“But there are men everywhere, Mma. There is no country where there are no men.”
“That is true,” said Mma Makutsi. “But what I said is also still generally true. Men are great ones for having affairs.”
Mma Ramotswe thought about this. She was all for the rights of women, and she was not one to tolerate men who tried to put women down, but at the same time her sense of fairness was bone-deep, and she did not approve of running down men simply because they were men. Mma Makutsi sometimes generalised on these things, she thought, and was inclined to dismiss men rather too readily. Now Mma Ramotswe pointed out that if so many men were, in fact, having affairs, then there must be an equal—or roughly equal—number of women who were doing the same thing themselves. If that were not the case, she pointed out, then who would those men be having affairs with? “Unless,” she continued, “there are some women who were having affairs with more than one man at a time. If that is happening, Mma Makutsi, then it is possible that there would be more men having affairs than there were women up to the same thing—if you see what I mean.”
“Oh, I see what you mean, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “And that is probably true, you know. Look at Violet Sephotho.” She drew a deep breath for the con brio performance. “She is one woman who contributes greatly to that particular statistic, Mma. When we were at the Botswana Secretarial College together, she was notorious, Mma—notorious—for having more than one boyfriend at a time. She had a morning boyfriend, and then she had an afternoon boyfriend. And people said that there was an evening boyfriend too, although I was never able to confirm that. I could well believe it, though. You didn’t have to be Clovis Andersen to work out what was going on.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “That is too many boyfriends, Mma.”
“Too many boyfriends? You’re absolutely right, Mma Ramotswe. But too many for Violet Sephotho? I think not, Mma. I think not.” She lowered her voice. There were some things—indecent things—that should not be spoken about in a normal voice, but should be uttered only in a muted register. “I can tell you, Mma, that there was one time she was driven to the college in the morning—early, early in the morning, Mma—by a man. He was one of those men who think they are just the thing, Mma—you know the type: sunglasses, even when the sun is only just coming up over the horizon. Gold watch—big gold watch—and gold chain round the neck. That sort of man, Mma. Why does a man need to wear a gold chain round his neck? Those chains are not made for men—they are made for ladies—and yet a certain sort of man comes along and says, ‘That is a very good chain for me.’ Anyway, there was this man and he drove up to the college—right up to the front door, Mma, and parked right next to the Principal’s car. Can you believe that, Mma? An unauthorised car parking next to the Principal’s car—in the very spot, in fact, in which the Professor of Accountancy would park his car…”
Mma Ramotswe listened intently. Mma Makutsi told a good story, with strong emphasis, even if some of what she said had to be taken with a pinch of salt. Mma Ramotswe might have pointed out that none of the staff at the Botswana Secretarial College were proper professors, and that it was wrong to give them a title reserved for the real professors at the University of Botswana, but she did not think that this was the time for that objection.
“This man parked in the Professor of Accountancy’s place without the slightest hesitation. It is one thing to sneak into a reserved parking place for a minute or two and then sneak out again—who hasn’t done that sort of thing, Mma?—but it’s quite another thing, I think, to go and park in the Professor of Accountancy’s place and then get out of the car, bold as brass, and stretch your legs, and kiss your girlfriend—kiss her, Mma—in full view of anybody coming up the drive of the Botswana Secretarial College.
“But that’s exactly what Mr. Gold Chain did, Mma Ramotswe. He put his arms round Violet Sephotho—right round her, Mma—and then he put his big film-star lips on her stupid over-painted mouth and kissed her. Smack, Mma. Just like that. Slurp. You can just imagine the germs that were flowing between them, Mma. A Limpopo River of germs. And then he pulled away—slurp—and she started to pat his face, Mma, like this—pat, pat—and she started to laugh, and he laughed too. But I was not laughing, Mma. I was walking up the drive as this thing happened, and I was too shocked to do anything but struggle for breath. Honestly, Mma, if I had fainted there and then and they had found me lying flat out on the ground, I would not have been in the least bit surprised.
“But then, Mma, I took a deep breath and tried to forget what I had just seen. We were told by a reverend up in Bobonong that if you saw something like that happening and you were truly shocked, then you should just sing a hymn under your breath. Not too loudly—you don’t have to let everybody in the vicinity know that you are singing a hymn, but you sing it very quietly. The reverend said that this was the way to protect yourself against such things. So I sang a hymn under my breath, Mma. I sang ‘Shall we gather at the river.’ Do you know that one, Mma? It is a very good hymn, and I can recommend it for situations when you are very shocked by what you have just seen. The words are inspirational, Mma. They are very good words to remember. Shall we gather at the river / Where bright angel feet have trod…And then the next verse goes, Yes, we’ll gather at the river / The beautiful, the beautiful river / Gather with the Saints at the river…Oh, it is a very good hymn, Mma Ramotswe.
“As I walked past, Violet looked at me and nudged her boyfriend—or Morning Boyfriend, as I should perhaps call him. And she said to me, ‘So what are you singing, Grace Makutsi?’ That is what she said, Mma. And you know what I said to her? I said, ‘Mind your own business, Violet. It is none of your business what I am singing.’ ”
“That would have shown her,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“It did. But then, Mma, I saw that there was lipstick all over his collar and the front of his shirt. She had been kissing him all over the place, Mma.”
