Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Well, as long as you know that I shall listen to you. Do you know where my place is?”
The woman turned and pointed over her shoulder. “It is over on that side. On the Tlokweng Road. Next to a big garage.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors could hardly be called a big garage, but she knew what the woman meant. When one was down at the bottom of the heap, then any business, even a small one like the garage, could seem big and important.
“Yes,” she said. “It is beside a garage. But it is not a big office, and if you ever come to see me you will be made a cup of red bush tea. You are always making tea for other people; you will have to let us make tea for you for a change.”
The woman smiled at this, and then continued on her way. Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. There was still plenty of time, but she suspected that walking to work would not be quite as quick as she had imagined.
BY THE TIME she came within sight of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, Mma Ramotswe had developed a raging thirst. Her feet, she noted with satisfaction, felt perfectly comfortable—she had her flat shoes to thank for that—and she still had plenty of energy. It was just thirst that troubled her, and that would be easily dealt with when Mma Makutsi put on the kettle for the first cup of tea of the working day.
As she approached the garage, Charlie emerged from the inspection pit, wiping oil off his hands.
“So, Mma Ramotswe,” he called out as she approached. “Has your old van broken down at last? Do you want me to take the boss's truck to fetch it?”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “There is nothing wrong. I have simply decided to walk to work. It is better to walk, you know.”
Charlie looked at her incredulously. “It is better to walk, you say Mma?”
“Yes, Charlie, that is what I said. And you two could do to walk a bit more.”
“I am always walking, Mma,” said the younger apprentice, who had appeared behind Charlie. “I walk over two kilometres to the bus stop every day.”
“That is very good, Fanwell,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are not lazy.”
“Nor am I,” interjected Charlie. “I may not walk very much, but why walk if God has given us cars and buses? What's the point?”
Mma Ramotswe took a handkerchief out of her pocket and mopped her brow. “Exercise,” she said. “That's the point.”
Charlie sniggered. “I get a lot of exercise, Mma. I get plenty of exercise by dancing with girls. One, two, three! Like that. That is very good exercise.”
The younger apprentice looked at Charlie with surprise. “Is that true, Charlie?”
“Of course it's not true. Nothing he says is true.” It was the voice of Mma Makutsi, who had appeared in the office doorway, holding out a mug of tea to Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Ramotswe took the mug gratefully. “I am very thirsty, Mma,” she said. “It is kind of you to have this ready for me.”
“If you drove,” said Charlie, “then you wouldn't feel so thirsty. It is too hot to walk.”
“But not too hot to dance?” snapped Mma Makutsi.
Charlie did not reply, but Mma Ramotswe heard him whisper to Fanwell: “Who would dance with her? Nobody. Only that Phuti Radiphuti, and his feet are like elephants' feet. Big dancer. Hot steps.”
Fortunately, Mma Makutsi had gone back into the office and did not hear this remark. Mma Ramotswe gave Charlie a reproachful look. “You should not say things like that, Charlie. It is not kind.”
“She says things about me,” the apprentice replied.
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “You will learn one day, maybe soon, that what others do is never an excuse. Have you not heard of turning the other cheek?”
Charlie was unrepentant. “I have not heard of that.”
Mma Ramotswe began to explain, but could tell that what she said was falling on deaf ears.
“I would never do that,” said Charlie. “It would be very foolish, Mma Ramotswe. You show your other cheek and, whack, they hit you on that one too.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE BEAUTIFUL GAME
HE IS HERE NOW,” said Mma Makutsi, peering out of the window. “That is his car.”
Mma Ramotswe made a conscious effort not to look up from her desk. “I take it that it is a Mercedes-Benz, Mma,” she muttered.
Mma Makutsi laughed. “It is a very big one, Mma. It is one of the biggest Mercedes-Benzes that I have ever seen.”
“He is a big man, I hear,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You would never find a man like that driving around in a van like mine.”
Mma Makutsi agreed. She shared Mma Ramotswe's views on cars—that they should be small, faithful, and designed to get one as simply and cheaply as possible from one place to another. When she had a car herself—and Phuti had spoken about getting her one—then she would certainly not ask for a Mercedes-Benz, but would go for one of those small cars that look as if they could as easily go backwards as forwards, so indistinguishable were their fronts and their backs. And she would prefer it to be a modest colour: she had seen a very nice lilac-coloured car the other day that would suit her very well. She had wondered about that. Somebody at the factory had clearly said: Now let us paint this car a suitable colour for a lady. No man would choose lilac, she imagined, and it would be left to a lady to give such a car a home; which she would, and readily so.
“Why is it that men are so keen on large cars, Mma?” she asked, as she watched the driver of the car step out and open the rear passenger door. “Could it be that they feel they need such cars because they do not think they are big and strong enough?”
“Maybe,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Men and boys are all the same, I think, Mma Makutsi. They need to play. As do ladies, of course. Ladies play in their own way.”
“Maybe we are all the same,” mused Mma Makutsi. “But when you look at Charlie—”
Her observations were cut short by the sound of footsteps and a knocking outside. Mma Ramotswe now glanced up and nodded in the direction of the door. “Please let him in, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I am ready for Mr. Leungo Molofololo.”
