Miracle at Speedy Motors (3 page)

Mma Sebina nodded. “And it is a very fine store, Mma.” She turned back to face Mma Ramotswe. “No, I wouldn’t mind it at all if some cousins were to get in touch,” she continued. “Even if they were greedy and just wanted money from me. I would still like to have some cousins. You see, Mma, I have no family.”

She spoke without self-pity, as one might observe that one had run out of tea, or small change, or something of that nature.

Mma Ramotswe put the pencil down on her desk. “They are all late? That is terrible, Mma. That is very sad. These days—”

Mma Sebina raised a hand to stop her. “No, it is not that. They are not late—or some of them are, but the others may or may not be. I don’t know.” She paused. “I should tell you my story, Mma Ramotswe. Then you will understand.”

Mma Ramotswe signalled to Mma Makutsi to put on the kettle. The telling of a story, like virtually everything in this life, was always made all the easier by a cup of tea.

“
WHAT’S THE EARLIEST
you can remember?” began Mma Sebina. And then, without waiting for an answer, she continued: “I can remember being four, Mma Ramotswe, but nothing before that. I can remember seeing a car in a ditch being pulled out by a tractor. And then the tractor ran over a chicken.

“Then I remember nothing else about being four, and suddenly I’m five and it is time to go to Sunday school. I was taken to Sunday school by my mother and she used to come back to fetch me hours later, or it seemed like hours. We were given little stamps which we stuck in our books. Pictures of Jesus walking on the water and things like that. I remember looking at that picture of the walking on the water for a long time—I loved it so much, and I still do, Mma. I still have that picture.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. She understood. She, too, had pictures that she loved: her picture, printed on a plate, of Sir Seretse Khama, the first President of Botswana, that great man; she loved that picture because the expression on his face said so much to her. It was a gentle face, the face of a man who believed in his country and had stood up for what it represented, which was decency above all else; just that—decency. When she looked at that picture, it was as if he was still there: the late President, still watching over his country. And how proud he would be if he really could see it today, she thought; how proud.

“For most people it doesn’t matter if they forget what happened before they were four,” Mma Sebina continued. “That is because they know that it was not very much. But in my case it’s different, Mma. That’s when everything happened. But I cannot remember any of it.

“I can see that you’re puzzled, Mma, and I can understand why. My mother, you see, the lady I called my mother a little bit earlier—she was not really my mother. I was the daughter of another woman altogether and that kind lady, my mother, and her kind husband, my father, who was not really my father, took me in and raised me as their own child.

“That, of course, is a very common thing, Mma. There are many people who are the child of one mother but raised by another. Their mother may become late—that is a very common reason for this sort of thing—or may be too poor to bring up children. There are many reasons why a sister or an aunt may bring up the child of another woman. Or a grandmother, of course. As you know, that is not at all unusual.”

She paused, and Mma Ramotswe, reaching for her pencil, sighed. “It is almost the rule, these days, Mma. What with this illness and everything. Where would we be without the grandmothers?”

Mma Sebina agreed. “You are right. The grandmothers are the pillars. They are the ones. But most of these children who are brought up by the grandmothers know who they are. They know that their grandmother is their grandmother and that their mother was such-and-such and their father was this man or that man. But I do not know even the brothers and sisters of the kind people who brought me up. I know nothing, Mma. Nothing.” She looked down at the floor; the composure that she had shown earlier on was slipping. Now there was a note to her voice that suggested that not far beneath the surface there was a well of emotion and, beyond that, tears. “I do not have a birth certificate, Mma. I do not even have that.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “So what do you have on your omang?” All Batswana had an omang, the identity card which established their citizenship. The Setswana word
omang
meant
who?
and that was the question which the omang answered.

“My omang says that I was born on the thirtieth of September,” said Mma Sebina. “I used to be proud of that. I used to be proud of the fact that my birthday was the same day as Botswana Day, that I was born on the same day as our country. But now I know that this is just because they did not know when my real birthday was. So you see, Mma, I would like you to find me a birthday. Please find me a birthday, and find me some people.”

