Kalahari Typing School for Men (15 page)

“Take her off now, Koketso,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “I think that she might be hungry. There is some pap near the stove. You can give that to her.”

The teenage girl came forward to pick up the child and retreated into the house. Mma Ramotswe continued with her shelling of the beans but sneaked a glance at Mma Tsolamosese, who had renewed her pounding of the maize.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I did not mean to.”

Mma Tsolamosese put down her pestle. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded tired: “It is not your fault, Mma. You were not to know. That child … the mother, who is late, had that disease which has run this way and that way through the country, and every where. That is what took her. And the child …”

Mma Ramotswe could tell what was coming.

“The doctor said that the child will become ill, too, sooner or later,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “She will not live. That is why I was upset. You did not mean it, but you were talking about something that will never be.”

Mma Ramotswe pushed aside her half-filled bowl of shelled beans and went over to Mma Tsolamosese’s side, putting an arm about her shoulder.

“I am sorry, Mma,” she said. “I am so sorry, sorry.”

There was nothing more that could be said, but as she stood there, sharing the moments of private grief, the idea had come to her of what Mr. Molefelo could do.

T
HE STUDENTS
of the Kalahari Typing School for Men met at the church hall every weekday night, with the exception of Fridays. Their progress was rapid; indeed Mma Makutsi had to revise her estimates of how long it would take them to become proficient typists and was able to announce to them that the course would last five weeks, rather than six.

“You will get the same diploma,” she announced, making a mental note to do something about the printing of the certificates. “It will be the same course, but you people will have finished it one week early.”

“Will we get some money back?” asked one of the men, causing a ripple of laughter amongst the others.

“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “Certainly not. You will get the same amount of knowledge. So that costs the same amount. That is only fair.”

They appeared to accept this without complaint, and she moved on, with relief, to the next assignment. To give them a change from copy typing, they were all invited to compose a short essay in the remaining half hour of the class. They would need to produce only half a page at the most, but they should try to do this with as few mistakes as possible. There would be fifty marks for a perfect essay, with two marks being subtracted for each mistake. The topic, she announced, was to be “The Important Things in My Life” and the essay should be written anonymously and claimed back later. This would avoid embarrassment: people could write about what really mattered to them without feeling awkward. The title was not an original idea; at school she herself had written a prizewinning essay on the subject, and it had remained with her as the perfect essay topic. Nobody would be stuck for something to say: everybody had something in which they were interested.

The students set to the essay with vigour. At the end of the class, the essays were all left on the table and collected by Mma Makutsi. She intended to take them home and read them there, but a glance at the topmost essay so absorbed her that she sat down and read through them all. All of life seemed to be laid out before her: mothers, wives, football teams, ambitions at work, cherished motor cars; every thing that men liked.

This one was typical: “There are so many things that are important to me in my life. I find it difficult to chose which things are the most important, but I think that the Zebras Football Team is one of them. Ever since I was a little boy I wanted to play for the Zebras, but I was never much good at football. So I watched from the stands and shouted very loudly for the Zebras to win. When that happens, I feel very happy and I spend the night celebrating with my friends, who are also Zebra fans. I cannot imagine Botswana without the Zebras. It would not be the same
country, and we would all feel that something was missing from our lives.”

This was almost perfectly typed, and Mma Makutsi was impressed with the clarity of expression. “The reader,” she wrote in the margin, “is left in no doubt of the importance of the Zebras in your life.” She paged through another couple of essays; there was another hymn of praise to the Zebras and a touching tribute to a young son and his doings. Then, almost at the bottom of the heap, she found: “I have discovered something very important in my life. I did not expect to find it, but it came to me suddenly, like lightning. I am not a man who has had much excitement in his life, but this thing is very exciting and my heart has been racing for more than one week. It is a lady I have met. She is one of the most beautiful ladies I have ever seen, and I think that she must be one of the kindest, nicest ladies in Botswana. She always smiles at me and does not mind if I make mistakes. She has walked past me, and has made my heart sing, although she does not know it. I do not know whether to tell her that she is filling my head with ideas of love. If I tell her, she might say that I am not good enough for her. But if I do not tell her, then she may never know how I feel. She is the most important thing in my life. I cannot stop thinking of her, even when she is teaching me typing.”

Mma Makutsi stood stock-still, as anybody would do on coming across so unambiguous a declaration of love. One of her students, one of these men, was in love with her! She thought that nobody could fall in love with her, and one of these men had done just that. Oh! Oh!

She looked at the essay. Of course, there was no name on it, but there was no doubt about the author. She had been so engrossed in the sense that she had paid little attention to the
typing. Every letter
h
was missing. “S e is t e most important t ing in my life,” the essay read. “I cannot stop t inking of er.”

Her heart beating with excitement, she took out a pencil and wrote at the bottom of the essay: “This is a very moving essay, which is well typed. You should tell this lady, though, or she might never know. You should ask her to go out with you after the class. That is what you should do.”