This brought silence, which lasted until Mma Makutsi continued, “And then, Mma, later that day—at eleven o’clock, when we ended the morning session early because it was a Wednesday, which was our half-day—at eleven, Mma, another car was at the end of the drive, and this was driven by another, different man, Mma. This was the real, official Morning Boyfriend, which meant that the boyfriend we’d seen in the early morning was not the Morning Boyfriend after all, but was the Evening Boyfriend, Mma…” Mma Makutsi lowered her voice even further. “Coming off shift, Mma. Coming off shift.”
Mma Ramotswe waited a few moments in case there was more, but there was not. So she said, “That is a very interesting story, Mma Makutsi. Violet Sephotho is clearly a lady who has too many boyfriends, I would say.”
“You can say that again,” retorted Mma Makutsi. “And then you can say it again—twice over.”
But now, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Fanwell came into the office and announced that they had seen something unbelievable, Mma Makutsi looked up in anticipation. She prided herself on the fact that in her role as a private detective she had seen just about everything there was to be seen—or almost—and, frankly, nothing would be truly unbelievable to one of her experience. So she smiled in a rather condescending way at all this talk of unbelievability and waited for the details.
And what Fanwell said was sufficient to bring her to her feet. She had not been prepared for this.
“Charlie has got hold of an elephant,” Fanwell said. He broke the news in a breathless manner, as if he were a runner who had jogged through the bush with this bombshell.
Mma Makutsi rose to her feet. She looked at Fanwell first, then at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and finally, as if she were expecting a refutation of the news, at Mma Ramotswe across the room.
“I’m not making this up,” Fanwell said.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded his confirmation. “No, Fanwell is not making this up. Charlie has an elephant—a very small elephant, but an elephant nonethele
ss.”
“He’s keeping it at the back of his uncle’s place,” Fanwell continued. “There’s that wasteland—you know the place with the trees and the rubber hedge. The elephant is in there.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing at this disclosure, but Mma Makutsi said in astonishment, “Why has Charlie got an elephant?”
Fanwell had been wearing his hat. Now he took it off and folded it into a ball. “Why has he got an elephant? It is because there was an elephant, you see, and he heard from that friend of his—you’ve seen the one, he comes around here sometimes…he’s called, oh, I forget his name—”
“It does not matter what he is called,” interjected Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “He’s the one who used to drive a bus for that bus company that belongs to the traditionally built woman who used to own three taxis down behind the President Hotel…”
“Her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That lady used to be very traditionally built—now she is not so much.”
“They used to say that there was enough there for two ladies,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “They said you could get two ladies out of her if you wanted to.”
Fanwell brought the conversation back on track. “That friend of Charlie’s—that one—he drove a bus for that fat lady until he hit a mobile telephone tower. Then he went off and drove for somebody who brought haulage down from Maun.”
Mma Ramotswe was keen to get to the nub of the matter. “What about him?” she asked.
Fanwell continued the tale. “Well, he comes down from Maun once a week in a truck owned by the man who brings freight down here to Gaborone. Cattle sometimes, lots of cattle, that he takes on to the Botswana Meat Commission in Lobatse. Well, one day he drives into Gaborone with a truckload of cattle for the BMC and, believe it or not, a baby elephant in with the cattle.”
“This elephant is very tiny,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Charlie is not sure how old it is, but he says he thinks it’s only a few weeks. When they’re that small, they’re not much bigger than that chair over there. So high.” He held a hand extended below the level of his waist.
“Elephants get much bigger,” said Mma Makutsi. “An elephant gets very much bigger than that.”
They all turned to look at her.
“I think we know that, Mma,” said Fanwell.
Mma Makutsi looked defiant. “I know that sounds very obvious,” she said. “But what I meant is that the elephant may be very small now, but it won’t be that small for much longer. And then what is Charlie going to do with it? Ride into the office on his elephant’s back like one of those Indian people? Like that? Mr. Charlie, Maharajah of Gaborone? Ha!”
Mma Ramotswe wanted to find out why the elephant had ended up with Charlie.
“He told us why,” said Fanwell. “Will you tell them, Boss? Or shall I?”
“I’ll tell them,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Apparently this elephant is an orphan. It was with a herd up there, near Chief’s Island. There were poachers—after the ivory. And they shot the she-elephant. She had this calf, though—a very young calf. This one that Charlie has. And what happened was that this friend of Charlie’s—the one whose name nobody can remember…”
“Who used to drive the bus for that woman,” explained Fanwell.
“That one. He was driving his truck to take supplies into one of the safari lodges out there—or rather, he was driving back—and he saw this dead mother elephant with her little baby standing right next to her. He had stayed, you see. The poachers had cut the tusks from two elephants they had shot, including the small elephant’s mummy. And the small elephant had stayed while this was happening and was now mourning his mother.”
“They do that,” said Fanwell. “I’ve heard that elephants mourn. They are very sad when people shoot them.”