There was a silence. Outside, from the branches of the acacia tree under which Mma Ramotswe parked her tiny white van, there came the cooing of the ubiquitous Cape doves. Mma Ramotswe saw them through the window, in the corner of her eye, the two doves, who were lovers; Mma Dove, Rra Dove, as she and Mma Makutsi called them, symbols of faithfulness, and of belonging.
Find me a birthday. Find me some people.

“Can you not ask those two good people?” she asked. “Can you not ask the people who were mother and father to you?”

“They are late,” said Mma Sebina. “They are both late.”

“I see.”

“And they never told me themselves. It was only after they became late that I heard. I heard it from the nurse who looked after my mother when she was very ill. She said: ‘Your mother was very sad. She told me that there was something she had wanted to talk to you about, but she had never managed to do so. She thought that you should know.’”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Why did she think that, Mma?”

Mma Sebina sighed. “I have asked myself that time and time again. And I do not know the answer. Maybe it is because at the end, at the very end, people want the truth to be known. Maybe it is that.”

Mma Ramotswe uttered a tiny sound, a clicking of the tongue that almost became the drawn-out
ee
that signified yes in Setswana; almost.

“But I think,” went on Mma Sebina, “that the more likely reason is that she wanted me to know so that she could help me to find my real family. And then she became late before she could talk to me about it.”

Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe. That is probably it. We keep secrets until we no longer have the breath to utter them, and then they go to the grave with us. And what, she wondered, would her secrets be; the very question, as it happened, that was going through Mma Makutsi’s mind at the same time: What would Mma Ramotswe’s secrets be? they
both
thought.

CHAPTER THREE

MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI IS GIVEN A CAKE

N
OTHING MORE WAS SAID
about the anonymous letter that day, and by the time Mma Ramotswe left the office that evening she had almost forgotten it. It crossed her mind briefly, though, as she turned her car into Zebra Drive. Mma Sebina’s earlier remark about her visit to the fabric shop—one of her favourite places, one of her few self-indulgences—had made her wonder how many other people knew details of her private life. Mma Sebina herself was not in the least bit threatening, and it did not matter what she knew, but what if the writer of that letter, that clearly unpleasant person, was aware of where she lived? She felt a sudden discomfort. What if that person, whoever he was, was watching her right now? She glanced into the mirror as she turned the corner. There was a car not far behind her, a nondescript white car of the sort that streamed out of office car parks in their hundreds come five o’clock in the afternoon; just as she started to turn, it signalled its intention of doing the same thing, and made to enter Zebra Drive.

Mma Ramotswe put her foot down on the accelerator. The tiny white van was not powerful; in fact, its engine, valiant though it might once have been, found great difficulty in coping even with normal demands. Now, with the encouragement of its driver, the van struggled to put on a bit of speed, and succeeded—to an extent. Mma Ramotswe again looked in her rear-view mirror and saw that the car behind her had also speeded up. That, she felt, settled the matter: she was being followed.

Her first thought, which was a resolution really, was not to panic. She had been a private detective for some years now, and she had never considered herself to be in any real danger. Only once had she felt that she was in the presence of real evil, and that was when she had encountered Charlie Gotso BA. She had realised then that she was face-to-face with one who could deliberately dispose of somebody without a second thought. The realisation had appalled her, but she had not felt threatened herself. Now, though, she was being followed, and she felt fear. It was a taste in her mouth, a sound in her ears, a feeling on her skin.

She thought quickly. She was now not far from her driveway, and her first inclination was to steer straight in and shut the gate firmly behind her. Her house was her sanctuary and there were people about—neighbours who were always watching what was going on and would answer any call for help. But then it occurred to her that if she did this, she would be showing whoever it was who was following her that this was where she lived. That would not do, and indeed Clovis Andersen said something about this in
The Principles of Private Detection;
his words came back to her, as they often did in a crisis.
If you find you are being followed, never take the tail to your original destination; that is exactly what he wants! Go somewhere public. Stop. Get out of the car.

