CHAPTER TWO
LATE PEOPLE TALK TO US
MMA MAKUTSI had not been idle. “Since you are so late this morning, Mma Ramotswe,” she said, “I have used the time to go through old files. I have taken out ones that we can get rid of now, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe crossed the office and deposited her bag on her shelf and the keys to her van on her desk. Glancing at Mma Makutsi’s desk she saw a pile of brown manila files, papers protruding here and there from between the covers. The sight made her think of the hours of work that each of these represented, and also of what lay behind each and every folder: the human emotions, the plans, the disappointments—and, in some cases at least, the triumphs. One or two of them, she noticed, had a familiar large red sticker on the outside denoting Payment of Final Bill Pending. That was a forlorn hope, now, she thought. And then there were the green stickers—not many—that signified More Developments Possible. Again, that was unlikely, Mma Ramotswe told herself. She tried to think of recent developments in any of these old cases, and could think of none. Perhaps a rewording of the sticker might be called for: More Developments Possible, but Unlikely would be more realistic, she felt.
“You have been very busy, Mma,” she said.
Mma Makutsi studied her fingernails in a vaguely prim manner. “Well, I thought that it would be a good idea to tackle something that we’ve been talking about for some time now.” She paused, looking up from her fingernails. “Talking about, yes, but not getting done.”
Mma Ramotswe was not sure whether there was a note of reproach in Mma Makutsi’s voice. It was true that they had been planning to go through the filing cabinet in order to weed out dormant files, and on one or two occasions had almost embarked upon the task, only to be interrupted by the arrival of a client or the ringing of the telephone. There were other routine administrative tasks that needed to be tackled but that had been put off for one reason or another; this one, though, was more pressing than the others as the filing cabinet was now almost full and more recent files had been stacked, in no particular order, on a shelf next to the well-thumbed copy of Clovis Andersen’s The Principles of Private Detection.
Mma Makutsi picked up one of the files. “This one, for example, Mma. Remember that man who ran the store and said his wife was having an affair? And then his wife came into the office and said the same thing about him? And we had to sit there with a straight face?”
Mma Ramotswe did remember, and she laughed at the recollection. “And then they both decided that it was a mistake and got back together.”
There was more. Mma Makutsi lifted up the file and held it over the wastepaper bin. “And then they argued about who should pay the bill, and neither of them paid.”
“I think we can throw that one away, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Case closed.”
The file fell into the bin. It was almost like an act of forgiveness, although there were no witnesses, save the two of them. Mma Ramotswe found herself raising her eyes briefly, almost guiltily, to the ceiling. At school in Mochudi, all those years ago—in that small school perched on top of the hill, with the village beneath it and the sound of cattle bells drifting up on the breeze—there, standing before the class, her teacher, the infinitely patient Mma Kenosi, had told them about the Recording Angel who noted down everything: “And I mean everything, boys and girls, that you do. So even if you do a good deed and nobody is there to witness it, that will be written down.” And at that, she would raise her eyes heavenwards, and thirty-five pairs of eyes watching her would be raised in unison, as if in an orchestrated display. The habits of childhood, instilled by the Mma Kenosis of this life, may be overwritten by the demands of the years, but some vestiges remained—thoughts, ways of doing things, odd beliefs, superstitions…these things had a power over you that ensured their survival, even if it was in weakened form. And so it was that Mma Ramotswe thought briefly of the Recording Angel as Mma Makutsi tipped the defunct file into the bin. She had long since abandoned belief in such a person, because a moment’s thought was enough to explode the notion: How could anybody keep an eye on the millions—no, billions—of good, and bad, deeds that people did every day? Such a task was clearly impossible, even if you believed in angels, which she did not. Well, not completely: there were times when you wanted to believe in angels, and when you might just allow yourself a few moments of such a belief. When you were in danger, perhaps, you might secretly wish for angelic assistance, and might be forgiven for believing in something that you didn’t believe in. Or when you wanted something so badly—that a grievously ill friend might be relieved of her suffering, one way or another, for example; then you might clutch at such a belief. And when your silent prayer was answered, was it not tempting to think that an angel had brought about that which you wanted? Was this not just an ordinary human way of thinking—or hoping, perhaps?
