SO MUCH FOR THE RESTFUL EFFECTS of being on holiday: Mma Ramotswe lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, watching the shadows thrown by the moonlight. On the ceiling directly above her was what appeared to be the pattern of a bush, perhaps a tree, and beside it, moving slightly, was a waving hand—both shadows made by the bougainvillea framing their window. She closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would come, but that only seemed to make her more alert. Now she seemed to see the white van moving along a track, and the track suddenly opened up into a great hole the size of Kgali Hill itself. The van plunged into the hole, and beside her Mr. Polopetsi was shouting, “There is a great hole, Mma—be careful!”
She opened her eyes. On his side of the bed, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, covered only with a sheet because of the heat, breathed quietly in the depth of sleep; he never suffered from insomnia and would remain in that state of utterly peaceful oblivion until the first cock-crow of dawn. It was easier for men, she thought; they did not have to worry about kitchens and children and doing the shopping…These were things that could interrupt the sleep of anyone, and when you added to it the cares of other people, of Government Keboneng’s sister and his political supporters, then nobody could be expected to drop off to sleep with all that around her neck.
As quietly as she could, she got out of bed, felt for her slippers in the darkness, and made her way into the kitchen. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not a light sleeper, but the children were, and once roused they were difficult to settle again. Once away from the sleeping quarters, she switched on a light and looked at her watch. It was four in the morning. She had retired to bed at nine, and she knew that she had dropped off to sleep for the first part of the night—perhaps until shortly after two, when she had woken up and had lain there thinking. That meant that she had enjoyed five hours of sleep, which was enough, she felt, to see her through the day. There was no point in going back to bed now, as she would merely lie awake until dawn, which at this time of the year would begin not long after five-thirty. It would be far better to stay up and get some of her morning chores done before the day began in earnest.
And then she thought: Am I on holiday, or am I back at work? She had told Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that her holiday was over, but this did not mean that she would be returning to her usual routine. So there would be no going into the office, no awaiting—with pleasure—the first cup of office red bush tea, no leisurely perusal of the mail, no listening to Mma Makutsi telling her about Itumelang’s latest achievements, no patient questioning of clients to find out what they really wanted…The thought of all this made her feel nostalgic. She still had ten days of the original holiday left to run, and she was missing the office so much.
She sat down at the kitchen table, a blank piece of lined paper in front of her. At the top of this she wrote: The Troublesome Keboneng Case. Then she underlined this, to make it clear that this was a heading, and on the line below she wrote: (1) Mma Potokwane, sister of Government Keboneng, thinks Government was above reproach—and wants that to be established. Our duty? To help her in that quest. (2) Was Government Keboneng a good man? Yes. Did he do anything to be ashamed of? Yes. What was it? See (3).
She paused. The practice of writing out a summary of a complicated case was one that she had learned from the pages of Clovis Andersen’s The Principles of Private Detection. He said: Make a list of what you know, what you don’t know, and what you’d like to know. Make a list of possible outcomes. Choose the outcome you think is best, then go for that!
This, she thought, was sage advice—as was all the advice that Clovis Andersen gave his readers. There were times, though, when advising something was easier than doing it, and this, she suspected, was one such time. But she would persist.
(3) Government Keboneng became involved with Naledi Potokwane, the wife of Saviour Potokwane, the brother of Pound Potokwane, who was the husband of the Mma Potokwane who is our client, and of Saint Potokwane. Saint Potokwane is a simple man, but he was probably telling the truth because it would not occur to him to lie. He said that Naledi was involved with all the men in the family—shameless woman!—including Potokwanes from Gaborone, Lobatse, and…
She sat quite still, her pencil poised above the page. She had not thought before this of his exact words, but now they came back to her. He had talked about Gaborone, Lobatse, and Tlokweng. There was, she thought, only one family of Potokwanes in Tlokweng, and that was the family of her friend Mma Potokwane, the matron. She drew in her breath in horror. Naledi had been involved with her own friend’s husband. She had not thought of this before, but now the uncomfortable truth was staring her in the face.
For a good few minutes Mma Ramotswe sat at the kitchen table, her head sunk in her hands. Of all the information she might wish to come across, this was the very last thing she wanted to know. As far as she knew, Mma Potokwane’s marriage was a sound one, and she had never heard of anything that suggested otherwise. But men had their little ways and they sometimes strayed. In her view, this did not in every case make the man wicked, it simply made him thoughtless—and weak. Sometimes the slip was a very short-lived one—something to do with the male menopause you read about—and on these occasions all could return to normal quite quickly. On other occasions even a single act of infidelity could be the end—something never to be forgiven, a deep rent in the fabric of the marriage, sundering all those bonds of trust marriage required.
Mma Ramotswe sat up straight. She had started to make her list, and now she would finish it. It was painful, but it had to be done.
(4) Saint said something about his cattle being taken from him. Who inherited the cattle from the father of Pound, Saviour, and Saint? They would each get an equal share of the family’s assets, but it is possible that somebody took advantage of Saint’s lack of understanding and embezzled his cattle from him. He said that was Government Keboneng; that might have been the case, but how can we prove it? We cannot.
(5) What should we tell Mma Potokwane (the client)? If it becomes generally known that Government was involved with his relative’s wife, then that will not be viewed well by the public. You do not seduce your relative’s wife. You just do not do that. So what do we do? Nothing? But we owe it to the client to tell her what we have found out—unless, of course, we realise that this knowledge will make her unhappy, and there is no point in adding to all the unhappiness there already is in this world. If anything, we should try to make that mountain of unhappiness a bit smaller—if we can.
(6) If we start talking about Government’s indiscretion, then that will lead to our talking about Naledi’s bad behaviour, and one of the people she behaved badly with might be the husband of our good friend Mma Potokwane (the matron).
She paused in her writing. That was a dreadful conclusion, and it was one that she would have to think about long and hard. Could it be true? If so, then she would be in a very difficult position, as she would have to decide whether to look further into the matter or to keep that knowledge from her friend. We did not always need to know the whole truth about things, and it may be that Mma Potokwane should be protected from facts that might ruin her happiness. There were times when the past should be put to rest, and this might be one of them.
(7) So we do nothing, or…or we tell the client that we have found some bad thing that it is best for her not to know about. We then point out to her that it is not such a bad thing that it should make her feel too ashamed. Her brother was weak, but then all men are weak. That is well known (except, perhaps, by the men themselves). In this case he fell for a woman who liked to tempt men. Those are very bad women, but men cannot see it. Forget about the past and stop talking about it. Let Government Keboneng be remembered in the hearts of those whom he has helped. That is the best memorial there is.
She put down her pencil, folded the piece of paper, and closed her eyes. She would make a pot of tea, then she would go and sit on the verandah until the sun began to rise. She knew what she had to do.