It was good advice and she did not even slow down as she passed her house. The car behind her was keeping its distance, she noticed, and it kept that distance while she tried to decide what to do when she reached the end of Zebra Drive. If she turned left, she would end up driving past the hospital and the cathedral, and could eventually head back to the Tlokweng Road; if she opted to go right, she would come out on the road that led to the flyover and the Francistown Road. There was always a great deal of traffic on that road and there was a chance that she could throw the other car off there, but she would have to stop sometime, and she felt more at home on this side of town. She could even stop outside Mma Makutsi’s house, if need be, and invoke the help of her assistant and Phuti Radiphuti, if he was there. Not that Phuti would be much good, she thought; he was a kind man, and a gentle one, but she doubted whether he would be able to deal with the situation if it turned nasty.

She decided to go to the left. As she approached the end of the road, she slowed down; the car behind her did not, and Mma Ramotswe had to move swiftly off to avoid being bumped into. She hardly dared look in her mirror as, hunched over the steering wheel, the ancient engine of the tiny white van straining every metal sinew, she careered down the road in the direction of the hospital. At the roundabout, she threw the vehicle with vigour into the circling traffic, narrowly missing a truck, which sounded its horn angrily. “I’m very sorry, Rra,” she muttered under her breath. “I am being chased. That is the only reason why I’m driving like this.”

She had now passed the Anglican cathedral and was alongside the piece of ground used as a school playing field; hardly a field, just a large square of level red earth, kicked into dust here and there by the feet of the children. Mma Ramotswe noticed that there were small boys running about; two teams in identical khaki trousers and blue shirts, mostly barefoot, were pursuing a dusty football. A match was in progress. She saw the parents, lined up along the edge, shouting support for their sons.

She saw her chance, and turned the tiny white van sharply off the road, pointing it at a parking place between two parental vehicles on the verge. She would be perfectly safe here, amongst all these people, some of whom she was bound to know. Clovis Andersen, she thought, would approve.

The car behind her stopped halfway off the road. Mma Ramotswe watched in her mirror as it drew level with her. She held her breath; she had not expected such effrontery, not from somebody described in
The Principles of Private Detection
as a
tail.
Tails, surely, would be more discreet, fading off into the background when one stopped and looked at them.

The car had slightly tinted windows, which made it difficult to see the face of the person at the wheel. But now, directly behind the tiny white van, preventing it from returning to the road had Mma Ramotswe wished to do so, the car revealed its driver.

“Mma Ramotswe,” shouted a voice. “I was trying to catch you! I’ve got something for you.”

She glanced in the mirror and then turned round in shock. Through the driver’s window, now fully wound down, she could make out the familiar figure of Mma Potokwane, matron of the orphan farm, gesticulating frantically.

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. She knew that in a moment or two she would see the humour in the situation, but not just yet. A good minute had passed by the time she opened the door of the van and made her way towards Mma Potokwane’s car.

“My goodness, Mma,” shouted Mma Potokwane. “You were driving like one of those young men from the garage. What was the hurry?”

Mma Ramotswe did not answer; she had her own questions to ask, and they came tumbling out. “And why are you driving that car, Mma Potokwane? How was I to know it was you? I thought that I was being followed by some…some…” She faltered. Some Tsotsi? Kidnapper? Writer of anonymous letters?

Mma Potokwane let out a hoot of laughter. “Followed? Of course I was following you. I saw you just before you turned into Zebra Drive. I saw your van. I wanted to give you something that I’ve made for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And this car—it belongs to one of the volunteers. They let me use it whenever I like.”

Mma Ramotswe forced a smile. “It was silly of me,” she said. “I just thought…You know, with my work, Mma, I sometimes get threats.”

Mma Potokwane frowned. “People threaten you, Mma Ramotswe? Why would anybody want to threaten you?”

It was difficult to explain, particularly standing there in the late afternoon heat. And Mma Ramotswe thought that Mma Potokwane had little idea of what was involved in running a detective agency. She knew everything there was to know about managing an orphan farm, about getting things for the children, about cajoling supporters into donating, about making do with whatever she could purloin, but she knew nothing about the world of a detective agency.

