CHAPTER THREE

RULE NO. 1

THAT EVENING, Mma Ramotswe did not tell Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about Blessing’s request. She had intended to do so over dinner, having made him his favourite stew of Botswana beef, and having served it with his favourite vegetable, pumpkin—moistened, of course, with a large pat of butter and covered in a rich gravy from the roasting tin in which the beef had been prepared. After that, all that was required was salt and pepper sprinkled on the top, and there was a meal that would keep anybody happy, from the President down to the humblest of men in his remote cattle post. Not that such distinctions were encouraged in Botswana, where everybody was equal, in theory at least: in practice, it was not hard to pick out those who had more beef and pumpkin than others, and were, perhaps, not quite as ready to share their beef and pumpkin as they might be. But although that was a troubling issue, and one that certainly worried Mma Ramotswe, she was not thinking of that as she and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat down to their meal and he, sniffing at the steamy aromas rising from his plate, asked, “Is there a luckier man in all Botswana, my Precious, than the one you see seated at this table? Is there?” And she had smiled, because she loved receiving compliments of that nature—and who does not?—before replying, “But is there a luckier woman in all Botswana—or maybe even in all Africa—than this woman you see seated at this table?”

That would have been a good time to broach the subject of Blessing’s visit to the agency, but somehow she missed the moment, and the conversation veered off in another direction. Then, at the end of the meal, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had yawned and announced that he was too tired to talk any longer because of the long day in the garage and the difficulties with a gearbox that had proved to be resistant to all reason. So it was not until the next morning, when she brought him a cup of tea in bed, that she felt able to raise the delicate issue of Blessing.

It was delicate because Mma Ramotswe knew that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had his views on people who relied on distant family connections to get some sort of favour from others. In his view it was this idea of obligation that led to corruption, the canker that had held Africa back from achieving its full potential. Corruption was the devil, he said, that led countries rich in resources to the begging bowl. It had happened so many times in so many different places, but never in Botswana. “And why?” he asked. “Because Seretse Khama would not tolerate corruption—that is why.” And he, the first President, that good man who spoke with all the authority that came from his origins in the first family of the Bamangwato people, had said that there should be no corruption in Botswana and that those who had power should wield it for the good of all rather than for the lining of their own pockets. And that had worked, when all about them, in Angola, and South Africa, and Zimbabwe, officials and politicians had taken their cut and slowly drained the blood from their economies. Some had become immensely rich, funded by stolen diamonds or the bribes paid for large construction contracts—there were hundreds of ways of taking money that should not belong to you—and honest men and women had suffered as a result.

“And how does this happen?” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni asked. “It happens because of that thing you boast about, Mma Ramotswe. It happens because one person can go to another and say: You are my cousin, or my cousin’s cousin, or even my cousin’s cousin’s cousin, and this means that you must give me the job or the contract. And so this thing grows, and puts down deep roots, just like the mopipi tree, deep roots that go right down into the heart of a country. Deep, deep. And soon nobody can do anything about it, because everyone is doing it, and there are no honest people left, and that is what corruption is, Mma.”

Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe, yes, but…And the but was a big one. She thought he was right about how some people took advantage of family connections to get the things they wanted; he might be right about that, but at the same time she would not want to see that tradition abandoned, because that would make Botswana just like anywhere else where people did not think they had to help others. You had to look after other people because if you did not, then the world was a cold and lonely place, a place where, if you stumbled, there would be no hand to pull you to your feet. So even if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was right about how people had abused this idea of mutual reliance, she could not bring herself to reject it.

Now, as she sat on the edge of their bed, while he sipped the tea she had made him, she said, “That woman who came to see me yesterday, Rra. You remember her?”

He nodded. “What did she want, Mma?”

“She wasn’t a client, you know.”

He took a further sip of his tea. “I know. She said something about being a cousin. I meant to ask you about her, but that gearbox I was busy with…” He shook his head. Gearboxes were the cross he bore in life. He did not mind shock absorbers or fuel pumps, or brake drums, but gearboxes were another matter altogether.

“Her name is Blessing. She is a very distant cousin—you know how it is: daughter of a cousin who married a cousin—that sort of thing.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “That makes all of us cousins,” he said. “You, me, Mma Makutsi—even Charlie, I suppose. We’re all related.”

“Yes, we are,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And if you trace it far back enough, we all come from the same place—way, way back. East Africa. Even people up in Iceland—they come from East Africa originally. So everyone is a cousin.”