MMA RAMOTSWE DECIDED that the agency was no place for the sort of meeting that she must have with Mma Makutsi. There were too many distractions in the office, and there would also be the presence of Mr. Polopetsi and Charlie to be taken into account. Mma Makutsi was very conscious of her own dignity and would be loath to discuss anything sensitive in front of Charlie. The relationship that those two had was a curious one: Charlie had always taken pleasure in baiting Mma Makutsi, and for her part she had frequently been quite dismissive of him. Yet Mma Ramotswe was sure that beneath the badinage, behind the exchange of barbed comments and asides, there was affection between them. This had shown itself on numerous occasions when Charlie had been in trouble; even as she huffed and puffed about the fecklessness of young men, Mma Makutsi’s expression betrayed her true feelings of concern for the young man. And even as Charlie poured scorn on Mma Makutsi’s ninety-seven per cent, it was clear that he admired not only this result but her general capabilities, and would defend her against criticism from any external quarter.
Mr. Polopetsi was another matter altogether. He stood in awe of Mma Makutsi, and whenever she expressed a view on any issue—which of course happened regularly—he would nod his head in automatic, unconditional agreement, like an ally bound by an unbreakable treaty. He would also quote her—a rather touching habit—referring to her pronouncements as if they had the authority of the statements of Clovis Andersen himself. Indeed, he had recently said that in his view there was little to distinguish the opinions of Mma Makutsi and those of Mr. Andersen. “They are like two tomatoes,” he began, and then faltered. “Or is it like two peas in a pod? Which is it, Mma Ramotswe?”
“People say ‘two peas in a pod,’ Rra. That is what people say.”
“Well, Mma Makutsi and that man who wrote that book you have—Mr. Clovis Andersen from New York…”
“Not New York, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe corrected him. “Muncie, Indiana. That is another American place, just like New York, I think.”
Mr. Polopetsi acknowledged the correction. “Yes, Mr. Clovis Andersen from Muncie, Indiana. When you hear what he says and then you listen to Mma Makutsi, it is almost the same thing, Mma. They think the same way. That is why they say the same sorts of things.”
This generous comparison had been overheard by Mma Makutsi, who beamed with pleasure. “He is a very good man, that Mr. Polopetsi,” she later confided to Mma Ramotswe. “People look at him and think, Who is that funny little man? They think he is a nobody person; they think he is just some downtrodden husband with a wife who is much bigger than he is…”
“She is,” said Mma Ramotswe, in a matter-of-fact way. “She is a very large lady, Mma. I have seen her. You could lose Mr. Polopetsi under her skirts. You could be talking to her and suddenly you would realise that there is a husband under there. And then his head would pop out and you would get a big surprise.”
“But you would be wrong if you wrote him off,” continued Mma Makutsi. “He has a way of saying things that are very true, I think.”
Even if a warm relationship existed between Mma Makutsi and Mr. Polopetsi, it would still be awkward if Mma Ramotswe aired what had to be aired in the presence of both of them. No, the conversation she was planning to have with Mma Makutsi needed to take place in private. It was not going to be easy, though, nor could it be put off. It would have to be that morning—before Mma Makutsi left for work. It would have to be in the Radiphuti house, on her own ground.
Now that her mind was made up, Mma Ramotswe was able to tackle her morning tasks with equanimity and efficiency. By the time the household awoke that morning, packed lunches had been prepared for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and the two children, the table had been laid, and on the stove there was simmering a pot of meal porridge, the breakfast that Mma Ramotswe had eaten as a girl and that was the morning meal of all traditional people. Not only that, but the kitchen, the living room, and the verandah—the stoep, as she called it—had been vigorously and comprehensively swept, while in the garden Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s rows of beans, his pride and joy, had been carefully provided with water saved from the kitchen sink.
Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch as the other three members of the family sat down. “I am going to have to go out early,” she said. “I have a meeting first thing.”
“But you are on holiday,” protested Puso. “You must not go to the office when you are on holiday.”
“I used to be on holiday,” she said. “But now I am working again—not in the office but—”
Puso did not let her finish. “You cannot work if you are not in the office,” he said. “How can you work…just in the air?”
“Many people do work in the air,” said Motholeli. “You do not need an office to work. People work here and there. In their cars. In their houses. There are many different ways of working these days, Puso.”
“I’m going to do some work at Mma Makutsi’s house,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “She and I have things to talk about.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gave her a meaningful glance. “Be careful, Mma.”
She tried to reassure him. “I am always careful in the way I treat Mma Makutsi, Rra. I have known her for many, many years now. I know how to deal with her.”
“Good,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Because sometimes, Mma, I feel that I do not know that. I say something to her—something very simple—and she goes off like a…like a BMW.”
It was, thought Mma Ramotswe, a very good expression. We all say the things that make sense to us, and mechanics said things just like that. Goes off like a BMW. That was a very suitable thing for a mechanic to say.
“I shall be very careful not to make her go off like a BMW,” she said.
“Good,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni again, and returned to his bowl of porridge.
She sat in silence at the table. She was sure that she was doing the right thing in going to speak directly to Mma Makutsi, but there was something else that was worrying her. How was she going to explain to Mma Makutsi about being in the van with Mr. Polopetsi? It must have been apparent to Mma Makutsi that they were engaged in some sort of investigation together, and she felt a hot flush of shame at the thought of being found out in such an obvious and compromising way. Now, when she went to speak to her, Mma Makutsi would probably think that the only reason for her doing so was because she felt that she had been found out. She would be like a child caught doing something wrong who tries to fend off the consequences by getting in first with an apology or justification. That sort of thing could avert recrimination, but one hardly came out of it with any credit.
IT WAS PHUTI RADIPHUTI who greeted her at the front door.
“Mma Ramotswe,” he said, “I am very surprised that it is you.” Then he hastily added, “And pleased, of course. Sometimes it is just people wanting to sell things who come to the door this early. They are so impatient to get you to buy something that they will even wake you up.”
She looked at her watch. She was early—deliberately so—but had she come just a little bit too early? She was from a household that was accustomed to an early start, but there were houses where a very different philosophy held sway. In such places, she had heard, people could still be in bed at eight o’clock, difficult though it was to believe.
“I hope that I have not woken you up, Rra,” she said.
Phuti laughed. “Mma, when you have a small child in the house, then you are always up early. Five o’clock today—wanting something to eat. Wanting to talk to us.”
She tried to remember exactly how old Itumelang was. “But…”
“Oh, I don’t mean to talk with words—he is not speaking in that way just yet.” Phuti looked proud. “He can communicate very well, though. He uses strange sounds, but we know what they mean. There is one for ‘I want food.’ There is one for ‘I am tired of being in bed.’ There is one for ‘I am happy.’ ” Phuti paused. “Actually, that is a very strange sound, that one.”
Mma Ramotswe knew what Phuti was speaking about, as she had heard Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti purring. There was no other word for it: he was a baby who purred—perhaps the only purring baby in all Botswana.
Phuti gestured for her to enter the house.
“Grace is busy with Itumelang at the moment,” he explained. “She is changing him and washing his face, I think. She won’t be long.”
“I will wait,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am not in any hurry.”
