To the Land of Long Lost Friends

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Look,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “This list is no use at all, Mma. Who is one of the most influential ladies we know? It is Mma Potokwane, without any doubt at all. But is she in this list? Do we see her name here? No, we do not.”

  Mma Makutsi snatched the paper from Mma Ramotswe, peering at the list of names. Suddenly she pointed indignantly at the now-crumpled sheet. “Oh yes, Mma? Oh yes? What is this here, then? Number eighty-one: Mma Silvia Potokwane. See? And just in case they are talking about another Mma Potokwane altogether, what does it say? It says, Mma Silvia Potokwane is the well-known matron who has looked after hundreds of children over the years. She does not live in a shoe, this lady, and she certainly knows what to do!”

  Mma Makutsi lowered the paper and fixed Mma Ramotswe with an accusing stare. “I think that is definitely our Mma Potokwane, Mma. I think there is no mistake about that.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silent. The situation was irretrievable, she decided. But there was more to come, and this was heralded by a sharp intake of breath from Mma Makutsi as she glanced once more at the newspaper. For a moment she appeared to struggle, and then, wordlessly, she thrust the paper at Mma Ramotswe, her finger jabbing at a place on the list where, with utter shamelessness, was to be seen the name of Violet Sephotho, at number fourteen—fourteen!—with the following encomium: A lady whose fingers are in every pie, Violet Sephotho B.A. is the mover and shaker who puts Gaborone on the map! Onward and upward goes this lady of the future.

  Mma Ramotswe’s jaw sagged. Mma Makutsi had every right to feel outraged. This was an abomination.

  “B.A.?” shouted Mma Makutsi. “Since when is Violet a B.A.? What did she get in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College? I can tell you, Mma. Barely fifty per cent. And now she calls herself a B.A.”

  “Mover and shaker,” groaned Mma Ramotswe. “I have never liked that expression, Mma. Now I like it even less.”

  “This country is finished,” Mma Makutsi wailed. “If this sort of thing can appear in the papers, then this country is finished, Mma. Over. Finished.”

  * * *

  —

  BUT NOW, here was Mma Boko starting some story about a Mma Magadi and the supermarket.

  “No, perhaps you don’t know her,” said Mma Boko. “But you might recognise her, because she is, like you, a large lady, Mma. She is larger, perhaps, and her children are all quite large too. Not tall, you understand, but large this way—out to the side and to the front. And at the back too. She has five of them, and I was in the supermarket when she came in with them. All five.”

  “That cannot be easy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Feeding five children will be a full-time job, I think.”

  Mma Boko agreed. She had had three children, she said, and although they were all grown up and away from home now, she still felt exhausted. Just think about the effort that had been required to get meals on the table, day in, day out, year after year. “People don’t always know what it’s like,” she said. “They forget how hard it is to be a mother.”

  “And a wife,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes, and a wife, because a husband is just like a child in many cases, Mma. Not all the time, of course, but often. People forget that.”

  Mma Ramotswe waited for the conversation to continue. Sympathy had been expressed for this mother of five, but was that the point of her having been mentioned? Had she been the victim of some outrage that Mma Boko was now to report, or was there another reason for her appearance in this discussion?

  It now became clear. “Having five children is no excuse,” said Mma Boko. She spoke firmly. “No, Mma, even if you have five children, you are not entitled to take them into the supermarket and feed them there.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Ah, Mma. I have seen that sort of thing happen. I have seen people sneaking a bite of something in the supermarket—and then not buying it.” She paused. “Of course, sometimes it is very tempting. They put this food in front of you, and sometimes temptation is very strong.”

  Mma Boko was staring at her, and Mma Ramotswe quickly qualified her remark. “Not that you should give in to it, of course. I would never say that you should give in to temptation.”

  And yet, and yet…There were occasions on which she gave in to temptation, in spite of every resolution she might make not to yield. Doughnuts were such an occasion—and fat cakes too. And Mma Potokwane’s fruit cake, come to think of it. And those chocolate bars with coconut in the middle. There were many, many temptations in one’s way on the road through life, and one would not be human if one never succumbed.

  “You are right, Mma,” said Mma Boko. “When I am faced with temptation, I am happy to say that I do not yield. Not one inch, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed again. “You are fortunate, Mma. You must be very strong. Sometimes I think that I am one of the weaker sisters. In fact, I know I am. Fat cakes, you see…”

  “Then you must get the Lord to help you,” said Mma Boko. “He is well aware of fat cakes.”

  There had been the feeding of the five thousand, Mma Ramotswe remembered. Had fat cakes been involved in that? She stopped herself. That was disrespectful. She glanced at Mma Boko. She suspected that she was as weak as the next person, in spite of all this talk of being above temptation.

  “There is a very good reverend,” Mma Boko said. “He is the one who helps people overcome temptation. I am lucky that I have met him.”

  Something chimed, but Mma Ramotswe was not sure what it was. A very good reverend…But she wanted to get on with her conversation with Mma Boko, and it seemed that they would have to dispose of Mma Magadi first. “So this lady allowed her children to eat in the supermarket,” she said. “That is not right. It is stealing.”

