed—and as she passed the field (or patch of dust, she noted ruefully) a teacher in a green floppy hat was shouting at a group of children in running shorts. Ahead of her on the road a couple of donkeys ambled aimlessly, flicking at the flies with their moth-eaten tails. It was, in short, a typical Mochudi Saturday.

  Mma Ramotswe went to her cousin’s house and sat on a stool in the lelapa, the small, carefully swept yard which forms the immediate curtilage of the traditional Botswana house. Mma Ramotswe was always pleased to see her cousin, as these visits gave her the opportunity to catch up on village news. This was information one would never see in any newspaper, yet it was every bit as interesting—more so, in many respects—than the great events of the world which the newspapers reported. So she sat on a traditional stool, the seat of which was woven from thin strips of rough-cured leather, and listened to her cousin tell her what had taken place. Much had happened since Mma Ramotswe’s last visit. A minor headman, known for his tendency to drink too much beer, had fallen into a well, but had been saved because a young boy passing by had happened to mention that he had seen somebody jump into the well.

  “They almost didn’t believe that boy,” said the cousin. “He was a boy who was always telling lies. But happily somebody decided to check.”

  “That boy will grow up to be a politician,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That will be the best job for him.”

  The cousin had shrieked with laughter. “Yes, they are very good at lying. They are always promising us water for every house, but they never bring it. They say that there are not enough pipes. Maybe next year.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. Water was the source of many problems in a dry country and the politicians did not make it any easier by promising water when they had none to deliver.

  “If the opposition would
only stop arguing amongst themselves,” the cousin went on, “they would win the election and get rid of the government. That would be a good thing, do you not think?”

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  The cousin stared at her. “But it would be very different if we had a new government,” she said.

  “Would it?” asked Mma Ramotswe. She was not a cynical woman, but she wondered whether one set of people who looked remarkably like another set of people would run things any differently. But she did not wish to provoke a political argument with her cousin, and so she changed the subject by asking after the doings of a local woman who had killed a neighbour’s goat because she thought that the neighbour was flirting with her husband. It was a long-running saga and was providing a great deal of amusement for everyone.

  “She crept out at night and cut the goat’s throat,” said the cousin. “The goat must have thought she was a tokolosh, or something like that. She is a very wicked woman.”

  “There are many like that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Men think that women can’t be wicked, but we are quite capable of being wicked too.”

  “Even more wicked than men,” said the cousin. “Women are much more wicked, don’t you agree?”

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe. She thought that the levels of male and female wickedness were about the same; it just took slightly different forms.

  The cousin looked peevishly at Mma Ramotswe. “Women have not had much of a chance to be wicked in a big way,” she muttered. “Men have taken all the best jobs, where you can be truly wicked. If women here were allowed to be generals and presidents and the like, then they would be very wicked, same as all those wicked men. Just give them the chance. Look at how those lady generals have behaved.”

  Mma Ramotswe picked up a piece of straw and examined it closely. “Name one,” she said.

  The cousin thought, but no names came to her, at least no names of generals. “There was an Indian lady called Mrs Gandhi.”

  “And did she shoot people?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “No,” said the cousin. “Somebody shot her. But …”

  “There you are,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I assume that it was a man who shot her, or was it some lady, do you think?”

  The cousin said nothing. A small boy was peering over the wall of the lelapa, staring at the two women. His eyes were large and round, and his arms, which protruded from a scruffy red shirt, were thin. The cousin pointed at him.

  “He cannot speak, that little boy,” she said. “His tongue does not work properly. So he just watches the other children play.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled at him, and called out to him gently in Setswana. But the little boy might not have heard, for he turned away without replying and walked slowly away on his skinny legs. Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment, imagining what it would be like to be a little boy like that, thin and voiceless. I am fortunate, she thought, and turned to say to her cousin, “We are lucky, aren’t we? Here we are, traditionally built ladies, and there’s that poor little boy with his thin arms and legs. And we can talk and he can make no sound at all.”

  The cousin nodded. “We are very lucky to be who we are,” she said. “We are fortunate ladies, sitting here in the sun with so much to talk about.”