Phuti Radiphuti took her into the living room. As Mma Ramotswe expected of the living room of the proprietor of the Double Comfort Furniture Store, the chairs and the sofa were new and luxurious. What a change for Mma Makutsi, she thought. When she had first come to Gaborone from Bobonong, she had lived in one small room, with a window so small as to admit only the slightest chink of light, and furnished with a single chair, a mattress on the floor, and a small cupboard. Now she lived in a house with four bedrooms, a large verandah, and a shaded place at the side to park a car—not to mention a good husband, of course, and a purring baby. Mma Ramotswe was glad that Mma Makutsi had found all this, and often reflected on how it had all come from that singular chance of going to a dance lesson at the Botswana Academy of Dance and Movement and meeting a man unable to dance a step and who had, at the time, a bad speech impediment. That was Phuti Radiphuti, who, unknown to Mma Makutsi, also had a large family herd of cattle and a prosperous furniture store. It had all worked out so well, and yet had she had a headache that evening and not gone to the dance class, it would never have happened. On those little chance events, thought Mma Ramotswe, hung our entire lives.
Phuti left her in the living room for a few minutes while he went to fetch her a cup of tea. She sat there and closed her eyes. It was not going to be an easy conversation with Mma Makutsi, but it was a necessary one. Mma Ramotswe did not believe in allowing anything to fester: if there was an issue with somebody, then it was always better to bring it out into the open. Doing that was like looking at something outside, under the open sky, for things looked less frightening in the sunlight.
Phuti came back, carrying a tray with two cups of tea.
“I’m drinking red bush tea too,” he said. “I am getting used to it now, and it is making me feel very well.”
“There are many things it does,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is good for the skin too. I have heard of people who put it on their skin.”
Phuti smiled. “Although you would not expect—if you went to somebody’s house and they asked you if you wanted some tea—you would not expect that if you said yes, then they would go off and fetch a teapot and pour it all over you! You would not expect that, Mma Ramotswe, would you?”
He laughed loudly at his own joke. Mma Ramotswe laughed too, less uproariously, perhaps, but then she had not been the one to crack the joke in the first place. Phuti Radiphuti, she thought, had many fine points, but his sense of humour was at times rather juvenile…mind you, many men had a sense of humour like that, when one came to think of it. Look at Charlie: he had once found it amusing to put an empty oil can on the top of the door so that it fell on Fanwell’s head when he came in for his morning tea. Charlie had doubled up with mirth, so much so that his eyes had filled with tears, while Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, who had witnessed the prank, simply stared at one another in mute disbelief that anybody could think such a thing so amusing.
And even Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was such a cautious and deliberate man, had narrated the story of how, as a boy, he had gone on a scout camp and they had sewn up the leg of the scout leader’s pyjamas so that he found it difficult to get into them. That, he said, was the funniest thing he had ever seen, but again Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi had looked at one another with that look that women keep in reserve for the peculiarities of men. It was a very special look: a look that combined pity with resignation. It was a look that said: we know that this is what you men like to do, and we understand, but do not expect us to look at things in quite the same way.
When he stopped laughing, there was a marked change in Phuti Radiphuti’s expression. Now he became grave.
“I’m glad you dropped by, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “There is something I need to talk to you about.”
She took a sip of her tea. “I am listening, Rra.”
“It is about Grace.”
“I hope that she is well, Rra.”
Phuti clasped his hands together. He looked uncomfortable. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with her health. Grace is a very fit person, you know. No, it is just that she’s very worried about something. She came home yesterday and hardly spoke. And I know what that means, Mma. When you live with somebody, you know when there is something worrying them. They don’t need to spell it out, do they?”
“They do not, Rra. I can always tell when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is brooding about something. He sits there and looks worried. It is very easy to tell.”
Phuti understood. “There are many things that could be worrying him, I suppose. He’s a businessman, after all, and those people always have one hundred things to worry about. He may be a mechanic, but he’s running a business with people to pay and taxes and everything. That is not easy.”
“He copes with most of that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What he worries about is gearboxes and such things. He worries about people’s brakes. He worries about how much it is going to cost them to fix their suspension after they have driven into one of those holes…” She thought suddenly of her van; she had done nothing about the suspension and would have to deal with that before too long.
“There is something happening at work, I think,” said Phuti. “I fear that there must be a big problem. I asked her, but she would not talk about it. She just said that she had been concerned about something and that she did not want to discuss it.”
Mma Ramotswe felt her heart sink. It was as she had feared: Mma Makutsi had seen her in the van with Mr. Polopetsi and had concluded, quite correctly, that things were being done behind her back. Of course she would be disappointed by that—who would not?
Phuti Radiphuti was looking at her anxiously.
“You see,” he said, “on the subject of your holiday, Mma: the fact that you are out of the office has perhaps placed a very big burden on her. She has Itumelang, she has the house, she has her position on the committee of that home for bad girls—she has all these things to worry her now, and maybe it’s too much.”
“I can imagine all that must be very hard,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“So I wondered, Mma, whether your holiday needs to be quite as long as you planned. I hesitate to say that, Mma. You should not tell somebody that they do not deserve a holiday—you obviously do. But I wondered whether you might be thinking now of coming back just for a few hours each day, Mma, to take the pressure off Grace. Do you think that might be possible, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe winced. What he was asking her to do would, she feared, only make things worse.
“It’s very difficult, Rra,” she said. “I would like to come back and help her, but that might just make matters worse. She will think that I don’t believe she is capable of handling things herself.”
“But perhaps she isn’t,” said Phuti. “Grace is a very intelligent woman and she is good at many things. But perhaps the agency is too much work for one lady. After all, it is the No. 1 Ladies’—in the plural—Detective Agency, not the No. 1 Lady’s—just one lady’s—Detective Agency.”
“I know, Rra, but…”
A door opened behind her, and she turned round to see Mma Makutsi framed in the doorway, the light from the window reflecting off the large lenses of her spectacles. It was never a good sign when the light did that, and for a moment Mma Ramotswe regretted her visit.
“Ah,” said Grace, making her way towards a seat opposite Mma Ramotswe’s. “I thought I heard a familiar voice.”
She turned to Phuti. “Phuti, would you be so kind as to go and settle Itumelang? He is getting tired now after being up so early. He needs a sleep.”
That was another bad sign. When Mma Makutsi asked anybody if they would be “so kind” as to do anything, it meant that she was cross.
Mma Ramotswe reached for her cup, seeking the protection of tea, but it was empty. She replaced the cup on the table, hoping that this might prompt Mma Makutsi to offer to make more. That would defuse the situation, at least to some extent. But Mma Makutsi ignored the hint; yet another bad sign.
They sat in an awkward silence that was eventually broken by Mma Ramotswe. “I’ve come because of some complications,” she began.
Mma Makutsi had fixed her with a stare that showed no sign of wavering. “Some complications, Mma? What sort of complications? Some holiday complications, perhaps?”
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. “You saw me, I think, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi pursed her lips before speaking. “I believe I’ve seen you many times, Mma Ramotswe. I saw you when you came into the office to fetch something. I’ve seen you at the supermarket—although you did not see me—and I’ve seen you driving all over the place…” She left the sentence unfinished.