“Charlie’s friend asked him whether he would look after the elephant,” continued Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “He had to drive on to Lobatse, and then down to Mafikeng for something. So Charlie allowed him to drop the elephant off at his uncle’s place.”
“How does he keep it from running away?” Mma Makutsi demanded. “You can’t just put an elephant in your garden.”
“No, you can’t,” said Fanwell. “So he has tied the elephant by its leg to a big metal pole in the ground. The elephant can’t run away as long as he’s tied to the peg.”
Mma Makutsi made a dismissive sound. “Tied to a peg? That’s not going to last very long. What if the rope gets tangled? What then? The elephant isn’t going to stand in one place all day, is it? Elephants don’t like that sort of thing.”
“There is a boy,” said Fanwell. “He is Charlie’s cousin. He’s the one that Charlie used to share a room with. He’s the one who is always wetting the bed. Charlie told me.”
“Poor child,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“It’s because children drink those sugary drinks before they go to bed,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you stop them doing that, then you don’t have that problem.”
Fanwell shifted his feet in embarrassment. These were not matters that he would choose to discuss in mixed company. “It’s his job to go and check that the elephant isn’t getting the rope all twisted round,” he said. “So, the elephant is all right.”
Mma Makutsi frowned. “You can’t keep an elephant tied up,” she said.
“It’s very small,” Fanwell pointed out. “When they are that small, Mma, they aren’t very strong.”
Mma Ramotswe found herself remembering something she had not thought about for years. When she was a girl back in Mochudi there had been a man who lived on the edge of the village, an ill-tempered man of whom she and all her friends were afraid—he was said by one of the older boys to be a cannibal, a canard swallowed implicitly by the younger children—and this man kept a large baboon chained to a wire. Through the final link of this chain ran a wire strung at the height of a few feet between two posts. This enabled the baboon to run backwards and forwards between the two posts, and in small circles at either end. The baboon, like his owner, was ill-disposed towards the world—understandably, in the animal’s case—and would snarl and bare his fangs at anybody who ventured near him. The children would creep through the unkempt field adjoining the man’s house and watch the baboon from a safe distance. The boys, who were bolder—and crueller—in these matters, would throw small stones at the captive animal, eliciting barks of rage from it, and, occasionally, drawing the man out of his house to investigate. Mma Ramotswe remembered this now, and remembered one of the boys warning her, “That man will eat you, Precious. If you trip and he catches you, then you will definitely be eaten. It will be in all the newspapers. You will be very famous.”
She thought of that now, and imagined a baby elephant in the same inhumane conditions. “You cannot chain an animal like that,” she said. “It is very cruel.”
Mma Makutsi agreed. “Mma Ramotswe is right. Charlie cannot keep an elephant chained up in his back yard.”
“And he shouldn’t have used your van,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni added. “That is what damaged it, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe had to smile. “I would never have guessed,” she said. “If you had asked me what is the most likely cause of the damage to my van, I would not have said because it was used to transport a small elephant.”
“Well it was,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “And now…” He shrugged. He was not sure what to do. Charlie was no longer his apprentice and so he did not feel responsible for him, and yet, at the same time, the young man was an employee of his wife’s and still worked one or two days a week in the garage. He shook his head ruefully. These apprentices had been nothing but trouble from the word go; or Charlie had—Fanwell was a different matter, although he, too, had had his moments. “No, I don’t know what to do.”
“We have to speak to him about it,” said Mma Makutsi. “We have to find out what his plans are for the elephant.” She paused, before
continuing, “It will get bigger and bigger. And then it will be a danger to people.”
Fanwell nodded. “True,” he said. “I know somebody who knew somebody who kept a crocodile. When he got it first, it was only so big.” He held his hands apart to indicate a length of a foot or so. “But then, oh dear, those things get bigger all the time. He kept it in a pond. He put wire round the pond so that it could not get out. It would eat birds that landed too near to the water. It would also go for any foolish chickens who wandered into its enclosure. And then it ate my friend—or tried to. It grabbed him by the foot and started to drag him into the pond. He poked at its eyes with a stick. That is the only way to get a crocodile to let go.”
They turned to look at him. “You should not keep crocodiles,” said Mma Makutsi. “Nor snakes. Those people who keep puff adders or mambas are very foolish. The snake is always lying there thinking: When shall I have the chance to bite this person? That is what snakes think—they are always thinking that.”
Fanwell said, “Snakes do not think, Mma. They have very small heads. There is not enough room for any thoughts in that head.”
“We should not be talking about snakes,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “We should be deciding what to do about Charlie and his elephant.”
“I don’t see what we can do,” said Fanwell, glancing at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Now was the time, he thought, to disclose the unfortunate fate planned for the elephant by Charlie’s friend. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded, a signal to let him know he should continue.
“I’m afraid that the elephant is in real danger,” he said. “Charlie does not know this, but his friend is planning to pass him on to a butcher.”
This led to silence, eventually broken by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I don’t want that to happen,” he said.
“Certainly not,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“We can take the elephant away from him,” suggested Mma Makutsi. “He is not a fit person to have an elephant.”
How to Raise an Elephant Page 10