“That is this DNA they talk about,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, adding, with mock seriousness, “I should like to see some of this stuff one day. I wonder if it looks like motor oil. High-grade motor oil, naturally.”

She laughed. “We are not motor cars, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Well, I’m certainly not…”

He drank the last of his tea and put the empty cup down on his bedside table. Putting his hands behind his head to act as an extra pillow, he prepared to enjoy the last few moments in bed before getting up. He closed his eyes.

“You aren’t going back to sleep, are you?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “It’s a working day, remember.”

His voice was drowsy. “I’m not going back to sleep. I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“About those early people back then—you know, the ones in East Africa—the ones whose skulls they dug up. I was thinking about them having a sort of kgotla meeting and saying, ‘It’s about time we got moving.’ ” He opened his eyes and smiled. “And then one of them says, ‘How about going off to Europe or India? There will be big opportunities there.’ ”

“This Blessing,” Mma Ramotswe persisted. “She came to tell me about one of our relatives. She says that he is not well.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “People are always falling ill, Mma. That is the way we are.” He paused. “I’m sorry, of course. It is not very pleasant being unwell, but it is always happening, I’m afraid.”

“And—”

He interrupted her. “And they need money? Right?”

Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. He knew how these things worked, just as she did. She gave a wordless reply, nodding to confirm what he had said.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat up and began to get out of bed. “It’s always the same, Mma. This one, that one—everyone needs money. There’s never enough, no matter how careful you are, no matter how hard you work. There is always a need for more money.”

“It is a man called Tefo Kgomo. He worked in the mines up at Selebi-Phikwe and is now living down here—just outside town. You get to his place from the Lobatse Road. Down that way.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni donned a clean shirt. He gave another sigh. “And what is wrong with him, Mma?”

“His hips,” she said. “He has arthritis in both his hips. It is very difficult for him to walk now. It is always very painful.”

“Can’t they do something? I thought that these days they have an operation.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They do have an operation. They can put in new joints.”

“It’s amazing,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Just like cars, Mma, don’t you think? A new set of engine valves. A new suspension system. Just like cars.”

“You’re right, Rra. It is amazing. But Tefo cannot get these things, she said.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni paused in his dressing. “But there’s that big hospital down in Lobatse. That’s close to where he lives, surely. They have plenty of doctors there. My friend Thomas, who has his garage down that way, says that he looks after the cars of at least seven doctors at that hospital. They come from all over the place—there are some very well-trained doctors, Thomas says. Big experts in blood and hearts and so on. There will be a bone doctor there—definitely.”

“I’m sure there is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But there’s a problem. Tefo cannot get treatment in the government hospital. Not this special treatment, anyway.”

He was puzzled. “But I’ve heard of people who’ve had that operation here in Gaborone. In the government hospital. There hasn’t been a problem.”

“Citizens, Rra.”

He frowned. “Citizens?”

“Those people will be citizens. This man, this Tefo, is South African. He’s a Motswana, yes, but from over the border. He has worked in this country for many years, but he isn’t a citizen.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni asked why not. There were procedures for obtaining citizenship, and if you were in the country long enough and qualified, then it might be granted.

“That’s true,” Mma Ramotswe said. “It’s ten years. You have to be in the country for ten years if you want to be naturalised.”

“But you said that he had worked here for many years…”

She looked down at her hands. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was a kind man—there was none kinder in Botswana, she had always thought, but he was slow to get involved in the affairs of others. And now she had to reveal the most uncomfortable aspect of the whole story.

“He has worked for a long time, Rra, but…but there is something that means he will not get citizenship.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni waited.

“He has a conviction.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head ruefully. “I thought that, Mma. The moment you said ‘but.’ I thought: This man has been convicted of something.” He paused. “What is it?”

“Stock theft.”

It was the worst answer she could have given, short of saying that Tefo had been convicted of murder. The ownership of cattle lay at the heart of Botswana’s culture, and stock theft was widely and roundly condemned.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shrugged. “That’s it, then. If that’s on his record, Mma, then I’m surprised they didn’t send him back over the border.”

“He has two children,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They are still young—or they were young when he was convicted. He was supporting them, and since their mother is a Motswana, they would not deport them. So they let him stay under a residence permit.”

“Did he go to jail, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe relayed what Blessing had told her. It had not been a serious case of stock theft—he was accused of taking a heifer belonging to a neighbour and putting his own brand over the original owner’s. Since it was only one animal, the magistrate had been lenient and not sent him to prison. But it was a conviction nonetheless, and that remained on his record.