“With Mr. Polopetsi,” added Mma Ramotswe. “At that intersection. I looked and suddenly I saw you, Mma. Mr. Polopetsi saw you too. He said, ‘Oh, look, there’s Mma Makutsi,’ or something like that—I cannot remember his exact words.”
There was ice in Mma Makutsi’s voice. “I hope you had a good drive together. In this hot weather I think it can be very pleasant to go for a drive and get some cool air coming in through the window. One does not need air-conditioning in a car if you have a window open, I find.”
Mma Ramotswe looked down at her shoes, her flat work shoes that were so broad and unglamorous and comfortable. She imagined Mma Makutsi’s shoes engaged in a slanging match with her own shoes, pouring scorn on their breadth and outdatedness. It would be a war of the shoes—a war she would most certainly lose.
She drew in her breath again. “I was working with Mr. Polopetsi, Mma,” she said quietly. “He and I were working on the Government Keboneng case.”
Mma Makutsi said nothing.
“We went down to see a man called Saint Potokwane,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “I had a very interesting conversation with him, and I think now that I have an idea of what lies behind all that business.”
She heard Mma Makutsi’s breathing, like the sound of an angry horse. It was a strange sound, and Mma Ramotswe thought at that moment that she knew where Itumelang got his ability to purr. But then, quite without warning, Mma Makutsi seemed to deflate. The angry breathing stopped, to be replaced by tears—a wail of heartfelt, harrowing tears.
“Oh, Mma,” she stuttered. “How can you do this to me? How can you go on holiday and tell me that I will be the boss and then you turn round and take it away from me—just like that, Mma, as if I am some person who can do nothing? How can you do that, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe rose to comfort her, but she could tell from Mma Makutsi’s sudden stiffening that she should keep away. She returned to her seat.
“I am very sorry, Mma,” she said. “Mr. Polopetsi came to see me. He did not know what to do.”
“But I told you to leave him,” said Mma Makutsi, her voice rising. “I told you, Mma—leave it up to him.”
“But I couldn’t do that, Mma Makutsi. We have our duty to the client.”
This brought a strange sound from Mma Makutsi—a mixture of a snort and a sigh. “The client, Mma? The client?”
“Yes. We owe a duty to our clients. We have to do our best by them.”
Mma Makutsi’s glasses flashed another signal—this time of outrage. “But the client, Mma…” She faltered, and then, making a visible effort to calm down, she said, “Just tell me what you have found out, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe was relieved that the outburst was over. Speaking carefully, so as not to reignite Mma Makutsi, she gave an account of their visit to Saint Potokwane. She repeated their conversation and then added an account of her subsequent listing of possibilities. Mma Makutsi listened intently, but Mma Ramotswe noticed that with each major point in her account, the other woman shook her head. This she did with sadness, almost as if she were commenting on the fact that somebody could get something so wrong. At the end, Mma Ramotswe asked her if she thought her conclusions were reasonable.
“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “You are one hundred per cent wrong, Mma. One hundred per cent wrong.”
Not even ninety-seven per cent, thought Mma Ramotswe.
“I’m sorry, Mma Makutsi, I just do not see how you can say I am wrong.” She paused. “Do you have another explanation?”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “I do. You see, Mma, you are assuming that our client is telling the truth. What if the client is lying? Don’t you remember that Mr. Andersen himself said something about that—in chapter six, I think it was. He says that you should not always believe your client, because he or she may be concealing something or even telling complete untruths. Those were his words, Mma Ramotswe—complete untruths.”
Mma Ramotswe did not know what to say. She stared at Mma Makutsi in disbelief. Why would Mr. Government Keboneng’s sister lie about anything to do with this case? Her objective was simple enough, surely; it was to protect the reputation of a late brother who could not defend himself. She brought this up now, challenging Mma Makutsi to refute it.
“Because she never liked her brother,” said Mma Makutsi. “She was always in his shadow. People were always saying that she was the sister of Mr. Government Keboneng rather than saying that he was her brother. That can be very hard for people. They do not like to be in the shadow. I’m afraid she hated him, Mma. That is a terrible thing, but it is true.”
It took Mma Ramotswe a few moments to absorb this. “But why would a sister want to stop the naming of a street for her own brother, even if she did not have friendly feelings towards him?”
“Because it was the last straw,” answered Mma Makutsi. “Because all her life she had heard people saying what a great man he was. When she was a little girl, he was described as a great boy. Then he became a great man. She could not bear it.”
“And so she told the council about a scandal? Did she know of anything?”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think she told them about it and then she decided that she would try to find something real—some real scandal—to back up her allegations. That is why she came to us. She did not want us to prove that there was nothing, as she claimed when she first consulted the agency; on the contrary—she wanted us to find something, on the grounds that if you dig deep enough around any politician, you will find something. And then, I’m afraid, after I put in a preliminary report that we were not uncovering anything, she set up the scandal herself.”
“And how did she do that, Mma?” Mma Ramotswe posed this question not as a challenge, in the spirit of disbelief, but to receive an explanation.
“Well,” Mma Makutsi continued, “she was never very fond of Naledi Potokwane. She thought she was a bit fast—and she may be, but only a little, I think. So she decided to create a story that Government had had an affair with Naledi, and that Naledi had had an affair with virtually everybody else. She put this idea into the head of Saint Potokwane, knowing that he would always talk about something without worrying about its effect. She imagined that we would find out about him and speak to him. So she put all that nonsense in his head.”
There was something that Mma Ramotswe did not understand. “But how do you know that she told Saint this?”
Mma Makutsi smiled. It was the first smile of the morning, and there was a ring of triumph to it.
“As it happens, Mma,” she said, “I know somebody who goes to the same church as Saint and that woman who looks after him. So I went there on Sunday and while everybody was drinking tea outside, as they do at that place, I went up to Saint. He was standing about and nobody was with him. So I went up and asked him about the family and whether he knew Government Keboneng well and so on. He spoke quite freely. A lot of it was about the Defence Force and helicopters, but when I asked him about Government he said that Mma Potokwane—the client Mma Potokwane—had told him to say that Government was seeing Naledi and Naledi was seeing other men. He told me all this in a very matter-of-fact way, because these people who are like that often speak very openly. And that, Mma, is how I discovered what our client was up to.”
Mma Ramotswe listened in silence. She thought: Did I teach this woman to do all this?
“And then,” continued Mma Makutsi, “I went to see Naledi and put the whole thing to her, and she was incensed. She said that it was all lies. She said that she had never had any affairs while she was married to Saviour and now she was happily married again to a very respectable man. She was very cross.”
“I see.”
There was still resentment in Mma Makutsi’s voice. “Yes, Mma, I’m glad that you see.”
Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes, allowing her feelings of relief to wash over her. Not only was she pleased that the case had been resolved, but she could now put out of her mind any possibility that Mma Sylvia Potokwane’s husband had been involved with Naledi. That had been an uncomfortable possibility, and it was now firmly disposed of. Good.