  So much to talk about—and so little to do. Here in Mochudi, away from the bustle of Gaborone, Mma Ramotswe could feel herself lapsing again into the rhythms of country life, a life much slower and more reflective than life in town. There was still time and space to think in Gaborone, but it was so much easier here, where one might look out up to the hill and watch the thin wisps of cloud, no more than that, float slowly across the sky; or listen to the cattle bells and the chorus of the cicadas. This was what it meant to live in Botswana; when the rest of the world might work itself into a frenzy of activity, one might still sit, in the space before a house with ochre walls, a mug of bush tea in one’s hand, and talk about very small things: headmen in wells, goats and jealousy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A WOMAN WHO KNOWS ABOUT HAIR

  THAT MONDAY, Mma Ramotswe had an appointment. Most of her clients did not bother to arrange a time to see her, preferring to drop in unannounced and—in some cases—without disclosing their identity. Mma Ramotswe understood why people should wish to do this. It was not easy to consult a detective agency, especially if one had a problem of a particularly private nature, and many people had to pluck up considerable courage before they knocked on her door. She understood that doctors sometimes encountered similar behaviour; that patients would talk about everything except the real problem and then, at the last moment, mention what was really troubling them. She had read somewhere—in one of the old magazines that Mma Makutsi liked to page through—of a doctor who had been consulted by a man wearing a paper bag over his head. Poor man, thought Mma Ramotswe. It must be terrible to feel so embarrassed about something that one would have to wear a paper bag over one’s head! What was wrong with that man? she wondered. Things did go wrong with men sometimes that they were ashamed to talk about, but there was really no need to feel that way.

  Mma Ramotswe had never encountered embarrassment of such a degree, but she had certainly had to draw stories out of people. This happened most commonly with women who had been let down by their husbands, or who suspected that their husbands were having an affair. Such women could feel anger and a sense of betrayal, both of which were entirely understandable, but they could also feel shame that such a thing had happened to them. It was as if it was their fault that their husband had taken up with another woman. This could be so, of course; there were women who drove their husbands away, but in most cases it was because the husband had become bored with his marriage and wanted to see a younger woman. They were always younger, Mma Ramotswe reflected; only rich ladies were able to take up with younger men.

  The thought of rich ladies reminded her: the woman who was coming to see her that day was undoubtedly a rich lady. Mma Holonga was well-known in Gaborone as the founder of a chain of hairdressing salons. The salons were successful, but what had proved even more profitable was her invention, and marketing, of Special Girl Hair Braiding Preparation. This was one of those mixtures which women put on their hair before they braided it; its efficacy was doubtful, but the hair products market was not one which required a great deal of scientific evidence. What mattered was that there was a sufficient number of people who believed that their favourite preparation worked.

  Mma Ramotswe had never met Mma Holonga. She had seen her picture in Mmegi and the Botswana Guardian from time to time, and in the photographs she had noticed a pleasant, rather round face. She knew, too, that Mma Holonga lived in a house in the Village, not far from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. She was intrigued to meet her, because from what she had seen in the newspapers she had formed the impression that Mma Holonga was an unusual rich lady. Many such women were spoilt and demanding, and frequently had an exaggerated idea of their own importance. Mma Holonga did not seem like that.

  And when she arrived for her appointment, at exactly the right time (which was another point in her favour), Mma Holonga confirmed Mma Ramotswe’s advance impressions.

  “You are very kind to see me,” she said as she sat down on the chair in front of Mma Ramotswe’s desk. “I can imagine how busy you must be.”

  “Sometimes I am busy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And then sometimes I am not. I am not busy today. I am just sitting here.”

  “That is very good,” said Mma Holonga. “It is good just to sit sometimes. I like to do that, if I get the chance. I just sit.”

  “There is a lot to be said for that,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “Although we would not want people to do it all the time, would we?”

  “Oh no,” said Mma Holonga hurriedly. “I would never recommend that.”

  For a few moments there was silence. Mma Ramotswe looked at the woman in front of her. As the newspaper photographs had suggested, she was traditionally built about the face, but also everywhere else, and her dress was st
raining at the sides. She should move up a size or two, thought Mma Ramotswe, and then those panels on the side would not look as if they were about to rip. There really was no point in fighting these things: it is far better to admit one’s size and indeed there is even a case for buying a slightly larger size. That gives room for manoeuvre.

  Mma Holonga was also taking the opportunity to sum up Mma Ramotswe. Comfortable, she thought; not one of these undernourished modern ladies. That is good. But her dress is a bit tight, and she should think of getting a slightly larger size. But she has a friendly face—a good, old-fashioned Botswana face that one can trust, unlike these modern faces which one saw so much of these days.

  “I am glad that I came to see you,” said Mma Holonga. “I had heard that you were a good person for this sort of thing. That’s what people tell me.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. She was a modest person, but a compliment was never unwelcome. And she knew, of course, how important it was to compliment others; not in any insincere way, but to encourage people in their work or to make them feel that their efforts had been worthwhile. She had even complimented the apprentices on one occasion, when they had gone out of their way to help a customer, and for a short time it seemed as if this had inspired them to take a pride in their work. But after a few days she assumed that her words had been forgotten, as they forgot everything else, since they returned to their usual, sloppy habits.