As she thought of this, she remembered the loss of her old friend Charity, who had been a friend, too, of Mma Potokwane’s. Together, she and the matron of the Orphan Farm had spent the last two days of Charity’s life nursing her through the cruel blows that her illness brought; the struggles for breath, the relentless coughing that racked her frail system. They had watched as their friend became thinner and thinner until there seemed so little of her, far too little to survive another night. But she had, and then, in the morning, as the sun rose over the acacia trees, she had suddenly become still, and Mma Potokwane had turned to her and said, “That is the angel that has come for her, Mma.” And Mma Ramotswe, through her tears, had simply nodded, and kissed her late friend’s brow. Then she had gone outside, because Mma Potokwane, who had been a nurse before she became a matron, knew what was required as a last service to those who have become late, and would do what was needed in private. The husband was there in the garden, watering the melons, and she saw from his eyes that he knew the news that she was bringing him from the sick room. And she said to him the first thing that came to her mind, which was, “An angel has visited this house, Rra.” And that somehow made it easier for both of them; and so she had decided that even if there were no angels, we might still wish to believe in them because that made our life more bearable, and she was not ashamed to think like that.
Mma Makutsi brought her back to the present. “I saw them, by the way,” she said, gesturing towards the freshly abandoned file. “They came into Phuti’s store. They were looking for a new table. They seemed very happy. They were both laughing.”
“I’m glad it all ended well for them,” said Mma Ramotswe. And she was: she believed there came a time when debts had to be forgiven—and that applied to countries as well as people, she felt. There were some countries in Africa that were still paying for the spending sprees of their early post-independence rulers. It was not the fault of today’s children, but then the world was a hard place and there always seemed to come a time when the wells of generosity ran dry.
Mma Makutsi grinned. “They saw me, you know. They saw me in the furniture shop. I was standing there with Phuti, and they saw me.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “And what happened, Mma?”
“They ran,” Mma Makutsi replied. “He ran first, and then she ran after him. Phuti was very surprised. He asked me what was going on and I told him. He shook his head. He has problems with bad debts too.”
“It is sometimes not easy to forgive,” observed Mma Ramotswe.
“It’s like stealing,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you don’t pay what you owe, it’s like stealing. I am not so quick to forgive as you are, Mma Ramotswe.” She leaned over to retrieve the file. “In fact, I am going to write to these people again and tell them I have not forgotten the bill.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “You could try, Mma. But what about asking for half?”
“Ninety-seven per cent,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “I will ask them for ninety-seven per cent of what they owe. That will give them a three per cent discount.”
They spent the next half hour looking at some of the other files. It was slow work. With the day’s quota of generosity expended, the remaining unpaid bill files were retained by Mma Makutsi for what she described as “one last push,” while others, cases in which they had either solved the client’s problem or been unable to help, were one by one disposed of and dropped into the wastepaper bin and an overflow cardboard box retrieved by Mma Makutsi from the small storeroom at the back of the garage.
Now it was time for mid-morning tea. “One last word on these unpaid bills,” Mma Makutsi said. “When I lived up in Bobonong, there was a man who had a little business selling stock food. You know those cattle licks, Mma—the ones with salt and this and that? You know those ones?”
Mma Ramotswe did know them. She was, after all, the daughter of the late Obed Ramotswe, a fine judge of cattle, whose large herd had, after his death, provided her with the means to buy her house and start her business. She had absorbed a great deal of knowledge about cattle from her father, and knew what it was that cattle needed. He had said to her, “Cattle, Precious, will eat anything if they don’t get the salt they need. You don’t want your cattle to eat sticks and stones, do you? Or dirt? That is why they must have their licks.” And then he had talked about potassium and zinc and vitamin D, and she had remembered some of these, but not all. She had remembered about magnesium, though, and the way he had spoken about the risk of the disease he called staggers if the cattle did not get the magnesium they needed.