THAT AFTERNOON
, Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors had been left in the hands of the two apprentices. Both Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe had gone out to the orphan farm to fix a pump—in the case of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—and to talk to the matron, Mma Silvia Potokwane—in the case of Mma Ramotswe. Mma Makutsi, who was allowed three afternoons off a month, had decided that afternoon to go downtown to deposit money in her savings account, which had grown considerably with the income from the typing school, and to purchase a new pair of shoes. Her current pair, with their bright red buttons, would be left for resoling, and she had her eye on a new pair which she had spotted in the window of a shop in the town. The shoes themselves were light green, with lowish heels (which were very important for comfort and walking; high heels were always a temptation, but, like all temptations, one paid for them later). On each toe there was a large leather bow, also in green, and the linings were sky blue. It was the sky-blue linings that particularly appealed to her, and she imagined the pleasure that would come from putting one’s feet into such surroundings each morning. They were rather more expensive than her normal shoes, but such footwear could not be expected to come cheaply, especially with linings like that. She had seen them and known immediately
that they must be hers. With these green shoes, the good fortune which had entered her life with the successful setting up of the Kalahari Typing School for Men would surely continue. They were also shoes that would give the wearer confidence: a person could speak with authority in such shoes.

The apprentices enjoyed being left by themselves. They assured Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that they would not give any repair estimates, although it was agreed that they could get on with existing work. There was a troublesome mud-coloured French station wagon parked in front of the garage, and they would work on that, trying to fix two doors that would not shut properly and to deal with an overheating engine. They were familiar with the car, which they had tried to fix before on at least two occasions, and its problems were something of a personal challenge to them.

“That French car will keep you busy,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But be careful with it. That car is a liar.”

“A liar, Rra?” asked the younger apprentice. “How can a car be a liar?”

“Its instruments do not tell the truth,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “You can adjust them, but they go back to their old ways. A car that does that is a liar. You can do very little about it.”

Left to themselves, the apprentices made a cup of tea and sat on their oil drums for half an hour. Charlie, the older apprentice, called out to any girls who were passing, shouting out invitations to come and see inside the garage.

“Lots going on in this garage,” he called out. “Come on. Come and take a look. There’s lots for a girl like you to do in here!”

The younger apprentice tried to look the other way as the girls went past, but usually failed, sneaking a glance, but not calling out. After they had finished their tea, they drove the mud-coloured French station wagon onto the new hydraulic ramp rwhich Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had recently had installed. This was
the first disobedience, the apple in Eden, as they had been given strict instructions that the only person to operate this was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni himself. But now, faced with the chance to elevate the French car, they could not resist.

The ramp worked magnificently, lifting the car with consummate ease. But then it stopped, the extended central steel piston shining with oil, the car perched precariously above the mechanism. The older apprentice pushed the deflation switch, but nothing happened. He tried again and then turned the power on and off. Nothing happened.

“Broken,” said the younger apprentice. “Your fault.”

They sat down on their oil drums and stared miserably at the elevated car.

“What is Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni going to say?” said the younger apprentice.

“I’m going to say that we had nothing to do with it,” said the older apprentice. “I’m going to say it was an accident. We parked the car above the ramp and then it went off by itself. We didn’t touch it.”

The younger apprentice looked at him. “I cannot tell lies anymore,” he said. “Now that I am saved, I cannot lie.”

The older one met his stare. “Then you will get both of us into bad trouble. Really bad trouble.” He paused. “So I’m going to say that you did it. I’ll tell him that it was you.”

“You would not do that to me,” said the younger apprentice. “And anyway, I would tell him the truth. The boss can tell when somebody is lying. Mma Ramotswe can, too. You would never be able to fool her.” He paused. “But there is something we can do.”

“Oh yes,” said the older apprentice, mocking him. “Pray?”

“Yes,” the younger one said as he slid off the oil drum and went down on his knees. “Oh Lord,” he said. “Release this car,” adding, “please.”

There was silence. Outside, a large truck went past, grinding its gears. A cicada began to screech in the scrub bush at the back; a grey dove fluttered its wings briefly in the bough of the acacia tree beside the garage. And there was heat over the land.

Suddenly there was a hissing sound. They looked up, both surprised. The trapped air in the hydraulic system was clearing, allowing the column and its burden to descend gracefully towards the ground.

M
MA SILVIA
Potokwane was the matron of the orphan farm, which lay twenty minutes’ drive to the east of the town. She had worked there for fifteen years, as deputy matron and then as matron, and it was said that she remembered the name of every orphan who had passed through her hands. This was never put to the test, but if one of the staff ever asked her: “I was trying to remember the name of that boy who came from Maun, the one with the sticking-out ears who was such a quick runner, can you remind me, Mma?” she would reply, without hesitation, “Cedric Motoposipe. He had a brother who was no good at athletics but became a very good cook and is now working at the Sun Hotel as a chef. Good boys, both of them.” Or somebody might ask: “That girl who went to live in Lobatse when she left us and married a policeman, what was her name?” and Mma Potokwane would reply: “Memedi Gafetsili.”