But there remained something that had not been cleared up, which she now raised with Mma Makutsi. “May I ask you, Mma, why you haven’t tackled the client over this? Are you proposing to let her get away with it?”
Mma Makutsi seemed prepared for this. “I did not speak to her, Mma. When I found out what I found out, I realised that it might be difficult to prove any allegation I made against her. So what I did was to go to the council and tell them that we had made a full investigation and that we had discovered nothing. We told them that Mr. Government Keboneng’s reputation was sound, and that any charge to the contrary was motivated by malice and came, moreover, from a source we knew about but were not at liberty to divulge.” She paused, savouring this last phrase. “Not at liberty to divulge, Mma.”
“Why did you do that, Mma?”
“Because it achieved everything necessary. It meant that Mr. Government Keboneng’s reputation was restored and the whole issue could be put to bed. And that, Mma Ramotswe, was very important because it saves poor Saint from being drawn further into something he can’t understand.”
Mma Ramotswe understood that—and thought that it was exactly the right thing to do. “There was something about cattle, though—something about Saint’s cattle having been taken away from him.”
“There is no truth in that, Mma. I think she put him up to saying that.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps, Mma—definitely. I made further enquiries, you see. And his cattle are down at that place where he lives—they are very fine cattle.”
Mma Ramotswe realised these were the cattle she had seen—and they were indeed fine beasts.
Mma Makutsi was now fully composed. “But our client does not get away with it altogether,” she said. “I did what you have always done, Mma. I decided to give her a second chance—along with a warning.”
“What did you do, Mma?”
“I told her that I had discovered that she was the informant who had gone to the council. I had not discovered this, of course, but her reaction to it confirmed that it was true. Then I told her that she should go to Naledi and apologise. She should ask for her forgiveness and she should promise not to spread any more rumours. If she did not, then people might just discover that she had tried to destroy her own brother’s reputation. And there are many followers of Mr. Government Keboneng who would be very angry if they were to hear that.”
“So she agreed.”
“She agreed, Mma—people usually agree to do what they really have to do. And I said something else to her, Mma Ramotswe. I told her that she would need to forgive her brother—to forgive him for being a good man.”
Mma Makutsi looked intently at Mma Ramotswe. “At first she didn’t know what I meant, Mma, but then, after a while, I think she did.”
Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. She looked at Mma Makutsi. “Mma,” she said, “I should never have doubted that you were on top of this case. I am very, very sorry, Mma. I have done you a great injustice.”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “If you have done me an injustice, Mma, you did it for a good reason. And I know how hard it is to let go of things. I know how hard it is for you to realise that I am fully capable.”
“It is not hard now, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are the most capable lady I have ever met.”
“Oh, Mma, you are very kind…” The coldness and the anger had all gone; Mma Makutsi, the familiar Mma Makutsi, was back. And that familiar Mma Makutsi seemed to be thinking about something, as there came a flash of light from her glasses—a coincidence, of course, the sun can catch glasses at all sorts of times, but it so often seemed to catch Mma Makutsi’s just at the point where she was thinking about something. “Mr. Polopetsi…,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe looked up. “Yes. What about him, Mma?”
“I think that I might have been unfair to him. I think that it was a bit unkind to throw him into the middle of the river.”
Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile as she imagined the scene: Mma Makutsi, who was considerably bigger than Mr. Polopetsi, picking him up, tottering to the bank of the Limpopo River, and then tossing him, arms flailing, into the middle of it. Then Mma Makutsi would adjust her glasses, rub her hands together, and stand there as poor Mr. Polopetsi floundered in the water. Of course, there were people who really did throw others into rivers—it had happened a few years ago in the Okavango Delta when one person had thrown another into a river, but had slipped and fallen in as well. And then the person who had thrown the other person in was bitten by a crocodile, while the first person (the person thrown in by the second person) had clambered out in time and avoided being bitten. That had been widely reported in the newspaper because it somehow made a point about justice.
Mma Makutsi continued with her self-examination. “It was wrong, I think. I shouldn’t have left him to make enquiries that I knew would get nowhere.”
Mma Ramotswe was glad that Mma Makutsi had raised this, because it was something that had been worrying her. She could not see why Mma Makutsi should have used Mr. Polopetsi in this way: What was the point of wasting his time in the investigation of an issue she had already solved? She chose her words carefully. “I have been wondering about that, Mma,” she said. “I have tried to figure out why you should think you needed to mislead him”—and here she hesitated, but decided to go ahead anyway—“and I was wondering why you told me that everything was in hand. You might have brought me into your confidence, Mma.”
There was reproach in that final sentence; she had not intended it, but reproach came through.
Mma Makutsi looked at her with an intensity that took Mma Ramotswe slightly by surprise. “Oh, Mma…,” she began, but then her voice trailed off.
Fearing another emotional moment, Mma Ramotswe was quick to reassure her. “It was just a thought, Mma, just a thought.”
“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is a very good question. It is just the question that anybody would ask. And you have asked it, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded—and waited.
“It is all to do with Mma Potokwane,” Mma Makutsi pronounced.
“Which Mma Potokwane?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “There are many, many Mma Potokwanes.”
“Our Mma Potokwane. Mma Sylvia Potokwane. The matron. Her.”
There was a further pause, and then Mma Makutsi continued, “You see, I found out that one of the people that Naledi was said to have been involved with was her husband—Mma Sylvia Potokwane’s husband, that is. Yes, Mma: that is what that poor man, Saint Potokwane, said to me.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “But I do not understand, Mma. You said that Saint told you that he had been instructed to relate that story about Naledi and her affairs.”
“That was on our second meeting,” explained Mma Makutsi. “We had two meetings, you see. The first meeting had been set up by the client. She told me that as it happened there was a family member I might like to talk to. She was looking after him for a couple of days while the woman who normally did that was away. I met him at the client’s house. She left us alone together but told me that I could ask him about the family. Out it all came—obviously, just as she had intended. I was suspicious, but at that stage I could not put my finger on anything. So I worked out a way of seeing him again—when the client would not be around. That was the meeting at the church, the one that I’ve told you about. He forgot that I had spoken to him earlier—and out came the truth. He said that he had been told to tell a story.”
Mma Makutsi watched as Mma Ramotswe thought about this. “Do you see, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked.
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I see. At least, I think I see.”
“I wanted to keep you from finding out about Mma Sylvia Potokwane’s husband. I wanted to protect you from this information about your friend’s husband. I wanted to protect Mma Sylvia Potokwane too. Even when I realised that it was a lie, I didn’t want anybody to hear about it. Lies can sometimes be as powerful as the truth, Mma. A lie about somebody can hurt that person even if everybody knows it’s a lie.”
“So you thought you could keep the whole thing from coming out into the open?”
“Yes. I thought that I would deal with it myself. I would keep the client Potokwane quiet. I would protect the reputation of an innocent man. And nobody would be upset.”
Now Mma Ramotswe understood. If Mma Makutsi had concealed things from her, it had been done for the very best of reasons: to protect her—and her close friend too—from distress. It had been selfless; it had been kind.