“Blessing said that she was convinced he was innocent and that the neighbour had done the rebranding himself. He had hoped that Tefo would be sent to jail.”

“Why?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “What had Tefo done to him?”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. Rural feuds were complicated, and as often as not went back a very long time. Sometimes they were handed down from parent to child, with the result that they could simmer away when everybody had forgotten the original cause of hostilities.

“There must be few things worse than being wrongly accused of a crime,” Mma Ramotswe said. “You know you are innocent, but you also know that most people will not believe you—even your friends.”

“It must be very bad,” agreed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. But what, he wondered, could one do about it? The world was like that. There were things that were wrong about it that were very difficult to change, and no matter how careful the police and the courts were, they would sometimes get the wrong person.

“I want to help her,” said Mma Ramotswe.

He was pulling on his socks. He stopped. “You want to help with the operation?”

She nodded. “I can’t give a great deal,” she said. “Just a small amount.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni stared at his feet. This was what he had feared. “But, Mma,” he said. “If we give money to every distant relative who needs it, we will have none left for ourselves. Word gets out—you know that as well as I do. People will say, ‘Oh, that Mma Ramotswe will always help you,’ and then, before you know it, there’s a line of people halfway to Lobatse, all wanting a bit of financial help, and every one of them—every single one of them—a distant cousin.”

She did not say anything. She knew that what he said was right.

“And do you know how much those operations cost?” he continued. “Tens of thousands of pula, Mma. If you can’t get the government to pay, then you have to pay a very big bill. As much as a car costs, Mma. Did you know that? Easily as much as a car costs.”

“I was only going to give a little,” she said.

He shook his head. “You can’t, Mma. Look at what you pay Charlie—hardly anything. If you want to be charitable, then I think you should start at home—right under your nose—and give Charlie more money, rather than help this distant cousin—so distant that we’d need binoculars to see him, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe did not argue. Before she and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni married, they had not discussed their financial situation in any detail. Both had assumed that they would pool resources, and that each would decide which part of their joint patrimony he or she wished to manage. Without there ever having been any real debate about it, Mma Ramotswe found herself looking after the bills, drawing upon the common account into which they paid their separate regular incomes—hers from the profits of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, his from the takings at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. In addition to those sources, they each had a small amount of money from the occasional sale of cattle. In that respect, Mma Ramotswe was considerably better off than Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, as Obed Ramotswe had left her a good-sized herd and there were still many head of these out at her cattle post. Some people were loath to sell cattle, treating them almost as family members, but Mma Ramotswe had never been sentimental about this. She loved her cattle, yes, but she understood that there was a time for selling just as there was a time for cherishing.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s cattle had been taken into the herd of an elderly uncle of his, a man who, like Obed Ramotswe, knew almost everything there was to know about cattle husbandry. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni liked this uncle, who had in his time been a railway mechanic, and he admired his judgement—when it came to cattle and to the care and maintenance of railway engines. But what he found trying was the uncle’s inability to talk about anything other than cattle. There had been a time when he had been prepared to converse about trains and cattle, but lately the trains seemed to have been forgotten about and the conversation focused entirely on cattle. But whatever his shortcomings as a conversationalist were, he took good care of his nephew’s cattle, even though he never had more than ten head at any one time. This was very little when compared with Mma Ramotswe’s one hundred and fifteen.

Mma Ramotswe could not recall ever having a single argument about money with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Now, as he told her about charity and its demands in her back yard, she realised that this was a disagreement. She could have argued with him, but she felt reluctant to do that. In her mind, consensus and the doing of things together was the key to a good marriage. Once you began to argue about little things, the stage would be set for much bigger disagreements, and she did not want that. So all she said was, “It’s all right, Rra—I won’t give them any money.”

He looked abashed. “I didn’t say you couldn’t, Mma. I didn’t say that. I would never tell you what you should do with our money.”

She looked away. He had. He had said “you can’t.” She was sure of that.

“All I said,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni went on, “or all that I meant to say is that there are too many people looking for money. If you decide that one of them actually deserves it, then there is no reason why you shouldn’t help them. But you have to be careful, Mma—that’s all.”

“I don’t think we should argue about this, Rra,” she said. “I know that you are careful when it comes to money, and that is a good thing. Money should be looked after by the head, rather than by the heart. I will find out a bit more about this man. But I won’t do anything foolish.”