Mma Makutsi stood up, straightened her skirt, and crossed the room.
“One moment please, Rra,” she said to the man at the door. “I shall find out if Mma Ramotswe is ready to see you.”
She glanced over her shoulder, as if to seek confirmation. Mma Ramotswe nodded. She had often explained to Mma Makutsi that such pretence was unnecessary, but her assistant insisted on carrying out the charade when important visitors came and she had given up trying to stop her. For her part, Mma Ramotswe did not stand on ceremony; nor did she try to give anybody the impression that the business was larger and grander than it really was. “People will judge us by our results,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “Results are the important thing.”
Mma Makutsi contemplated this. “That is a pity, Mma,” she observed. “Because our results are sometimes not very good.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “But I think they are, Mma. Sometimes we do not find out exactly what clients want, but we find out what they need to know. There is a difference, you know.” She thought of the case of Mma Sebina, who had been adopted and had come to them with the request that they find her real family. They had succeeded in tracing a brother who turned out not to be a brother after all. At one level that appeared to be a failure, but then when Mma Sebina and the man she had thought was her brother decided that they were really rather fond of one another—fond enough to get married—then that had surely been a happy result. And then there had been the case of Happy Bapetsi, one of their very first cases, in which they had discovered that Happy's father was an impostor. Or Kremlin, the frequenter of the Go-Go Handsome Man's Bar, the philandering husband; Mma Ramotswe had proved him to be exactly that— a philanderer—and even if that was not the outcome that Kremlin's wife wanted, it was surely better for her to know. So success and failure in the private detection business were not always as clear-cut as they might see
m, but again it had been difficult to persuade Mma Makutsi of this and the subject had been dropped.
Now, moving aside to let Mr. Leungo Molofololo enter the office, Mma Makutsi said, “Mma Ramotswe, this is your ten o'clock appointment.”
Mr. Leungo Molofololo looked at his watch. “And I am here at precisely four minutes past ten, you will observe, Mma. I like to be punctual, you see.”
“That is a great virtue, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe, rising from her seat and gesturing for him to sit down.
“Yes,” said Mr. Leungo Molofololo. “If only more people cultivated that virtue in Africa, then life would work more smoothly. You have heard of the Germans, Mma? I have been told that everything they do runs on time. Bang, bang. Like that. On the minute.”
“That is the Swiss, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi from behind.
Mr. Leungo Molofololo turned and looked at Mma Makutsi, who smiled back at him. “They may be very punctual, Mma. It is possible that both the Swiss and the Germans are very punctual— and there may be others. We do not necessarily know. I was, however, talking about the Germans, but thank you, Mma, for your help there.”
“The Swiss are always making clocks,” Mma Makutsi went on. “That is perhaps why they are so punctual. If there are many clocks, then …”
“Thank you, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to make tea for all of us so that Mr. Molofololo will be able to drink tea while he speaks to me.” She emphasised the me, hoping that Mma Makutsi would take the proper inference; but she had her doubts.
Mr. Leungo Molofololo turned back to address Mma Ramotswe. “I don't know if you know anything about me,” he said. “You may have seen my name in the papers.” He paused. “Have you?”
“Not only have I seen your name there,” said Mma Ramotswe, “but I have also seen your photograph, Rra. Last week I saw you handing over a big cheque to the nurses' charity. That was very kind of you.”
“They are good people,” said Mr. Molofololo. “And I admire the nursing profession. If I had been born a woman, Mma— which I am happy to say I was not—then I would have been a nurse, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, whose eyes flashed at this. She inclined her head slightly, a sign that she hoped would be understood by Mma Makutsi, a sign that said, I shall handle this.
“You might have been quite happy to be born a woman, Rra,” she said politely.
Mr. Molofololo's answer came quickly. “No, I would not. I would have been very sad.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I think that most people are happy with what they are. Men are happy to be born men, and women are happy to be born women. It is not better to be the one or the other, although I must say that I am very relieved indeed that I was not born a man.”
Mr. Molofololo opened his mouth to say something, but Mma Ramotswe continued quickly, “And as for being a nurse, well, Rra, there are many other things that a woman can be these days. Everything, in fact. Would you not like to have been a doctor if you had been born a woman? Or a pilot with Air Botswana—how about that?”
Mr. Molofololo was silent for a moment. Then, “You're quite right, Mma. My daughter is always saying to me, Daddy, you must remember that the world is not just there for you. It is there for minorities too. No, you are right, Mma, we must remember the rights of women.”
“Who are not in a minority,” said Mma Makutsi from behind her desk. “In fact, there are more women than there are men because men die earlier than women. They die earlier because they drink too much and sit about. So we are the majority, Rra.”
Mr. Molofololo cast his eyes up towards the ceiling. “Not in the world of football, Mma,” he said. “And that is what I have come to see Mma Ramotswe about.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled at him apologetically. “Mma Makutsi is an assistant detective, Rra. She is very good at investigating a wide range of matters. And she is the fiancée of Phuti Radiphuti. You will probably know the father of that man …”
Her remarks had the desired effect. Mr. Molofololo half turned in his seat and gave Mma Makutsi a nod. “I'm very happy to meet you, Mma. I did not know that it was you. Mr. Radiphuti—the older one—is a friend of many years.”