“It was very difficult for me,” Mma Makutsi continued. “I was very stressed by the knowledge that I was hiding things from you. That is why I haven’t been myself, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of reassurance. “I noticed that. Now I understand. And I can see why you felt you needed to use Mr. Polopetsi in all this.”
“I had to, Mma, but I shall apologise to him. I shall tell him that he did very well—which I think he did.”
“He is a very good man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If I were ever to make a list of the good men in Botswana, then he would be on it, I think.”
Mma Makutsi liked the idea of a list of good men. “We could publish an annual list, Mma: ‘The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Official List of Good Men in Botswana.’ It would be a very important list.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “And it would be led by two names,” she said. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Mr. Phuti Radiphuti.”
“Naturally, Mma. Then the other names would come.”
Mma Ramotswe continued the fantasy. “And Charlie?”
Mma Makutsi made a face. “Poor Charlie. He would have to work to get on that list. Perhaps there would be a secondary list of young men who might grow up to be good men but who are not there quite yet.”
That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was a very sound idea. “It is always helpful to give people something to aim for,” she said, and then added, “But here’s another thing, Mma. I am going to take a proper holiday now. I am going to go up to Mochudi for a few days, just by myself. I promise that I shall not interfere with the agency.” She shook her head, as if in incredulity that she could ever have done anything to the contrary. “I promise you that.”
Mma Makutsi now got up and crossed the room to sit beside Mma Ramotswe. She put her arm on her friend’s shoulder briefly, and squeezed it in a gesture of wordless but unambiguous reconciliation.
They sat together in silence for a while. In the background, somewhere deep within the house, they heard a baby’s cry.
“That’s Itumelang,” said Mma Makutsi. “He’s sometimes difficult to settle once he has been up. He is tired, but he does not want to get back to sleep.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “It is good that you have such a hands-on husband, Mma. Some men just walk away when the child cries.”
“Not Phuti,” said Mma Makutsi. “He’s so…” She waved a hand in the air. “He’s so…” She dropped her hand. “What is the time, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe, glancing at her watch, told her.
Mma Makutsi rose to her feet. “I have an appointment, Mma,” she said. “And I think you might like to come with me. I know you’re meant to be on holiday, but this is a very tricky issue and I would like to have you with me.”
Mma Ramotswe indicated that she was willing. “I take it that it’s a client, Mma; but who is it?”
Mma Makutsi hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled as she answered the question. “In a sense it is you, Mma.”
MMA MAKUTSI seemed to take pleasure in keeping Mma Ramotswe on tenterhooks. Rather than reveal where she was going, she merely told her friend to follow her in the white van. Mma Makutsi had a newish car, a white car with a red stripe down the side, and it was considerably more powerful than Mma Ramotswe’s van; she drove slowly, though, to allow Mma Ramotswe to keep up with her as they made their way along the road leading from the block of plots around the Radiphuti house. Mma Ramotswe was vaguely irritated by Mma Makutsi’s reticence, but any feelings of this sort were outweighed by her surprise—and, to an extent, relief—over the resolution of the Keboneng affair. She felt real pleasure that the other woman had managed to deal with what could otherwise have been an unusually messy investigation.
Yes, she thought, everything had worked out as Mma Makutsi had hoped, but even so there had been an extraordinary number of misunderstandings. She had misunderstood what Mma Makutsi had been up to, and Mma Makutsi had not only misinterpreted what she herself had been trying to do but had also been unaware of what she knew. Mr. Polopetsi had likewise been under a misapprehension about Mma Makutsi’s inability to handle things. It was a web of misunderstanding and deceit, but ultimately it was truth that had come to the fore. Which so often happened, thought Mma Ramotswe. Truth had a way of coming out on top—and it was just as well for everybody that it did. If there ever came a day when truth was so soundly defeated that it never emerged, but sank, instead, under the sheer volume of untruth that the world produced, then that would be a sad day for Botswana, and for the people who lived in Botswana. It would be a sad day for the whole world, that day.
AT FIRST SHE THOUGHT that they were going to the office, but instead of turning off as Mma Ramotswe expected her to do, Mma Makutsi continued along the Tlokweng Road before taking a right turn into the area of the town known as the Village. Perhaps, thought Mma Ramotswe, the mysterious appointment was with somebody who lived in one of the older houses there, but if it was, why should Mma Makutsi have been so coy about telling her? And what did she mean by the tantalising remark that she—Mma Ramotswe herself—was, in a sense, the client?
For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that Mma Makutsi was preparing a surprise present for her. It was her birthday in a few days and Mma Makutsi always gave her a present. In the days when she had been a secretary pure and simple, the present had of necessity been modest, but it had always been chosen with thought and worked with love—a crocheted cover to keep flies out of her teacup, a set of table napkins made from salvaged squares of material, a shoe horn fashioned from a cow’s horn. After her marriage to Phuti Radiphuti, it had been possible for her to buy rather than make presents, and these had sometimes been so generous as to cause Mma Ramotswe a tinge of anxiety. Now she looked down the road on which they were travelling—there was a dressmaker who lived in one of the flats round the corner; Mma Makutsi knew that she occasionally had dresses made by this woman, and she wondered if perhaps her birthday surprise was a fitting. It was just the sort of gift that Mma Makutsi liked to give, she thought; yes, that was where they were heading. And what a pleasant surprise it would be; she did not think she was entitled to a new dress, and to get it as a present would remove all the guilt that a fresh outfit would otherwise have spawned.
But no, they passed the turning to the three-storey block in which the dressmaker lived and were now headed for the university and the golf club. And that route, of course, took them past the sign that had caught Mma Ramotswe’s attention a few days earlier but that had been forgotten about with everything else that was happening.
When Mma Makutsi slowed down and turned on her indicator, Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. Of course it was possible that there was something else altogether taking her down that particular road, but it now occurred to Mma Ramotswe that their destination was, indeed, the so-called No. 1 Ladies’ College of Secretarial and Business Studies.
They parked a short distance from the building housing the college. Mma Makutsi stopped her car, climbed out of the driver’s seat, and waited for Mma Ramotswe to finish parking and emerge from her van.
“This is where you have your appointment, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe, nodding in the direction of the college building, now with a freshly painted sign.
Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them as she replied. “Do you know about this place?” she asked.
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I was going to talk to you about it, Mma. I saw it a few days ago. I spoke to a man who was doing some painting. He said that—”
Mma Makutsi cut her short. “Violet Sephotho,” she said. “It’s her, you know.”
“I’d worked that out. My suspicions were aroused and I thought, There can be only one person who would do this sort of thing.”
“Your suspicions were right,” said Mma Makutsi, grimly. “I have made further enquiries and it is all confirmed, Mma. This is Violet Sephotho’s place.”
They looked at one another, unspoken thoughts of disapproval going through their minds. What could anyone expect of somebody like Violet Sephotho? To what depths would she not sink? And although Mma Makutsi did not think this, Mma Ramotswe did: Poor woman—what unhappiness must Violet have felt to want to share it with others…
Mma Ramotswe glanced in the direction of the college; a door was open and she could make out a light on somewhere inside in spite of the brightness of the morning. “Is your appointment in there, Mma?” she asked.