“You’d never do anything foolish, Mma,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, relieved that a potentially difficult issue had been satisfactorily resolved—at least for the moment.

They spent the next few moments in silence. And then, just as Mma Ramotswe was about to rise to her feet and take Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s teacup back to the kitchen, they heard the sound of voices outside.

“Is there somebody in the garden?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He crossed to the window and peered out. “No, there’s nobody there.”

The voices returned. A woman’s voice was raised, and it was followed by a lower voice in answer. Then the woman spoke again, shouting this time.

“It’s coming from next door,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Our new neighbours.”

Mma Ramotswe joined him at the window. The voices were clearer now, the volume of the exchange having been turned up. It was possible to pick out some of the words, although no full sentences could be heard.

Mma Ramotswe looked at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “They’re arguing, Rra.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni winced. “Did you hear what she just said, Mma?”

She shook her head.

“Just as well, Mma,” he said. “She is being very rude to him.”

The woman’s voice rose to become even more shrill.

“That was not a nice thing to say,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “She called him an anteater.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “That is a rather rare insult, Rra. I have not heard that used very much. And what is wrong with anteaters, I wonder?”

“They are very greedy,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He was not sure about that, but he thought it might be true, as they seemed to gorge themselves once they found a colony of ants. “And they have these very long tongues, Mma. Perhaps he has a very long tongue, this new neighbour of ours.”

“Or a long nose,” suggested Mma Ramotswe. “They have a long nose that they put down ant-holes. If his nose is long, then that might be why she is calling him that.”

“If she didn’t like his nose,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, “then why did she marry him, Mma? Before you marry somebody, surely you should make certain that you don’t have a problem with his nose? Would you not agree, Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. In general, she took the view that a person’s physical appearance was neither here nor there, and that when it came to choosing your life partner, how the other person looked had little or no bearing on how successful the marriage would be. She was aware of many cases where a woman had been very happy, for many years, with a husband who was unprepossessing in the extreme. Phuti Radiphuti was a case in point: he was not the most good-looking of men, and yet he had been a wonderful husband for Mma Makutsi. And then there was that man who worked in the supermarket—his ears were so large that they made him look like a jackal, and yet Mma Potokwane, who knew his family, had told her that his wife said that the day she met him was the luckiest day of her life. And, speaking of noses, that senior civil servant who brought his car to be serviced at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors had one of the largest noses in the country—so large and dominating that it was almost impossible to see his eyes or mouth—and yet his wife seemed to love him and had borne him seven children, which was always a good sign in a marriage.

“I think it is more important, Rra,” she replied, “to make sure that you and your future spouse have the same interests. That’s more important than things like noses.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni waited for her to explain.

“You see,” she continued, “if one person in the marriage is interested only in cattle, or cars, or whatever it is, then it will be very important that the other person is not going to get too bored when they talk to one another. There are some marriages where the wife goes to sleep the moment the husband opens his mouth—I have seen that happen, Rra.”

“And the other way round, of course,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Although it was fashionable to run men down, he did not think that this discrimination was fair. Mma Makutsi, he thought, was a little bit too ready to write men off, although Mma Ramotswe never did that herself.

And she was not going to do it now. “Yes,” she said. “And the other way round. There are some men who go to sleep when their wives are talking. That happens too, Rra.”

Raised voices were heard once more, briefly, and then they subsided into silence. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni spoke quietly now, although there was no possibility that their conversation would carry over to next door.

“I hope that they are not going to fight every day,” he said.

Mma Ramotswe agreed. “I fear that things might not be”—she searched for the correct expression—“might not be quite right over the fence.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, having a few minutes previously pulled on his shoes—his old, oil-spattered garage veldschoen that he refused to trade in for a newer pair—was now ready for his breakfast. He looked at his watch. Fanwell, his junior mechanic and ex-apprentice, would already be on duty in the garage, ready to deal with any early customers, but he did not like to leave him single-handed for too long. And yet what was Mma Ramotswe hinting at here? Neighbours were important, as troublesome relations with any neighbour could cast a shadow over anybody’s life. It was rule no. 1, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni told himself, to remain on good terms with neighbours—even in the face of difficult or even provocative behaviour over the garden fence. Mind you, he admitted, there were other candidates for that rule no. 1 status, including the rule that you should be ready to say sorry when sorry was required. Or the rule that you did not tell a lie to get yourself out of trouble. The wisdom behind that last rule proved itself time and time again: lies created a sticky spider’s web that quickly enmeshed those who uttered them. A single lie was rarely enough to conceal the truth, but soon had to be topped up with supplementary lies to confirm the original, until eventually the whole edifice of concealment and distortion toppled over.

