As she sat down, it occurred to her that she might have seen the sofa before, just as she vaguely recognised a small cabinet at the far end of the room. And then it dawned on her: this furniture had all the qualities of Double Comfort Furniture Store furniture. It had that feel.
She felt the fabric under her hands. Yes, it certainly had that. It was an indefinable quality—one that would be too difficult to put into words, but it could be picked up by the eye, and indeed by the other senses.
“Mma Phiri,” she ventured, “do you mind my asking: Where did you get this very fine sofa?”
Mma Phiri looked at the sofa with an unmistakable fondness. “I like that sofa very much, Mma,” she replied. “There are some sofas that one can take or leave—but that sofa is not one of them. That sofa is very important to me, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi nodded encouragingly. “I can see that, Mma.”
“There is a big furniture store,” Mma Phiri continued. “You may know the place. It is near the old bus station. I forget the name of it…”
“The Double Comfort Furniture Store,” prompted Mma Makutsi.
“That’s it. Yes, that’s the name of that place. It belongs to that man with the big nose—you may have seen him.”
Mma Makutsi caught her breath. She was not sure whether she should keep silent or whether she should say something, just in case Mma Phiri might be thinking of digging herself deeper into a hole. She decided to speak, but before she could say anything, Mma Phiri continued, “Yes, his nose: you should see—”
“That man is my husband, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Phiri froze. “Your husband, Mma? It’s his shop?”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That man is my husband, Mma. He’s called Phuti Radiphuti and he is the father of my first-born, Itumelang Andersen Radiphuti.”
Mma Makutsi spoke with quiet dignity. As she did so, she thought of Phuti’s nose; it was certainly not a small nose, but it was by no means one of the largest in the country. There were several noses right there in Gaborone that were unquestionably larger than Phuti’s. There was that man whose picture was often to be seen in the Botswana Daily News, that man who was chairman of that foodstuffs company and who was always handing out prizes for this, that, and the next thing. What about his nose? And, anyway, Phuti could carry off his nose because he was a large-boned man and he was tall enough to have such a large nose. It was different if you were small; in such a case the overall effect would be a bit unbalanced, and one could very easily look like a hornbill, with its overly prominent beak.
Mma Phiri was quick to recover. “I’m sorry, Mma. I didn’t mean to criticise your husband’s nose. It was more of a compliment than anything else.”
Mma Makutsi sucked in her cheeks. “I see, Mma.” She sounded icy; she had not intended to, but she did.
“I’ve always said that a good nose on a man is a very positive thing,” Mma Phiri continued. “These men—these modern men—with their small noses don’t realise how ineffective it makes them look. Whereas a man with a prominent, distinguished nose—like your husband’s—usually has an air of firmness about him.” She paused. “And women find such noses very attractive, I may say, Mma. They are drawn to such noses as…as moths are drawn to a candle.”
Mma Makutsi frowned. “Am I to conclude, Mma, that you—you personally, that is—are drawn to my husband’s nose?”
Mma Phiri bit her lip. “No, Mma—not at all. I am certainly not drawn to your husband’s nose. I have not given it a second thought.”
“And yet you are the one who brought it up, Mma. We were talking about sofas and suddenly the topic of conversation shifted to noses.”
Mma Phiri laughed nervously. “It is a handsome nose, Mma. But I’m sure you know that—you married it.” She corrected herself quickly. “I mean, you married your husband.”
Mma Makutsi waited.
“And anyway, Mma, that shop—yes, that is where we bought this sofa. It was on sale, I think. Ten per cent off, or something like that, although when people say that prices have been reduced I never really believe them.”
Mma Makutsi resumed her icy tone. “My husband always means what he says, Mma—in business as well as in private.”
“Of course, Mma. Of course.” Mma Phiri looked uncomfortable, and Mma Makutsi, realising that this encounter had got off to a bad start, saw that it was up to her to rescue it. After all, she was here, as Mma Ramotswe’s representative, to question Mma Phiri, and there was no point at all in antagonising the person from whom you were asking for information.
