Mma Ramotswe made a gesture which indicated that she did not know the answer and that indeed the matter was not important as far as she was concerned. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is not a man who makes hasty decisions. He likes to think about things for a long time.”
Mma Potokwane shook her head. “That is a weakness, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “I’m sorry to have to say this, but there are some men who need to be organised by women. Every woman knows this. It is only now, in these modern days, with men getting ideas about running their lives without any help from women—those dangerous, bad ideas—it is only now that we see how much these poor men need our assistance. It is a very sad thing.”
“I don’t know about that,” countered Mma Ramotswe. “I know that ladies have to help men in many things. Sometimes it is necessary to push men a little bit. But one should not take it too far.”
“Well it’s not going too far to push men to the altar,” retorted Mma Potokwane. “Women have always done that, and that is how marriages take place. If you left it up to men, they would never get there. Nobody would be married. You have to remind men to get married.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her guest thoughtfully. Should she allow Mma Potokwane to help her to get Mr J.L.B. Matekoni a little bit further along the road to matrimony? It was awkward for her; she did not want him to form the impression that she was interfering too much in his life; men did not like that, and many men would simply leave if they felt this was happening. At the same time, if Mr J.L.B. Matekoni did need slight prompting, it would be easier for this to come from Mma Potokwane, who had a long history of pushing Mr J.L.B. Matekoni about, most of it with considerable success. One only had to remember the matter of that old pump at the orphan farm which she had cajoled him into maintaining well beyond the point where he had formed the professional opinion that it should be scrapped. And one only had to recall the recent instance of the parachute jump, which was another example of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni being made to agree to something to which he did not wish to agree. Perhaps there was a case for assistance in this matter too …
No, no, no! thought Mma Makutsi, willing her employer not to yield to the imprecations of the manipulative Mma Potokwane. She could see that Mma Ramotswe was tempted, and if only Mma Potokwane had not been there she would have urged Mma Ramotswe in the most vocal terms not to do anything which could have serious consequences for the engagement or, even more importantly, for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s state of health. Dr Moffat had told them all that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was not to be put under any stress, and what could be more stressful than to be the object of a determined campaign by Mma Potokwane? Look at that Herbert Molefi man, crushed by her tongue and unable to do anything to defend himself. If only the Botswana Defence Force could have seen it, thought Mma Makutsi, they would have signed her up immediately and made her a sergeant-major or a general or whatever they called those soldiers who ordered all the other soldiers about. Or even better, Mma Potokwane could have been used as a weapon to intimidate the enemy, whoever they were. They would see Mma Potokwane coming towards them and they would be incapable of doing anything, reduced by the sight to mute and helpless boys.
None of these thoughts reached Mma Ramotswe, although she did briefly glance across the room to where Mma Makutsi was busying herself with the tea. But Mma Makutsi was turned away at the time and Mma Ramotswe did not see her expression, so she had no idea of the other woman’s feelings.
“Well,” began Mma Ramotswe cautiously, “how would we help Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to make a decision? How would we do it?”
“We don’t have to help him make any decision,” replied Mma Potokwane firmly. “He has already made the decision to marry you, has he not? What is an engagement? It is an agreement to marry. That decision is made, Mma. No, all we have to do is to arrange for him to carry it out. We need to get a date, and then we need to make sure that he gets to the right place on the date. And in my view that means that we should make all the plans and then pick him up on the day and take him there. That’s right, we’ll take him there.”
At this, Mma Makutsi spun round and stared at Mma Ramotswe open-mouthed. Surely Mma Ramotswe would see the danger in this? If you took a man to the church, he would simply run away. No man would be forced in this way, and certainly not a mature and intelligent man like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. This was the stuff of disaster, and Mma Ramotswe should put a stop to these ridiculous fantasies at once. But instead—and here Mma Makutsi drew in her breath in astonishment—instead she was nodding her head in agreement!
“Good,” said Mma Potokwane enthusiastically. “I can see that you agree with me. So now all we have to do is to plan the wedding and get everything ready—in secret of course—and then on the day get him into a suit somehow …”
“And how would you do that?” interrupted Mma Ramotswe. “You know the sort of clothes that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni normally wears. Those overalls. That old hat with grease round the rim. Those suede veldschoens. How will we get him out of those and into suitable clothes for church?”
“Leave that side of it to me,” said Mma Potokwane confidently. “In fact, simply leave the whole thing to me. We can have the wedding out at the orphan farm. I will get my housemothers to cook all the food. I will make all the arrangements and all you will have to do is to get there at the time I will tell you. Then you will be married. I promise you.”
Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful and was about to open her mouth to say something when Mma Potokwane continued. “You needn’t worry, Mma Ramotswe. I am a very tactful person. I know how to do these things. You know that.”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened, but she knew that there was no stopping Mma Potokwane now, and that events would run their course whatever she tried to do. And what was there for her to do? She could attempt to persuade Mma Ramotswe to forbid Mma Potokwane from proceeding with her plan, but that would be unlikely to happen once Mma Ramotswe had agreed to it. She could warn Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that he was in danger of being pushed into his own wedding, but then that would seem appallingly disloyal to Mma Ramotswe, and if she did that she might be responsible for his doing something really foolish, such as calling off the engagement altogether. No, there was only one thing for Mma Makutsi to do, and that was to keep out of the whole affair, although she would allow herself one remark, perhaps, just as an aside, to register her disapproval of the whole scheme.
