Kalahari Typing School for Men (21 page)

Would Mma Makutsi do this, she wondered. She remembered the awkward conversation she had had with her not all that long ago, when Mma Makutsi had remarked despairingly on the fact that it was no use trying to meet men in bars because they were all married. This suggested that she considered such men to be out of bounds. And yet, faced with such a man, particularly with a charming one with a centre parting and a winning smile; might she not, in such circumstances, decide that even if he was married, this was nonetheless her chance? Time was ticking by for Mma Makutsi; soon younger men would no longer consider her, and then she would be left with only the possibility of an old man. Perhaps she did feel desperate; perhaps she was fully aware of the situation in which Mr. Bernard Selelipeng found himself. But no. No, thought Mma Ramotswe, she was not. She would not have spoken to me with that enthusiasm had she known this was a relationship that could not go any further. She would have
been guarded, or resigned, or even sad; she would not have been enthusiastic.

Mma Ramotswe was pleased that she had to put such troubling thoughts to one side, as she had now arrived in Molepolole and had driven the tiny white van over the rutted track that led to the house of her old friend Mma Ntombi Boko, formerly deputy chief teller of the Standard Bank in Gaborone, a position from which she had retired at the age of fifty-four to take up residence in Molepolole and to run there the local branch of the Botswana Rural Women’s Association.

She found Mma Boko at the side of her house, under a canvas awning which she had erected to create an informal shady porch. A small brick oven had been built there, and on the top of this was a large blackened saucepan.

Mma Boko’s greeting was warm. “Precious Ramotswe! Yes, it is you! I can see you, Mma!”

“It is me,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have come to see you.”

“I am very glad,” said Mma Boko. “I was sitting here stirring this jam and thinking: Where is everybody today? Why has nobody come to talk to me?”

“And then I arrived,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Just in time.” She knew that her friend was gregarious, and that a day without a chance to have a good gossip was a trial for her. Not that the gossip was at all malicious; Mma Boko spoke ill of nobody but was nevertheless extremely interested in what others were doing. Impressed by the orations that she gave at funerals, where people were entitled to stand up and speak of the doings of the deceased, friends had tried to persuade her to stand for the legislature, but she had declined, saying that she liked to talk about interesting things, and that there was never any talk of interesting things in Parliament.

“All they do is talk about money and roads and things like that,” she had said. “Those are important things, and somebody has to talk about them, but let the men do that. We women have more important things to talk about.”

“No, no, Mma!” they said. “That is precisely the wrong attitude. That is what men want us to think. They want us to think that these important things they discuss are not really important to women. But they are! They are very important. And if we let the men talk about them and decide them, then suddenly we wake up and find out that the men have made all the decisions, and these decisions all suit men.”

Mma Boko had considered this carefully. “There is some truth in that,” she had said. “In the bank the decisions were made by men. They did not ask me first.”

“You see!” they said. “You see how it works. They are always doing this, the men. We women must stand up on our legs and talk.”

Mma Ramotswe examined the jam which Mma Boko was making, and took the small spoonful which her friend offered her.

“It is good,” she said. “This is the best jam in Botswana, I think.”

Mma Boko shook her head. “There are ladies here in Molepolole who make much better jam than this. I will bring you some of their jam one day, and you will see.”

“I cannot believe it will be better,” said Mma Ramotswe, licking the spoon clean.

They sat down and talked. Mma Boko told Mma Ramotswe of her grandchildren, of whom she had sixteen. They were all clever, she said, although one of her daughters had married a rather unintelligent man. “He is kind, though,” she said. “Even if he says very stupid things, he is kind.”

Mma Ramotswe told her about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s illness, and how he had been nursed back to health by Mma Potokwane. She told her about the move to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and the sharing of the offices, and of how well he had been handled by Mma Makutsi. She told her about the children; how Motholeli had been bullied and how Puso had been through a difficult patch.

“Boys do go through times like that,” said Mma Boko. “It can last for fifty years.”

Then they talked about Molepolole and about the Botswana Rural Women’s Association and about its plans. Eventually, after these multitudinous subjects had been exhausted, Mma Ramotswe asked Mma Boko the question which had brought her out on the visit.

“There is a girl,” she began, “or was a girl—she is a woman now—called Tebogo Bathopi. About twenty years ago she came to Gaborone from Molepolole to train to be a nurse. I am not sure if she ever managed to finish—I do not think that she did. Something happened to her in Gaborone which somebody now wants to set right. I cannot tell you what that thing was, but I can tell you that the person involved is very serious about righting what he now sees was a wrong. He means it. But he does not know where this girl is. He has no idea. That is why I have come to you. You know everybody. You see everything. I thought you could help me to find out where this woman is, if she is still alive.”

Mma Boko laid down the spoon with which she had been stirring her jam.

“Of course she is still alive,” she said, laughing. “Of course she is still alive. She is now called Mma Tshenyego.”

Mma Ramotswe’s surprise showed itself in a broad smile. She had not imagined that it would be this easy, but her instinct
to ask Mma Boko had proved correct. It was always the best way of finding out information; just go and ask a woman who keeps her eyes and ears open and who likes to talk. It always worked. It was no use asking men; they simply were not interested enough in other people and the ordinary doings of people. That is why the real historians of Africa had always been the grandmothers, who remembered the lineage and the stories that went with it.

“I am very glad to hear that, Mma,” she said. “Can you tell me where she is?”