She made a placatory remark. “I am very glad that you are pleased with this sofa,” she said. “My husband is always keen to please his customers. He’ll be very happy when I tell him that you’re satisfied with the sofa, Mma.”
The tension dispelled, they proceeded to easier subjects. Mma Phiri asked after Mma Ramotswe, and Mma Makutsi told her that Mma Ramotswe was in good health, was very busy, and sent her warmest regards to her old friend. Mma Phiri replied that she hoped Mma Makutsi would pass on her own regards, and assure Mma Ramotswe that she and her entire family were in good health—apart from one grandson, who had broken his arm by falling out of a tree, but had learned his lesson and would undoubtedly be more careful in future.
“It is a pity that some lessons have to be learned in a painful way,” said Mma Makutsi. “But that is the way the world works, I suppose.”
This sage observation brought a nod of agreement from Mma Phiri, followed by silence.
“Mma Ramotswe has asked me to find out something,” Mma Makutsi said. “We have an issue, Mma.”
Mma Phiri raised an enquiring eyebrow. “One of your cases?”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, it’s not exactly a case, Mma. It’s more of a…” She searched for the right term. What was it? A dilemma? That was it. “It’s a dilemma, Mma. We are faced with the issue of whether we do one thing or another. It is that sort of issue.”
“Many issues are like that,” said Mma Phiri. “My entire professional life, in a way, was just that. Do I do this or that? Do I believe this person or that person? Do I decide this way or another way altogether?”
Mma Makutsi had always been in awe of magistrates and judges, whose job, she thought, was surely one of the most difficult jobs imaginable. When she had been younger—even as recently as a few years ago—she’d been able to make up her mind quickly and then stick to her opinions. She felt that she could sum people up more or less on first meeting, and be reasonably sure that she would not change her mind about them. These days she was not so sure; the world, which in the past had been in sharp enough focus, now seemed rather more blurred. Right and wrong were still there, of course—two gardens side by side, with distinctive flora and fauna—but now the boundary between the two domains was perhaps not quite as distinct as it used to be. During her student days at the Botswana Secretarial College, and indeed when she’d first worked for Mma Ramotswe, there had been no doubt in her mind about many of the issues of the day and their possible solution. In those days she had shown no hesitation in disapproving of people whom she did not like, or those she felt were up to no good. Now it was harder to write people off quite so quickly, with any confidence that one’s views would remain stable—with the exception of Violet Sephotho, of course, of whom she held precisely the same opinion as she had done on first acquaintance all those years ago.
She felt emboldened to ask Mma Phiri how she dealt with lies. “How do you tell if somebody’s telling the truth, Mma?” she said. “If you’re sitting there in court on the…on the chair…”
“We call it the bench,” said Mma Phiri. “The judge sits on a bench. That word has always been used—for some reason. I think it is historical. They must have sat on benches in the old days, way back—in England, I suppose. Nowadays it is really a chair, but we still call it a bench.”
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sp; Mma Makutsi nodded. “Yes, a bench. You’re sitting on the bench and you’re listening to a witness, perhaps, and the witness starts to talk. Do you think: Is this a truthful person? And how do you answer that, Mma? How can you tell?”
Mma Phiri laughed. “That’s a very difficult question, Mma. They don’t teach you how to do that, you know. You go to the University of Botswana and you do a law degree and they teach you all about the law of contract and the law of property and so on. You learn lots and lots of cases and you read and read, Mma, but they never teach you how to look at a witness and work out whether he or she is telling the truth.”
“No?”
“No, they do not. They teach you what the rules are—about what you can ask a witness and what you cannot ask, but they don’t teach you about how to tell the difference between an honest person and a liar.”
“Experience, Mma? Is that it?”