“Yes, it is with her, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. “Are you sure, Mma?”
“I am very sure, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. She had seen Mma Makutsi on the warpath several times before, and she wondered whether she was about to witness another such confrontation. Mma Ramotswe did not like conflict, and would avoid direct, head-to-head arguments if she could, but there was something irresistible about the thought of a Violet Sephotho–Grace Makutsi match; it would be not unlike that famous boxing match of all those years ago that she remembered her father talking about, when those two great boxers met for the Rumble in the Jungle and one of them—now, which one was it?—knocked the other out, against all expectation.
She saw Mma Makutsi looking at her quizzically.
“Why are you smiling, Mma Ramotswe?”
She pulled herself together. “I am just thinking, Mma. I was thinking of a famous boxing match a long time ago. My late daddy talked about it.”
Mma Makutsi looked over her shoulder in the direction of the college. “I did not give her my name,” she said. “I made the appointment without telling her who I was. I said that I wanted to discuss a course with her. She was very helpful.”
“Because she thought you were a potential student?”
“Yes. I could hear her thinking about the fees.” Mma Makutsi paused. “Sometimes, you know, Mma, you can hear what people are thinking. Don’t you find that?”
As they walked towards the building, Mma Ramotswe asked Mma Makutsi what she planned to say to Violet.
“I am going to tell her that I am watching her,” Mma Makutsi replied. “I am going to tell her that if she is up to any tricks, she can expect me to find out. I shall be giving her a warning, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “She will not like that, Mma.”
“I know.”
They reached the door of the college. Immediately inside was the main classroom, a large space furnished with the desks that the painter had discussed. A portable blackboard, resting on an easel, had been placed at the head of the room, some sentences in white chalk written on it and underlined in blue. Beyond the classroom, through an open door, could be made out an office of some sort—the edge of a desk, a filing cabinet, a chair or two.
They walked through the empty classroom and knocked at the office door.
“Please come right in,” called a voice from within.
The effect of their entry was immediate. Seated behind her desk, Violet Sephotho, dressed in a low-cut purple dress, looked up sharply and, for a few moments, was clearly confused. She quickly regained her composure, though, and a forced smile appeared on her lips.
“Grace Makutsi…Well, well, what a pleasant surprise. And Mma…Mma…”
“Ramotswe,” supplied Mma Ramotswe. She knew that Violet was perfectly well aware of who she was—of course she was.
“Mma Ramotswe,” said Violet smoothly. “Of course; silly me for not remembering. You’re the woman married to that man who works for that garage, aren’t you?”
Mma Makutsi corrected her. “He is the owner of that garage, Mma. He is not just a mechanic.”
Violet made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll remember that, Mma. Thank you for telling me about it. I shall remember—if anybody ever asks me who owns that place, I shall know what to reply.” She looked down at her desk, where a diary was open before her. “I have an appointment, I’m afraid. So I shall not be able to spend much time talking to you ladies.”
“The appointment is with me,” said Mma Makutsi. “I’m the one who made it.”
Violet Sephotho was unprepared for this, and faltered. “You did not…You didn’t say that…”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Mma Makutsi. “But I am here now, and we can have the talk for which I made that appointment. That is why I am here.”
Violet was marshalling her resources. “Impossible,” she said sharply. “I cannot sit around and talk about the old days. I have very important things to do.”
“But you told me on the phone,” countered Mma Makutsi, “that you would not be busy and that we would have plenty of time to talk.”
Violet’s annoyance showed; as she replied, her voice rose noticeably. “I thought that you were a client,” she said. “Of course I have time to talk to clients—that is quite different from talking to any old person who comes in off the street for a chat.” She paused. “Even you should understand that, Grace Makutsi.”
Mma Ramotswe sensed that battle was about to be joined. She thought that perhaps she should intervene before things were said that could never be retracted, but now it was too late—Mma Makutsi had taken a deep breath and was ready to begin.
“Oh, so I am just any old person,” said Mma Makutsi, and, turning to Mma Ramotswe, repeated, “any old person—that is who we are, apparently, Mma Ramotswe. Any old person.”
“Oh, I don’t think that Mma Sephotho meant it like that, Mma—”
Mma Ramotswe was not allowed to finish. “I can tell what you mean, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, addressing Violet. “I am not so stupid. And I can read too, Mma. I can read that sign that says the No. 1 Ladies’ College. I know that that is meant to exploit the goodwill that goes with the name of Mma Ramotswe’s business. I can see that, you know. I may be any old person, but I am not any old stupid person.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” snapped Violet. “You are talking big nonsense. You cannot claim words in the English language and say those are yours. You cannot stop other people using the words number or one or ladies because those are your private words. You cannot lock words up in the safe, you know.”
Mma Makutsi ignored this point. “I wanted to tell you something as a friend, Mma. I wanted to tell you that we are watching you. I’m going to go and speak to the Botswana Secretarial College people and tell them to watch you too. We do not need another college like this—we have a perfectly good one already, and you know the name of that.”
Violet Sephotho’s nostrils flared. “Oh, Mma? Oh, do I? The Botswana Secretarial College—that old-fashioned dump. That place that thinks it’s so special, but is only for failures and…and for people from Bobonong and places like that.”
Had she spent hours preparing her insults, had she brooded over them, burnished them, and then brought them out as weapons are brought out before cheering crowds at military parades, Violet Sephotho could not have chosen her words with more devastating effect. For a good minute or so, Mma Makutsi said nothing, but stood where she was, her mouth agape, glaring at the woman in the purple dress seated behind her desk. Then, very slowly, as if muscles that had previously been in a spasm of shock were restored to normal, she inched closer to her adversary.
“You are a very wicked woman,” Mma Makutsi hissed. “You have no loyalty to the college that took you in and made a secretary of you. You clearly have no gratitude for that—no feeling of loyalty; nothing, Mma, nothing. You are full of nothing. There is nothing in your head and nothing inside that heart of yours. Nothing, Mma.”
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” said Violet. “The Botswana Secretarial College is irrelevant to the new Botswana. People are looking for better training. They want ideas. They want modern views.”
Mma Makutsi’s breathing was now quite audible; laboured and irregular, it was the breathing of one whose heart was pounding wildly within her as adrenaline raced through her system. “Fifty per cent,” she hissed. “That’s what you got, isn’t it? Fifty per cent. The bare pass mark. Maybe that’s a modern result. Hah!”
“Those things mean nothing,” said Violet. “Those things are for children.”
“Oh, do they?” responded Mma Makutsi, now almost shouting. “If they mean nothing, why do they have them, then?”
“To impress people from places like Bobonong,” said Violet. “They are clearly very easily impressed.”