He gave Mma Ramotswe a searching look. “In what way, Mma, are things…What did you say? ‘Not quite right?’ In what way, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe did not like to gossip, but the neighbours’ behaviour here—the shouting at such a volume that it was inevitable that others would hear—surely justified her voicing her concerns to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“I think they may not be on normal terms with each other,” she said.

It sounded odd—even to her as she said it—and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was made no wiser by this remark.

“Normal terms?” he asked. “What are normal terms, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe now used a traditional Setswana expression that covered very neatly this sort of situation without spelling things out too explicitly. “I think they may not be under the same blanket, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. That is what I think.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shrugged. “Well, that’s not surprising, surely. Would you expect somebody who is calling another an anteater to want to share a blanket? Can you imagine, Mma, what it would be like to share with an anteater?”

“It is not just because of what we have heard,” she said, lowering her voice. “It’s because…” She pointed vaguely towards the fence. “It’s because there is no double bed, Rra. When I watched their things being taken in, I saw that there was no double bed. I noticed that.”

She felt slightly ashamed to be telling him this; ashamed that she had been the sort of person who looked out for such things. And ashamed, too, because she had forgotten her earlier resolve not to talk about what she had seen. Of course, if you talked only to your husband, perhaps that did not count…

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “So we have got neighbours who are at war,” he said. “Not at war with us, but with each other.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“I suppose we can live with that,” he said. “We keep out of it. As long as they shout at each other and not at us.”

“I do not like shouting,” said Mma Ramotswe, a note of sadness in her voice. She liked to think of Zebra Drive as being a haven of peace. The wider world was as the wider world so often was—consumed with all sorts of arguments about all sorts of things—and she wanted Zebra Drive to be an exception to that. So far, it had been, but now that seemed to be imperilled.

She turned away from the window. It was time to make Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s breakfast. There were some husbands who made their own breakfast. Not only that, there were some husbands these days who made their wife’s breakfast as well. She had read that this was the case in progressive households, where new men did their share—and more, sometimes—of the household tasks. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, though, was not a new man. He was a traditional man who was not much use in the kitchen, and who would probably be unable to make his own breakfast even if he tried. Should she try to make a new man out of him? Should she show him how to make breakfast and then suggest that he might care to put his new-found skill to good use?

She looked at him and smiled. There were some men you could imagine being reformed in this way, but she did not think it likely with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And yet that did not matter too much, she told herself. He worked longer hours than she did, in conditions that were far less comfortable than hers. She had her desk and her comfortable office chair. She never had to crouch underneath an inspection platform while oil dripped onto her face. Nor did she have to struggle with bolts that had been stripped so that their nuts would not travel down the wrecked thread. He had to do all that—and more. And for all his old-fashioned approach to life, he was a kind and considerate man who had never said a cross word to her and never would. Nor did he think of himself and his creature comforts, as new men might be tempted to do. He had few possessions—look at his shoes, those awful old boots that no new man would dream of wearing. Look at his shirt, which although washed clean and neatly ironed, told the story of his daily struggles with machinery.

No, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is perfect as he is, she thought. And then she thought: I shall give him extra bacon this morning—two more rashers than she usually allowed. And an extra egg too, because eggs were full of iron, she believed, and iron was just the sort of thing that men who were not new men might be assumed to enjoy. Men clearly needed iron because…well, because they just did.

She gave him his breakfast, which he polished off quickly and with evident enjoyment.

“You have been very kind to me, Mma,” he said, as he handed back his empty plate. “All these years, you have been kind to me.”

She basked in the tenderness of this unexpected tribute, and thought: Those poor people over the fence—had they ever tried this? Had they ever said to one another the sort of thing that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had just said to her, out of the blue? Could one suggest to them that they try it, rather than calling one another anteaters—and worse? She pondered that, and as she did so, she suddenly heard, or thought she heard, the voice of her father, Obed Ramotswe, saying to her, “Precious, remember this: the business of your neighbours is their business.” It was not him, of course, for he was late, and when we hear the voices of late people, we are only hearing an echo. It was true that the world was full of echoes, but those echoes were of our own making, and reminded us, perhaps, of what we should try not to forget.