Mma Phiri smiled and folded her hands across her lap. “Yes, experience, Mma. You develop that ability through experience. Most judges and magistrates will tell you that. They know that there are some things you cannot learn by reading a book.”
Mma Makutsi agreed with that. It was the same with detective work. Nobody had taught her how to be a detective…To begin with, she had fumbled her way into the job, learning by her mistakes, gradually building up a feeling for the tasks facing a detective. And the same was true with life in general: you learned as you went through it, as you got older—that was the only way to develop judgement, or wisdom, perhaps, because wisdom really was what we needed if we were to get through life without making too much of a disaster of it. And yet wisdom, however much people may speak about it, was a rare quality, and you did not encounter it every day. Mma Ramotswe had it—Mma Makutsi was sure of that, and Mma Potokwane too, because she had seen so much of life looking after the orphans. And then there were some of the elders who had it—the people who had held office in the government of Botswana, some of the chiefs, retired principals of schools…yes, there was wisdom about, if you knew where to look for it. And it was there, she thought—right there in the room with her, in the shape of this former magistrate who had dispensed justice over so many years and must have seen the full range of human nature.
A young woman came in with a tea tray. “This is my daughter,” said Mma Phiri.
Mma Makutsi and the daughter greeted one another, before the daughter retreated into the kitchen.
“She has three children,” said Mma Phiri. “They keep her very busy because they are still young. But I love having them living with me. It is my great privilege, Mma.” She reached forward to pour the tea. “What do you and Mma Ramotswe need to know, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi took a sip of the tea that had been poured. “Five Roses,” she said. “This is very good tea.”
Mma Phiri smiled. “That shows you are a detective, Mma. Nobody else identifies the brand of tea.”
“Am I right, Mma?”
They both laughed. “As it happens, you are,” Mma Phiri said. “But you were about to tell me, Mma, what it is that you want to find out.”
Mma Makutsi began. “It is about a man who says that he needs an operation. Says, Mma. That’s what he says, but we are not so sure.”
Mma Phiri rolled her eyes. “The usual story, Mma? Money?”
“Yes, but…But we are not sure. I think he’s lying, but Mma Ramotswe…Well, you know how kind she is, Mma Phiri.”
“She is very kind, Mma. Everybody knows that. She is a kind lady.” She paused. “But tell me, Mma Makutsi, do I know this man?”
“You might, Mma. He may have been one of your clients, so to speak. Or you may know about the case—because Mma Ramotswe says that you are a lady with a very good memory.”
Mma Phiri chuckled. “It used to be rather good, yes, but you know how it is when you’re getting on…Well, you probably don’t know at your age, but people like me who have had some big birthdays, we’re always asking ourselves: Where have I put my spectacles? And then you realise they’re on your nose, Mma—that sort of thing.”
“Or you remember that you don’t wear spectacles in the first place,” said Mma Makutsi.
There was a short silence. Then Mma Phiri said, “That is very funny, Mma.” And a further pause before, “It isn’t quite that bad, Mma. Try me.”
There was a faint note of reproach in Mma Phiri’s voice, and Mma Makutsi tried to sound as respectful as possible as she explained her quest. She had not gone far, though, before Mma Phiri nodded vigorously and raised a hand to stop her.
“I am very familiar with that case, Mma,” she said. “It was some time ago. Twelve years, probably; just before I retired. But yes, I was the magistrate. I remember stock theft cases very clearly because they always involve a lot of passion. People get very upset about them, and sometimes you have to warn people in court—the public, that is—not to sit there and murmur during the evidence.”
“You remember that man?”
“Yes, as I said, I remember the case very clearly. This man—this Tefo—was a South African Motswana. I felt a bit sorry for him, actually, because those people are very close to us, as you know. They speak our language—we have the same ancestors, way back, but they are citizens of another country and that is what counts these days. So, they don’t have all the things that we have.”