She heard his voice again, as she heard it in her head now and then, at unexpected moments. Late people talk to us, she thought; they talk to us, but most of the time we are not listening because we are so busy with what we are doing here and now and there are so many problems to be dealt with. But then, when we stop for a moment and catch our breath, we might just hear the voices of the late people who love us, and they are whispering to us, quietly, like the wind that moves across the dry grass; and we know that it is them, although we also know that it cannot be them, for they are late. And so we try hard to hear, just to be sure, and their voices fade away and there is nothing once again.
Now it was Mma Makutsi talking, and she was telling her about the man in Bobonong who sold salt licks for people’s cattle. “He let people buy them on account,” she said. “If people did not have the money to pay, he would never send them away. Because that would mean their cattle would not get the salt they needed and you would never want to be responsible for another person’s cattle dying. So he let them buy on credit and pay later. But…”
“Not everybody paid?” suggested Mma Ramotswe.
“That’s right. Not everybody paid. But this man—the salt-lick trader—he had a very good way of getting them to pay, Mma. It always worked. One hundred per cent of the time—it worked.”
Mma Ramotswe waited for the secret to be revealed. Was Mma Makutsi going to use a special Bobonong way of getting the agency’s debtors to pay up?
“He used witchcraft,” said Mma Makutsi. “He found this old witch doctor—you know, a sangoma—and he paid him a few pula to put a curse on the people who didn’t pay their bills. Then he told them, and they all paid up very smartly—the next day, in fact. It was very effective.”
Mma Ramotswe shot a disapproving look across the room. “But you’re not going to do that, are you, Mma Makutsi?”
There was a note of disappointment in Mma Makutsi’s answer. “No, Mma, I shall not do that.”
Mma Makutsi got up to start making the tea. She had just switched on the kettle when the door opened and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who had been inspecting a car in the garage workshop, came into the office, wiping the grease off his hands with a piece of the blue paper he kept for this purpose.
“There is a woman,” he said to Mma Ramotswe. “There’s a woman outside to see you, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at her diary. “We don’t have anybody booked in, do we Mma?”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “There is nobody.”
“I’m not sure if she’s a client,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “She said it’s personal. I told her to come and knock on the door. I told her that the garage was a separate business, but she seemed very shy. She wanted me to speak to you first—to find out whether you would see her.”
“Show her in, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi. “I will make an extra cup of tea for this timid lady.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni finished wiping his hands. “She said she is a cousin.”
Mma Makutsi spun round. “Of mine, Rra?”
“No.” He looked across the room towards his wife. “Of Mma Ramotswe’s.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Did you recognise her, Rra?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was uncertain. “No, not really. Well, maybe slightly. She looked a little bit familiar, but not really.”
“Well, that’s clear enough,” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe looked disapprovingly at Mma Makutsi. Then, turning to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, she said, “I think you should bring her in, Rra.”
BLESSING MOMPATI sat in the client’s chair directly opposite Mma Ramotswe, holding a mug of tea across which she blew a cooling breath.
“This tea is very hot,” she said. “I am not complaining, Mma—it is very welcome, but it is hot.”
“It will cool, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And we are in no hurry. There is plenty of time to drink tea.”
Blessing put the tea down on Mma Ramotswe’s desk. “I have been trying to cut down on sugar.” She had asked for three spoons. “But it is not easy, Mma.”
From behind her, Mma Makutsi said, “It is a question of willpower, Mma.”
Blessing half turned to answer Mma Makutsi. “I do not have much of that, Mma. Maybe that is my problem.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Blessing shook her head. “I do not think so, Mma. It is the same thing with fat cakes. I know we shouldn’t eat too many, but when I see a plate piled high with fat cakes, well—”
“Willpower again,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “Sugar, fat cakes, cigarettes—it is all the same thing. Willpower.”
Blessing spoke over her shoulder. “You must be very strong, Mma. Not all of us are strong.”
Mma Ramotswe took control. “When you came in, Mma, it was a moment or two before I remembered who you are. I’m sorry if I looked blank. You should not look blank when a cousin comes to see you—even a distant cousin.”
Blessing assured her that no offence had been taken. “We have not seen one another since we were girls, Mma. That is a long time ago.”
“Many, many years,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I think we came to see you in Mochudi on our way down from Francistown. I remember your father.”
“He is late now.”
“I knew that. I’m very sorry. All the best people are late, Mma—or that’s sometimes how it seems.”
Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. “The tea is cooler now, I think, Mma.”
Blessing tested it, and agreed. “It is good to see you with your own business now, Mma,” she said. “That man out there—the mechanic—is he the man you married?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “That’s Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He’s my husband.”
“I’ve heard that he is a very kind man,” said Blessing. “That’s what they say, anyway.”
“He is. He’s a good man. I am very happy with him.”
A wistful look passed over Blessing’s face. “I was not so lucky. I was with a man who drank. He was always drinking—all the time.”
“There is no cure for that,” said Mma Makutsi. “If men are drinkers, then that is what they are.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mma Ramotswe said. “They can join these groups they have. There is one in that church near the stadium. They sing hymns. If you are tempted to have a drink, you can call them and they will send two or three people round to sing hymns with you until the need to drink passes. They say that it works.”
“It is too late for him,” said Blessing. “He fell into a ditch. You know, Mma, that is what they say about these people. They say that it is only when they end up down in the dirt that they will do anything about their problem.”
“And did he?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Did he go to these people near the stadium?”
Blessing shook her head. “It was the rainy season, Mma. The ditch was full of water.”
They fell silent. Mma Ramotswe caught Blessing’s eye and then looked away. “I am very sorry, Mma.”
“He is late, Mma?” Mma Makutsi asked—a little insensitively, thought Mma Ramotswe.
“He is late,” said Blessing. “He fell into the ditch at night-time. He walked into it. The police said they thought it was about midnight. Somebody found him on the way to work the next morning. The water had drained out of the ditch, and so they wondered how you could drown in a ditch with no water. The police doctor said he had definitely drowned.”
“I am very sorry to hear all this, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Thank you, Mma. It is some years ago, now. I am over it, I think.”
“And you didn’t meet anybody else?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Blessing shook her head. “It is not easy, Mma. There are not many men these days. I don’t know what has happened to the men.”
This brought a reaction from Mma Makutsi, who snorted. “Men? Where are all the men? Good question, Mma—very good question.”
Blessing turned round to face Mma Makutsi. “Well, Mma. Do you know the answer to that?”
“I do not,” said Mma Makutsi. “But I have some ideas. I think that women have let men get away. They have let them run off. In the old days, women made men marry them because if they did not marry them, then they would not let the men kiss and cuddle them—if you know what I mean, Mma. They said: no kisses, no cuddles until you have bought the ring, spoken to the father and the uncles, and paid the lobola. Then there can be that sort of thing. But now? Kisses and cuddles straightaway and then the men say, ‘Thank you very much, Mma, but I am going away because there are all sorts of things that I would like to do—and getting married and settling down is not one of them.’ ” She paused. “That is what has happened, Mma.”
“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Possibly, Mma.”
“No, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi. “Not possibly—definitely. And then there are men who say that they do not like women. They say, ‘I do not like ladies and so you can cross me off your list.’ I am not making this up, Mma—that is what they say. And so they go off and that’s the last any of us girls see of them, Mma, I can tell you.”
Mma Ramotswe shifted in her seat. This was a difficult topic in Botswana society and people did not like to talk about it openly. Perhaps that was the trouble: if they talked about it, it would be different.
“I think the important thing is that people should be happy,” she said. “There are some people who like one thing and others who like another. That is not something we should worry about too much. Why make people unhappy by saying they cannot be with the people they want to be with? Why, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi was tight-lipped. “I do not want anybody to be unhappy, Mma. I did not say that. I just said that some men have decided they do not like ladies, and so there are fewer men for the ladies who like men. That is all.”
Mma Ramotswe decided to bring the conversation back from these major issues of demography and marriage. Discussions of those subjects tended to get you nowhere, she felt, interesting though they might be. If you thought there were too many people—or too few—then talking about it did not change the number of people there were.
“I am very pleased to see you, Mma,” she said to Blessing. “But I was wondering whether there was anything that I could do for you. You aren’t in need of a private detective, are you?”
Blessing smiled. “I am not, Mma. No, I came to see you because there is something I need to talk to you about—and you are my cousin.”
“I am happy to talk to you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am listening right now. What do you need?”
“Money,” said Blessing.