  “Not only that,” Mma Boko continued. “That was shocking enough, Mma, to see this mother telling her children to eat things while she kept a look-out for the supermarket staff. That’s a very bad example to a child. But there was something else. I had to go and inform the cashier, Mma. I went and told her that there were five children all eating things.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “That was the right thing to do, Mma.”

  Mma Boko shook her head. “You would think they would be pleased. You would think that she would have said, ‘Thank you for this information—we shall attend to it immediately.’ You would think she would have said that, and instead, what did she say? She said, ‘Mind your own business.’ That is what she said—her exact words. Mind your own business.”

  “But that is terrible, Mma. She should have done something.”

  “Exactly,” said Mma Boko. “But that is what we are coming to these days, Mma. People don’t care.”

  Mma Ramotswe allowed a few moments to pass, and then she said, “Next door, Mma. When I knocked on your door a little while ago and told you that I am a private detective wanting to find out about something, that was about next door actually.”

  Mma Boko said that this did not surprise her. “When you said you were a private detective, I assumed that. I thought you would be acting for that man’s wife. And that is why I have been happy to speak to you.”

  “What man, Mma?”

  “That man next door. He has a wife, you see, and he also has that young woman—that shameless young woman.”

  Mma Ramotswe coaxed out the facts slowly and skilfully. The flat was rented, Mma Boko told her, by a wealthy businessman—“He has many shops, Mma, and they say that he even owns a small mine somewhere up north.” The businessman was married, and had three children, she believed. “Three innocent children, Mma, and the wife is innocent too—all innocent. But this businessman—I have never actually seen him, Mma, but I have been told all these things about him—this businessman likes young women. Men, you know, Mma, they are all like that. He has set this young woman up in this flat, and he lets her use that silver car too. A young woman—driving around in a c
ar like that, Mma. That is very bad.”

  At the end, Mma Ramotswe thanked her for her frankness. Once again, her theory had been proved: if you wanted to get information about something, you had only to ask. Of course, you might get a lot of additional material, as she had just done: information about bad behaviour in supermarkets, for instance, and techniques for resisting temptation. She thought about that again. Something had been said about a reverend, she remembered, and that made her wonder.

  * * *

  —

  BACK IN THE VAN, squashed up against one another once more, each revealed their results.

  “Now, Charlie,” Mma Ramotswe began. “You go first. You tell us what you found out.”

  “Nothing,” said Charlie. “There was just an old man in the flat. He said that he never saw what was going on outside, as he had lost his glasses six months ago and had not bought a new pair yet. He said that he probably wouldn’t bother, because there was nothing worth looking at any more.”

  Mma Makutsi laughed. “Some people lack curiosity, don’t they?”

  “He told me that he used to be a train driver,” Charlie went on.

  “As long as he had his glasses then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You wouldn’t want to lose your glasses when you were driving a train. And you, Mma Makutsi—did you find out anything?”

  Mma Makutsi had the air of one who harboured private information that she was only too eager to impart. “I found out something very interesting,” she said.

  “That’s good,” said Mma Ramotswe, with the air of one who already knew a secret about to be revealed.

  “The flat I went to is occupied by a divorced woman,” she said. “She is very lonely, I think, because she was keen to speak to me. I told her I was a detective and she said that she had thought of being a detective herself, but had never done anything about it.”

  “Ha!” Charlie interjected. “There are many people who think they can be detectives. I find that when I tell them what I do.”

  “Apprentice detective,” Mma Makutsi said.

  Charlie ignored this. “I tell them that I am a detective and they say, ‘I could be that too. I’m very good at solving mysteries. I know what’s what.’ That sort of thing.”

  “This woman,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What did she tell you, Mma?”

  “She told me her life story,” answered Mma Makutsi. “She came from Palapye originally. She went to a commercial college up in Francistown—those are not very high-level places, you know; they do book-keeping and things like that. No shorthand.” She paused and gave a disapproving look, as might any graduate, magna cum laude, of the Botswana Secretarial College. “Anyway, she went to this college place and then came down to Gaborone. Then she met a pilot with an air charter company. You know those planes that go up to Maun and into the Kalahari?”

  “A bush pilot,” said Charlie. “They like landing on those little airstrips out in the bush. You have to watch out for those guys.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked puzzled. “Why is that, Charlie?”

  “They think they’re the tops,” Charlie replied. “They think all the girls are there just for them.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. The uncharitable might say the same thing about young mechanics, but she would not.

  “She met this pilot,” Mma Makutsi continued. “They got married and she was very happy. Then she found out that he had women in all sorts of places. One up in Maun, one in Francistown, even one over the border in Angola. Wherever he landed, there would be a woman waiting for him. Can you imagine that? Can you just imagine it?”

  Charlie closed his eyes. Mma Ramotswe thought he looked a bit dreamy, but she said nothing.

  “This poor lady has been single since then,” Mma Makutsi went on. “She has a job with one of the banks. She is a book-keeper, and she likes the job, but her boss is a woman who does not like other women to succeed. She will not recommend her for promotion.”