Mma Makutsi agreed. It was hard. Botswana was a fortunate country, surrounded by neighbours who were not quite so fortunate. That sort of situation could be as difficult for a country as it could be in ordinary life, where neighbours with a car live next to neighbours without one, or neighbours with curtains live next to neighbours with none. Life was stubbornly unequal, whatever efforts the well-meaning made to reduce the contrast between good fortune and want. One day, perhaps, there would be enough for all, and painful differences of that nature would be no more, or be less obvious, but that day, Mma Makutsi thought, was not one that she would ever see.
“Yes,” continued Mma Phiri. “That was one of those cases where you sit there…”
“On your bench…”
“Yes, you sit there on the bench and you see some poor person in front of you. And you have a strong suspicion that he did not do what he is accused of doing, and yet all the evidence is there and you can’t just throw the case out because you have a feeling somewhere in your stomach that this is the wrong person. Or you are satisfied that he did it, but there are many good reasons why he did what he did and, worst of all, you think: If I had been there, I would have done exactly the same as he did. You sometimes think that, Mma, and yet you know that the law’s the law and people can’t take matters into their own hands.”
Mma Phiri poured more tea into their cups. “I remember, Mma, I had a case once when a man was charged with assaulting another man and he had taken an axe to him, Mma—a big axe used for chopping wood—and chopped one of his fingers off. Yes, actually chopped it off. The police found the finger and there was a photograph of it in court. And the prosecutor said to the witness—the man whose finger had been chopped off—‘Is that your finger, Rra?’ And the witness looked at the photograph and said, ‘It is not my finger any longer, sir.’ I tell you, Mma Makutsi, that was one of those times when I struggled not to laugh, and yet it was a very sad case because the accused had taken the axe to this other man who had kidnapped his teenage daughter and was planning to sell her to some terrible person in the Congo for forced marriage, Mma. Fortunately, the police stopped him in time, before he could take the girl away, but the father came at him with an axe when he found out.” She paused. “What father would not have felt like doing something like that, Mma? I could understand, but the problem is that we cannot allow people to take an axe to anybody who does some terrible thing to them. That is what the law is for.”
Mma Makutsi asked what happened.
“I had to give him a prison sentence,” said Mma Phiri. “Bu
t I suspended it. That is the great thing about suspended sentences. You can make it quite clear that you disapprove of what somebody has done; you can make it clear that there must be punishment; but then you can allow mercy to do its work. Mercy, Mma. Mercy is a very great thing. We must always remember mercy.”
Mma Makutsi lowered her eyes. This magistrate was not only a wise woman—she was humane as well. And that reminded Mma Makutsi of the fact that she herself was sometimes a little bit unforgiving—just a little bit. She should try harder, perhaps. And then the image of Violet Sephotho came to mind, and her new resolve was immediately tested—to the breaking point, in fact.
“But to get back to your stock theft man,” said Mma Phiri. “The reason why I felt uncomfortable in that case was because I thought he was not guilty. And yet he had lodged a guilty plea and did not withdraw it when I gave him the chance. I said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your plea?’ And he said that he did not. But I watched him, Mma, as he spoke, and I saw him looking at a lady sitting in the front row of the public benches. She was a relative of his—I happened to know that—and she had come in with him. She is a woman called Blessing, and I had come across her before.”
Mma Makutsi listened attentively.
“She had been up before me,” said Mma Phiri.
“In court, Mma?”
“Yes. She had been charged with an offence herself. A year or so earlier.”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. “She had, Mma? The lady?”
“Yes. Stock theft, as it happens, Mma. A very minor case. She stole a goat.”
Mma Makutsi was silent as she absorbed the unexpected information. And yet, she asked herself, why should she be surprised? If Tefo had been lying about his operation, then so too was Blessing.
Mma Phiri explained that stealing a goat was a low-value theft, punishable with a fine. And yet, in the eyes of the law, it was technically a stock theft and that meant that if somebody who stole a goat was subsequently convicted of taking a cow, that would make the second offence all that more serious.
How to Raise an Elephant Page 16