“Over there,” answered Mma Boko. “She is right there. At that house over there. Do you see it? And look, there she is herself, coming out of the house with one of the children, that girl, who is sixteen now. That is her firstborn, her first daughter.”

Mma Ramotswe looked in the direction in which Mma Boko was pointing. She saw a woman coming out of the house, together with a girl in a yellow dress. The woman threw some grain to the chickens in the yard, and then they stood and watched the chickens peck away at the food.

“She has many hens,” said Mma Boko, “and she is also one of those ladies who makes good jam. She is always in that house, cleaning and cooking and making things. She is a good person.”

“So she did not become a nurse?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“No, she is not a nurse,” said Mma Boko. “But she is a clever lady and she could have been a nurse. Maybe one of her daughters will become a nurse.”

Mma Ramotswe rose to take her leave.

“I must go and see that lady,” she said to Mma Boko. “But first I must give you a present which I have brought for you. It is in my van.”

She walked over to the van and took out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. This she gave to Mma Boko, who unwrapped it and
saw that it contained a length of printed cotton, enough for a dress. Mma Boko held the material up against her.

“You are a very kind lady, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “This will be a very fine dress.”

“And you are a useful friend,” said Mma Ramotswe.

M
R. MOLEFELO
arrived at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency the following morning. Mma Ramotswe had telephoned him the previous evening and had suggested an appointment in a few days’ time, but such had been his eagerness to hear what she had found out that he begged her to see him sooner.

“Please, Mma,” he had pleaded. “I cannot wait. After all this time, I must know soon. Please do not make me wait. I shall be sitting here thinking, thinking, all the time.”

There were other things that Mma Ramotswe had to do, but these were not urgent and she understood his anxiety. So she agreed to see him at her office the next day when, she said, she would be able to give him the information he wanted. This required arrangements to be made, of course, and there was the older apprentice to dispatch on an errand. But that could be done.

Mr. Molefelo was punctual, waiting outside in his car until exactly eleven o’clock, the time at which Mma Ramotswe had agreed to see him. Mma Makutsi showed him into the office and then returned to her desk. Mr. Molefelo greeted Mma Ramotswe and then looked at Mma Makutsi.

“I wonder, Mma …” he began.

Mma Ramotswe caught Mma Makutsi’s eye, and that was enough. They both understood that there were things that could be said to one but not to two. And there were other reasons.

“I have to go to the post, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Should I go now?”

“A very good idea,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi left the office, throwing an injured look in Mr. Molefelo’s direction, but he did not notice. As soon as she had left, Mr. Molefelo spoke.

“I must know, Mma,” he said, wringing his hands as he spoke. “I must know. Are they late? Are they late?”

“No, they are not late, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mr. Tsolamosese has died, but his widow is still alive. You came to me in time.”

Mr. Molefelo’s relief was palpable. “In that case, I can do what I need to do.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can do what needs to be done.” She paused. “I shall tell you first about Tebogo. I found her, you know.”

Mr. Molefelo nodded eagerly. “Good. And … and what had happened to her? Was she well?”

“She was fine,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I found her in Molepolole, very easily. I drank tea with her and we talked. She told me about her life.”

“I am …” Mr. Molefelo tried to speak but found that he had nothing to say.

“She said that she did not train as a nurse after all. She was very upset when you made her deal with the baby in that way. She said that she cried and cried, and for many months she had bad dreams about what she had done.”

“That was my fault,” said Mr. Molefelo. “My fault.”

“Yes it was,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you were a young man then, weren’t you? Young men do these things. It is only later that they regret them.”

“It was wrong of me to say that she should end that baby. I know that.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him. “It is not that simple, Rra. There are times when you cannot expect a woman to have a baby. It is not always right. Many women would tell you that.”

“I am not questioning that,” said Mr. Molefelo meekly. “I am just telling you what I feel.”

“She was upset about you, too, you know,” went on Mma Ramotswe. “She said that she loved you and that you had told her that, too. Then you changed your mind, and she was very upset. She said that you had a hard heart.”

Mr. Molefelo looked down at the floor. “It is true. I had a hard heart. …”

“But then she said that she met another boy and he asked her to marry him. He joined the police, and then later on he found a job as a bus driver. They live out at Molepolole, and they have been happy. They have five children. I met the oldest girl.”

Mr. Molefelo listened attentively. “Is that all?” he said. “Is that all that happened? Did you tell her how sorry I was?”

“I did,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“And what did she say?”

“She said that you must not worry. She said that her life had turned out very well and she bore you no ill will. She said that she
hoped that you had been happy, too.” She paused. “I think that you wanted to help her in some way, didn’t you, Rra?”

Mr. Molefelo was smiling. “I said that, Mma, and I meant it. I want to give her some money.”

“That might not be the best way to do it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think the husband of this woman would think if she received money from an old boyfriend? He might not like it at all.”

“Then what can I do?”

“I met her daughter,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I told you that. She is a clever girl. She is the one who would like to be a nurse now. She is very keen. I spoke to her about it. But there are not many places for nurse training, and it is the girls who get the best results who will get the places.”

“Is she clever?” asked Mr. Molefelo. “Her mother was clever.”

“She is clever enough, I think,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But she would stand an even better chance if she went for a year or two to one of those schools where they charge high fees. They teach the children very carefully there. It would be a very good chance for her.”

Mr. Molefelo was silent. “The fees are high,” he said. “That costs a lot of money.”