Mma Potokwane did not stay long, but every minute of the visit seemed to drag terribly. An icy atmosphere had developed, with Mma Makutsi sitting in almost complete silence, responding to Mma Potokwane’s remarks only in the briefest and most unhelpful of terms.
“You must be very busy,” the matron said to her, pointing to the papers on her desk. “I have heard that you are a very efficient secretary. Perhaps you will come out to the orphan farm one day and sort out my office! That would be a good thing to do. You could have a big bonfire of all the spare papers. The children would like that.”
“I am too busy,” said Mma Makutsi. “Perhaps you should employ a secretary. There is a very fine secretarial college, you know, the Botswana Secretarial College. They will provide you with a name. They will also tell you what the right salary will be.”
Mma Potokwane took a sip of her tea and looked at Mma Makutsi over the rim of the cup.
“Thank you, Mma,” she said. “That is a good suggestion. But of course we are an orphan farm and we do not have very much money for secretaries and the like. That is why kind people—people like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni—offer their services free.”
“He is a kind man,” agreed Mma Makutsi. “That is why people take advantage of him.”
Mma Potokwane put down her cup and turned to Mma Ramotswe. “You are very lucky to have an assistant who can give you good advice,” she said politely. “That must make your life easier.”
Mma Ramotswe, who had been quite aware of the developing tension, did her best to smooth over the situation.
“Most tasks in this life are better done by two people,” she
said. “I am sure that you get a lot of support from the housemothers. I am sure that they have good advice to give too.”
Mma Potokwane rose to her feet to leave. “Yes, Mma,” she said, glancing at Mma Makutsi. “We must all help one another. That is very true.”
One of the apprentices was detailed to drive Mma Potokwane back to the orphan farm, leaving Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi alone in the office once again. Mma Makutsi, sitting at her desk, looked down at her shoes, as she often did in moments of crisis; her shoes, always her allies, but now so unhelpfully mute, as if to convey: don’t look at us, we said nothing. You were the one, Boss. (In her mind, her shoes always addressed her as Boss, as the apprentices addressed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. This was right for shoes, which should know their place.)
“I’m sorry, Mma,” Mma Makutsi suddenly burst out. “I had to stand there making tea while that woman gave you that terrible, terrible advice. And I couldn’t say anything because I always feel too small to say anything when she’s around. She makes me feel as if I’m still six years old.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant with concern. “She is just trying to help. She’s bossy, of course, but that is because she is a matron. Every matron is bossy; if they weren’t then nothing would get done. Mma Potokwane’s job is to be bossy. But she is just trying to help.”
“But it won’t help,” wailed Mma Makutsi. “It won’t help at all. You can’t force Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to get married.”
“Nobody’s forcing him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He asked me to marry him. I said yes. He has never once, not once, said that he does not want to get married. Have you ever heard him say that? No, well there you are.”
“But he will agree to a wedding one day,” said Mma Makutsi. “You can wait.”
“Can I, Mma?” said Mma Ramotswe quickly. “Can I wait forever? And why should I wait all this time and put up with all this uncertainty? My life is going past. Tick, tick. Like a clock that is running too fast. And all the time I remain an engaged lady. People are talking, believe me. They say: there’s that lady who’s engaged forever to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. That’s what they are saying.”
Mma Makutsi was silent, and Mma Ramotswe continued, “I don’t want to force Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to do anything he doesn’t want to do. But in this case I think that there is some sort of block—there is some sort of reason why he cannot make up his mind. I think it is in his nature. Dr Moffat said that when people had that illness—that depression thing—then they might not be able to make decisions. Even when they seem quite well. Maybe there is a little corner of that in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. So all we are trying to do is help him.”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I don’t know, Mma. You may be right, but I am very worried. I do not think that you should let Mma Potokwane stick her nose into this business.”
“I understand what you are saying to me,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I have reached the end of waiting. I have waited, waited, waited. No date has been mentioned. Nothing has been said. No cattle have been bought for the feast. No chairs have been fixed up. No aunties have been written to. Nothing has been done. Nothing. No lady can accept that, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi again looked down at her shoes. This time the shoes were vocal: you just be quiet now, they said rather rudely.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MR SPOKES SPOKESI, THE AIRWAVE RIDER
IF MMA Ramotswe was still on the shelf, then the following day she was on the wall. She was sitting on the wall in question, the waist-high wall that surrounded the car park of Radio Gabs, enjoying the effervescent company of two seventeen-year-old girls. They were attractive girls, dressed in jeans and bright-coloured blouses that must have cost them a great deal, thought Mma Ramotswe; too much, in fact, because the most expensive parts of their outfit, the labels, were prominently displayed. Mma Ramotswe had never been able to understand why people wanted to have their labels on the outside. In her day, labels had been tucked in, which is where they belonged in her view. One did not walk around the town with one’s birth certificate stuck on one’s back; why then should clothes have their labels on the outside? It was a very vulgar display, she felt, but it did not really matter with these nice girls, who were talking so quickly and in such an amusing way about all the things which interested them, which was not very much, at the end of the day; in fact which was only one subject when one came to think of it, or two, possibly, if one included fashion.