  Mma Ramotswe disapproved of that. Removing the ladder by which you had climbed up was a common enough practice—and a particularly nasty one, she felt. “That is very bad,” she said. “Everybody is entitled to a chance. Everybody.”

  Charlie was listening. Yes, he thought. Yes.

  “She gave me the full story,” Mma Makutsi said. “It was only after she had finished this long tale that I was able to ask her about downstairs. And then, oh my goodness, did I get it all then! She does not like Nametso, Mma Ramotswe. She does not like her.”

  “Why?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “Maybe it’s the Mercedes-Benz,” ventured Charlie. “I have found that many people do not like people with Mercedes-Benzes because they would like one themselves and do not have one.”

  Mma Makutsi nodded her agreement. “You’re right there, Charlie. She went on and on about that. She said it was wrong for a young woman like that to have a silver Mercedes-Benz when there are many people much older than she is who have no car at all. She was very cross about that. So I asked her whether she had a car, and she said that her car had broken down and it was going to cost a lot to get it repaired. She said it needed a new gearbox.”

  Charlie winced. “That’s not good news. A new gearbox is always expensive. If the gearbox went in this van, Mma Ramotswe…”

  Mma Ramotswe made such a gesture as might forfend disaster. “I hope that doesn’t happen, Charlie.”

  “I’m not saying it will, Mma,” Charlie replied. “But in a vehicle as old as this, it’s always a possibility.”

  Mma Ramotswe steered the conversation back to the woman in the flat. “She does not like Nametso. Maybe it was the Mercedes-Benz—”

  “Not only that,” Mma Makutsi interjected. “And I really can’t blame her, Mma—and you won’t either, once you hear what I have to tell you.”

  Mma Ramotswe waited.

  “Nametso is seeing two men. The divorced lady says she hasn’t seen much of them, but she is certain that there are two different men.”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. This complicated matters. “And that was all she said about her?”

  Mma Makutsi shrugged. “Yes. She did not know who they were.” She turned to Mma Ramotswe. “What did you find out?” she asked.

  Mma Ramotswe hesitated. Then she replied, “Same as you, Mma. I found out she has a male friend—a sugar daddy, it seems.”

  Charlie let out a whistle. It was a whistle of admiration, Mma Ramotswe thought, under the disguise of a whistle of surprise. “She’s a naughty girl, this Nametso,” he said. “Wow! Bad, bad!”

  Mma Makutsi looked at him indignantly. “And what about the men?” she asked. “What about the men, Charlie? Aren’t they naughty too?”

  “It’s different for men,” muttered Charlie.

  Mma Makutsi rounded on him. “Did you say ‘It’s different for men,’ Charlie? Did my ears deceive me?” She quivered with rage. “Is that how you think, after all this…” She floundered, but only briefly. “After all this progress we have made? After all the lessons that men have been telling us they have learned—nodding their heads and saying, ‘Yes, yes, we understand and we shall try to behave better in the future’—after all that, and secretly they are thinking, We can still have a good time, though, and women will always be there to cook for us and make us feel better.”

  Charlie pursed his lips.

  “Did you hear that, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Charlie said it’s different for men. It seems that men can run around with all sorts of ladies and nobody will criticise them for it. One girlfriend, two girlfriends, even three—it’s all the same. It’s the way men are.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked reproachfully at Charlie. “I’m sure you didn’t mean that, Charlie,” she said gently.

  Charlie looked abashed. “No, maybe not, Mma. It’s just sometimes words slip out. Many men have that problem, Mma—words slip out when men forget what they’
re not meant to say.”

  “Well, let’s not argue about it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The important thing is this: we have learned something about Nametso. The question now is, does this explain why she has suddenly dropped her mother? That’s the question, I think.”

  “What do you think, Mma Ramotswe?” Charlie asked.

  “I think it is guilt,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think she is ashamed of herself and does not want to see her mother because of that. She doesn’t want her mother to find out where she is living—how the flat is being paid for by a married man. She does not want her mother to see her driving around in her silver Mercedes-Benz because the mother will then ask, ‘Where did you get that car from?’ That is what mothers think when they see their children in Mercedes-Benzes. It is only natural.”

  “What do we do, then?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe did not answer immediately. A minute or two later, though, she said, “I have no idea, Mma. No idea at all. Do you?”

  “No,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Charlie?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “I think we tell the mother the truth,” he answered. “We tell her and then she will know why her daughter is behaving as she is.”

  Mma Makutsi was worried. “I don’t feel that will help that poor lady,” she said. “Perhaps we should think about things before we do anything.”

  “That won’t change anything, Mma,” said Charlie.

  “Perhaps not,” Mma Ramotswe said. “But then there is never any harm in thinking, Charlie. You never know what will come from thinking.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A BIG THING OR A SMALL THING

  MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI was late home that evening. Mr. Lefa Matabane, a regular client, had kept him in the garage, complaining that the engine of his car, a dispirited blue saloon that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had nursed for more than five years, was making strange sounds when it went above a certain speed.