“Sometimes I have to look into the affairs of people who don’t want me to do so,” she explained. “People can get angry.”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “We all get angry. I get angry with my husband from time to time, but I don’t
follow
him.” She laughed. “Perhaps wives should follow their husbands occasionally, though, just to see what they get up to. Perhaps it’s a good idea, Mma Ramotswe.”

The matron now reached over the back of her seat to retrieve a large tin from the back of the car. “This is for your husband, Mma. You can guess what it is.”

Mma Ramotswe could. And she knew too that the large, heavy fruit cake that the tin would contain would be more than a mere present: it would be a cake with a purpose. Mma Potokwane had always relied on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for help with mechanical problems at the orphan farm—particularly with the old pump, but also with vehicles, cookers, water systems, and indeed anything that involved moving parts. He had always given this help without complaint, even if the tasks that he was called upon to perform took up a great deal of his spare time. But that was what he was like, and Mma Ramotswe was proud of him for it.

She knew that this present of a cake was a prelude to a major imposition on her husband. Really! One would have thought that Mma Potokwane would grasp that others could see through her obvious tricks, but she seemed utterly impervious to any hints along these lines.

“He will be very pleased,” she said. “He loves your fruit cake. I wish I could make it as well as you do, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane clearly appreciated the compliment. “You could learn, Mma. Maybe one day I shall teach you.” She passed the tin through the open window. “Well, there you are, Mma. And perhaps, after he’s eaten the cake, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni might like to bring the tin back to me. It’s an old tin, but at least I could refill it for him if he brought it out.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. That would be the way in which Mma Potokwane ensnared him; it was so obvious. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And he could take a look at things while he’s out there…”

Mma Potokwane lost no time in seizing the opportunity. “That’s very kind of you, Mma. As a matter of fact, there are some things that could do with a bit of attention. There is a washing machine that we bought second-hand but paid good money for—two hundred pula, in fact. It seems to have given up now, but I’m sure it’s just a little thing. And then there’s the tractor, the small one. One of the men has done something to it and it will only go backwards now. I’m sure that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would be able to sort that out in no time at all…”

“I’m sure he would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall tell him.”

Mma Potokwane gave a cheerful wave and began to drive off. There was a terrible grinding of gears as she did so; a noise like that which would be produced if a knife or a fork were to be put into a mincing machine. Mma Potokwane, though, seemed unconcerned. She waved again from the car and crashed the gears once more before moving off down the road in the direction of Tlokweng and the waiting orphans.

THAT EVENING
, in the house on Zebra Drive, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat out on the verandah after dinner, reviewing the events of the day. The two foster children, Motholeli and Puso, were safely in bed. Motholeli, being older, was allowed to turn her own light out after she had finished reading, provided that it was off by half past nine; Puso’s light had to be out an hour earlier than that, not that this was ever an issue with him. Like most boys, he spent his days in the relentless expenditure of energy, with the result that even by seven o’clock, when Mma Ramotswe placed the family meal on the table, he was tired to the point of exhaustion. Often Mma Ramotswe would go into his room a few minutes after the evening meal, drawing in her breath to deliver a homily on the need to tidy up the mess, only to discover the small boy lying, fully clad, on top of his blankets, already asleep.

She would gaze at him, at the perfection of his features—for he was an attractive child, with the honey-coloured skin of the Bushman side of his family, his mother and her people, but the taller build of his Motswana father. It was a good combination, a happy mixture. His Kalahari ancestors had bequeathed him eyes that shone with light, and the quick, darting manner of those who lived by their wits in a harsh land. He could spot things from a great distance—she had noticed him doing it when they were out in the bush. He could see a bird on a branch of an acacia tree when others could barely see the tree, and he could make out the light brown smudge of a nervous impala where others would think there was just grass and thorn bushes and sand.

“You could be a great tracker,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said to him once. “You have that gift from your people.”

But Puso had turned away and said nothing. He is ashamed, thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; he is ashamed of what he is. He had tried to talk to him about it, but Puso had simply run away, out into the garden.

“What do we do, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “What do we say to him? Can you…”

“I’ll try,” she said.

And she did, having waited for her moment, which came when she was sitting with Puso in her tiny white van. She was driving to Mochudi and he had come to keep her company, and she brought up the subject of his past.