Oh dear, thought Mma Ramotswe. Not even the Secretary-General of the UN, not even the Pope, could do much to defuse this crisis, but she would try. “Perhaps we should think about all this,” she began. “Perhaps we should…”
She did not finish; a young woman had appeared at the door of the office and was clearing her throat. “Excuse me,” said the young woman politely. “Excuse me, but I need to talk to you, Mma Sephotho.”
Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe fell silent.
“I can come back later if you wish,” said the young woman.
Something, some inner voice, seemed to tell Mma Ramotswe that this was important. Perhaps it was Mma Makutsi’s shoes—and perhaps Mma Makutsi heard them too, because she looked down at that precise moment.
Those fancy-looking shoes have got something to say, Boss. We’d listen if we were you.
Mma Ramotswe glanced at the young woman’s shoes. They were indeed fancy. But surely the voice was illusory; surely it was all in the mind and the voice apparently coming from the shoes was merely an expression of what one was thinking.
Mma Ramotswe acted. “No, don’t worry about us,” she said to the young woman. “We have plenty of time. You can speak to Mma Sephotho.”
The young woman did not notice Violet Sephotho stiffen. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “I mustn’t stay too long because I am expected at my work. I just wanted to check up on how often you needed me to come and sign in—for the regulations. Was it once a week, or was it once a month?”
Mma Makutsi exchanged a glance with Mma Ramotswe. For her part, Violet looked flustered. “We can talk about this some other time,” Violet said.
But it was too late. Mma Makutsi turned to the young woman and smiled. “I think I’m in the same position, Mma. I don’t want to be caught.”
It worked. It was a stratagem that she had found in Clovis Andersen’s The Principles of Private Detection. The author of that seminal work had written that if you suspected that somebody was doing something wrong, then one way of eliciting information was simply to suggest that you yourself were engaged in the same wrong. They’ll fill in all the details you need, he wrote.
“No,” said the young woman. “That’s the last thing I want. I don’t want them to think that I’m not a proper student.”
“Of course not,” said Mma Makutsi quickly.
“Because then you have big problems with work permits and tax and so on,” continued the young woman. “This sorts all of that out—as long as we do it right.”
There was a strange sound from Violet, but it did not interrupt the exchange.
“Have you found a job?” asked Mma Makutsi.
Violet opened her mouth to protest, but the young woman seemed unaware of her discomfort. “I’ve found a great job. The pay is really good and the hours not bad at all. I’m very happy with it.”
Mma Makutsi looked pleased. “And no problem with a work permit?”
The young woman shook her head. “None. If you’re a student you’re allowed to take on a part-time job. You know that, don’t you?”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I know that,” she said, and then looked directly at Violet Sephotho. “This is very interesting, Mma.”
Violet rose to her feet. “You get out of here, Grace Makutsi!” she shouted. “You just get out!”
“Oh, I’ll leave, all right, Mma. But where shall I go once I’m out of this office—this so-called office, should I say? Shall I go straight to the police? Or shall I go to the Labour Department? What do you think, Violet?”
Mma Ramotswe stepped forward. “There is no need to go to the police,” she said.
Mma Makutsi shot her a reproachful look. “But this whole thing is a criminal operation, Mma.”
This was the signal for Violet to scream. “You’re calling me a criminal? You’re calling me a criminal, Grace Makutsi?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe intervened again. “I think we should all calm down,” she said.
“I’m very calm,” hissed Mma Makutsi. “I am as calm as a currant.”
As calm as a currant? Mma Ramotswe looked perplexed. But this was not the time for a discussion of words and what they mean. “I have a proposal to make,” she said softly. “If this college is a sham…”
“It is a sham, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is a big sham. One hundred per cent sham.”
“If it is a sham,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “then it should be closed. That is very clear.”
“And money refunded,” added Mma Makutsi.
“It is not your money,” said Violet. “It’s my money. It is legitimately charged for courses.”
“For rubbish,” said Mma Makutsi. “How can you teach these subjects when you got only fifty per cent in the finals? Answer that, Violet Sephotho!”
The young woman had been silent in the face of this exchange, but now she joined in. “Fifty per cent? A teacher with fifty per cent? The principal of a college with fifty per cent?”
“You shut up,” snapped Violet. “You’re just an ignorant student. You know nothing about nothing.”
This was not a wise remark. Drawing herself up to her full height, the young woman fixed Violet with a steely gaze. “You call me ignorant, Mma? Well, I am going to go and discuss that with the other students and see what they think. I shall also tell them that you are a person who has only fifty per cent, and they will say, ‘Oh, this is very sad that we have been hoodwinked by such an ignorant woman.’ That is what they will say, Mma.”
“You shut up!” screamed Violet. “You shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“No, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are the one who must shut up, Violet. You must shut up and then you must close this place down. There must be no more fooling of our immigration and labour people. Do you understand that, Violet?”
Violet had been listening carefully and had realised that her best chance lay with Mma Ramotswe.
“I will do what you suggest, Mma Ramotswe. I will do that.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is always better to settle things in that way. There is enough trouble in the world already, don’t you think, Mma Sephotho?”
Mma Ramotswe waited for an answer, but none came.
“I said that there is enough trouble in the world already, Mma. Did you hear that?”
Violet now spoke. “I heard that, Mma.”
“And you know what you must do if you wish to avoid further trouble? You know what you have to do?”
“I do,” said Violet.
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is very good.”
She turned to Mma Makutsi. “I think that we should go now, Mma. You have to be in the office and I have to be back at my place.”
“You’re not coming back to work, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“I am still on holiday,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I am now planning to go away to Mochudi. It is a good idea to spend your holiday away, if at all possible. It is not compulsory—I am not saying that—but it is definitely a good idea.”
Mma Makutsi went off to the office while Mma Ramotswe returned to Zebra Drive. It was not yet half past nine, and yet she felt she had already crammed several days’ work into a few hours. Once home, she prepared herself a cup of red bush tea and took it with her into the garden. The morning was a warm one, but the real heat of the day was yet to come and it was still possible to walk out in the sun without longing for shade.
She stopped to look up at the sky, remembering something her father had told her: “If you look at the sky, the things you need to think about will come into your mind.” It was such a strange thing to say, and yet, on the odd occasion that she had done this, it had worked: she had thought about important things, and it had become clear to her what she had to do.
The sky was empty—a high, singing vault of blue that made her dizzy just to look at it. She closed her eyes, and then reopened them. If you looked up into that blue for long enough it seemed that the air was dancing, as air can do when it is heated and there are currents within it. She thought: I have been unfair to Mma Makutsi. I have not trusted her to deal with things that she has shown herself to be perfectly capable of handling.
She looked down at the ground, at Botswana beneath her feet. The next time she saw Mma Makutsi, she would repair the situation. She would tell her how highly she thought of her and say, too, that were it possible, she would promote her; but such promotion was not possible, as she was now a partner in the business. But then she thought better of that; she would say nothing about promotion, because even if it were not possible for Mma Makutsi to rise higher in the agency, if she mentioned the idea then Mma Makutsi would be sure to find some way of achieving it. So she would remain silent, for, after all, it is perfectly possible to be both silent and grateful at one and the same time.