“Some people say that there are no good-looking men in Gaborone,” said Constance, the girl sitting to Mma Ramotswe’s right. “But I think that is nonsense. There are many good-looking men in Gaborone. I have seen hundreds, just in one day. Hundreds.”
Her friend, Kokotso, looked dubious. “Oh?” she said. “Where can I go to see all these good-looking men? Is there a club for good-looking men maybe? Can I go and stand outside the door and watch?”
“There is no such club,” laughed Constance. “And if there were, then the men would not be able to get near it, for all the girls standing at the door. It would not work.”
Mma Ramotswe decided to join in. It was many years since she had participated in such a conversation, and she was beginning to enjoy it. “It all depends on what you mean by good-looking,” she said. “Some men are good-looking in one department and not so good-looking in another. Some men have nice wide shoulders, but very thin legs. Very thin legs are not so good. I know one girl who left a good boyfriend because his legs were too thin.”
“Ow!” exclaimed Kokotso. “That girl made a very bad move. If he was a good boyfriend in other ways, then why leave him because of his thin legs?”
“Perhaps she felt that she wanted to laugh whenever she saw his legs,” suggested Constance. “That would not have made him happy. Men do not like to be laughed at. Men do not think they are funny.”
This made Mma Ramotswe smile. “That is very amusing! Men do not think they are funny! That is very true, Mma. Very true. You must not laugh at a man, or he will go and hide away like a village dog.”
“But there is a serious point,” said Kokotso. “Can you call a man good-looking if he has a handsome face but very short legs? I have known men like that. They are good-looking when they are sitting down, but when they stand up and you see how short their legs are you think Oh my God, these are short, short legs!”
“And sometimes, have you noticed,” Constance interjected, “have you noticed how men’s legs go out at the knees and make a circle? Have you seen that? That is very funny. I always want to laugh when I see men like that.”
Kokotso now lowered herself off the wall and began to walk in a circle, her arms hanging loose, her chin stuck out. “This is how men walk,” she said. “Have you seen it? They walk like this, almost like monkeys.”
It was difficult not to laugh, and if she had thought that these girls seriously entertained this low opinion of men she would have frowned instead, but she knew that these were girls who liked men, a great deal, and so joined Constance in shrieking with laughter at Kokotso’s imitation of … of the apprentices! How accurate she was, and she did not even know them. To imitate one young man of that sort, then, was to imitate them all.
Kokotso resumed her seat on the wall and for a moment there was silence. Mma Ramotswe was rather surprised at herself, sitting there on a wall with two young women less than half her age, talking about good-looking men. She had seen them when she had driven past the Radio Gabs station at lunch-time, not intending to call in until later that afternoon, but realising that this was exactly the opportunity she was looking for. So she had parked the tiny white van round the corner and had walked back, casually, as one who was spending the lunch hour in a quiet ramble. She had stopped at the entrance to the car park and had gone up to the girls to ask them if they knew the correct time. From there it had been easy. The question about the time had been followed by a remark on how tiring it was to have to walk all the way into town and would they mind if she sat on the wall with them for a few minutes while she summoned up h
er energy?
Of course she had suspected that these girls were not sitting on the wall just because it was any wall. This was the Radio Gabs wall, and these young ladies were watching the entrance to the radio station. And if one were to ask oneself why girls like this would be watching the entrance to the radio station, it was surely not to see who went in, but who came out. And amongst those who were likely to come out, in terms of good looks and general interest to fashion-conscious girls of seventeen or so, who could it be but Mr Spokes Spokesi, the well-known disc-jockey and radio personality? Spokes Spokesi’s show, which stretched from nine in the morning until one-thirty in the afternoon, Cool Time with Spokes, was a favourite of younger people in Gaborone. The apprentices listened to it while they were working—although Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, when he could bear it no longer, would switch off their radio in a gesture of defiance. He at least had good taste and a limited tolerance for the inane patter which such radio stations pumped out with great enthusiasm. Mma Ramotswe would have had a similar lack of interest in Spokes except for one thing: he was the second name on the list of Mma Holonga’s suitors, unlikely though that was, and this meant that she would have to speak to him at some stage.
“Do you listen to this station?” she asked casually.
Constance clapped her hands. “All the time! All the time! It’s the best station there is. The latest music, the latest everything, and …”
“And Spokes, of course,” supplied Kokotso. “Spokes!”
Mma Ramotswe pretended to look blank. “Spokes? Who is this Spokes? Is he a band?”
Kokotso laughed. “Oh, Mma, you’re out of touch. Spokes does a show—the best show you can listen to. Can he talk! Oh my! You hear him talking about music and you can just see him sitting there in front of the mike. Oh!”
“And is he good-looking too?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“He’s fabulous,” said Constance. “The best-looking man in Gaborone.”
The Full Cupboard of Life Page 16