“That is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe. And it was; Mma Ramotswe liked people to know one another, and if the bond between them went back over more than one generation, then all the better. That was how it had always been in Botswana, where the links between people, those profound connections of blood and lineage, spread criss-cross over the human landscape, binding one to another in reliance, trust, and sheer familiarity. At one time there had been no strangers in Botswana; everybody fitted in somehow, even if tenuously and on the margins. Now there were strangers, and the bonds had been weakened by drift to the towns and by other things too: by the conduct that had sired the wave of children who had no idea who their father, or their father's people, might be; by the cruel ravages of the disease that made orphans in a country where the very concept of an orphan had been barely known, as there had always been aunts and grandmothers aplenty to fill the breach. Yes, all that had changed, but in spite of it, the old bonds survived, as she saw now in Mr. Molofololo's recognition of the fact that Mma Makutsi was not just a secretary given to irritating interjections, but a person with a place.
“Football,” said Mr. Molofololo. “Or you can call it soccer, if you like. The beautiful game. You know that it is called that, Mma? That is what they call football.”
Mma Ramotswe did not know that. She had never been to a football match, although she had seen boys, including Puso, playing it and had watched for a few minutes here and there. Was it beautiful? She supposed that it was—in a manner of speaking. They were always very skilful, those soccer players, as the nicknames they often bore revealed. She had seen these mentioned recently in the newspaper, when a football player called Fast-Dancer Galeboe had been pictured at a function talking to another player called High-Jump Boseja. Those nicknames at least gave some indication of the talents of the player in question; others seemed less obvious. She had read about Joel “Twelve Volts” Koko of the Township Rollers, and Sekhana “Fried Chicken” Molwantwa of the Extension Gunners. She could not imagine why Mr. Koko should be called Twelve Volts, although she could presume that Mr. Molwantwa had a taste for fried chicken. Perhaps the whole thing was to do with the way men got on with one another; they often laughed and slapped each other on the back or pretended to kick one another. Perhaps it was to do with all that.
“I am afraid that I do not know much about football, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe said. “But I can understand why it should be called the beautiful game—with all that running around and dodging in and out. That might be called beautiful, I suppose.”
“I have never understood the attraction myself,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “Why make such a fuss about kicking a ball up and down a field?”
Mr. Molofololo appeared to take this in good humour. “It is because you ladies are women,” he said. “It is not something that women understand.” He paused, and then added hurriedly, “Of course there are many things that men do not understand. They do not understand some of the things that women understand. Such as …” He trailed off.
“Yes, Rra?” prompted Mma Ramotswe.
Mr. Molofololo waved a hand in the air. “There are many things. Women's business. Shoes maybe. That sort of thing.”
Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances. He is right, thought Mma Ramotswe; men do not understand shoes— not completely, not in the deep way in which women understand them. For men, shoes were simply things you put on your feet; for women, shoes were … well, there was no time to go into that.
Mr. Molofololo moved on. “Perhaps it would be best, Mma, if I told you a little bit about myself. Then you will understand why this problem that I have come to see you about is such a big one.” He paused, and put a hand over his heart. Mma Ramotswe noticed the starched cuff of his shirt and the heavy gold cuff-links. It was a strange th
ing about rich men, she reflected. If they have made the money themselves, then they are usually keen to let you know just how much money they have; if they had got it from their father, or even their grandfather, then they often never mentioned it. Mr. Molofololo had obviously made his money himself.
“This problem,” he went on, “hurts me here. Right here—in my heart.”
Mma Ramotswe inclined her head gravely. Everybody who consulted her was, in their way, hurting—even this rich man with his big Mercedes-Benz and his expensive cuff-links. Human hurt was like lightning; it did not choose its targets, but struck, with rough equality and little regard to position, achievement, or moral desert.
“I have worked very hard, Mma Ramotswe,” Mr. Molofololo went on. “Ever since I was a small boy I have worked. I herded cattle, you know, the same as all small boys from the villages. We were poor people, you understand. And then I went to school and I worked harder than any of the other boys. When the other boys were playing football, I studied and studied. Then when the school principal asked me what I wanted to be, I said that I would be an accountant. I had read somewhere about CAs, and I said, I will be a CA one day. And that is what I now am. I am a chartered accountant, but I am also a businessman. I have many shops. Here. There. Many shops.”
Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Makutsi was listening intently to this, and she knew why. Her assistant had worked her way out of poverty, and had achieved ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College by dint of sheer, unremitting hard work. If Mma Makutsi identified with Mr. Molofololo's story, it was because it was her story too, except for the herding, and the football, the chartered accountancy, and the shops—except for all the details, in fact.
“But you know how it is, Mma,” Mr. Molofololo continued. “When you are a success in business, you begin to think of the things that you've missed while you were working so hard. That is why you hear people say: I have been working, working, working, and now my children are grown up and I did not see that happen. Have you heard people say that, Mma?”
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