Mma Ramotswe said nothing more, and the man scuttled off. A few moments later, Mr. Polopetsi and Charlie appeared at the entrance to the bar, followed by a woman in a shiny red dress. They paused while Charlie pointed to the van and to Mma Ramotswe. Then they began to make their way towards her.
“So you are the lady who wants to speak to me,” said the woman. “What is this about? I am very busy, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe signalled to Charlie and Mr. Polopetsi to go and stand under the jacaranda. “It will not take long, Mma,” she said. “You had a son, I believe. You had a little boy called Samuel?”
The woman shrugged. “So what? He is being looked after up in Gaborone. There is a lady there who is very kind to him. She is a sort of auntie.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I have met that lady.”
“So, Mma, why do you want to talk to me?”
“Do you not want to see your son, Mma?”
The woman looked down at the ground. “I haven’t seen him for a long time, Mma. It would just make him upset. I cannot look after a child down here.”
“You don’t have to,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is now being looked after in a much better place.”
“Then why bother me, Mma? I must go soon. I cannot stand here and talk about children.”
Mma Ramotswe reached out to touch her on the forearm. The woman looked down at her hand, almost with disgust. “I can offer you some money, Mma. All you have to do to earn five hundred pula is to come up to Gaborone tomorrow morning, just for an hour or so. You can be back down here in the early afternoon. You will say hello to your son and then you can come back. Nobody will make you do anything or pay anything. There are no conditions.”
The woman stared at her. “And you will give me five hundred pula?”
“That’s what I said, Mma.”
The woman shrugged. “All right. If that’s what you want.”
It had been far easier than Mma Ramotswe could possibly have hoped. Now she signalled to Charlie and Mr. Polopetsi and told the woman they would meet her the following morning at nine, outside the bar. “And I’m sorry, Mma, but you did not give me your name.”
“Stella,” said the woman.
“That is a very nice name, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Stella looked at her with some surprise. She hesitated, and then said, “Thank you, Mma. I am proud of my name.” There was a further moment of hesitation, during which it seemed to Mma Ramotswe that Stella was searching for the words to say something that was not easy for her to say. Up to now she had been dismissive, even to the point of rudeness; now, after Mma Ramotswe’s compliment on her name, that had disappeared.
“I had to do it, Mma,” she muttered. “Sometimes—often—my heart has said to me that I should see Samuel, but then I’ve thought: Do I want him to see what I’ve become? Do I want him to see that I am a woman who waits for men in bars? Do I want him to see me after some man has hit me and hurt my eye? Is that what I want him to see?”
Mma Ramotswe did not reply immediately. Words that are full of hurt sometimes need to be left in the air where they have been spoken. But after a minute or so, she said, “I know, Mma, that in your heart you are a good mother. I can see that, Mma.”
—
MMA POTOKWANE had been notified, and was ready for them when they arrived at the Orphan Farm the next day at eleven o’clock. The party consisted of Mma Ramotswe, Stella, and Mma Makutsi, who had been brought up to date early that morning and had expressed a desire to be present. Mma Potokwane welcomed them in her usual manner, leading them into the office, where a tray of tea had been set out, complete with slices of fruit cake.
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Stella. She detected a certain nervousness and she sought to reassure her. “Mma Potokwane makes very good cake,” she said. “Some say it is the best in all Botswana.”
“I say that,” said Mma Makutsi. “And so does Phuti Radiphuti.”
Mma Potokwane shrugged off the compliment. “Oh, you are too kind,” she said. “There are many ladies making excellent cake in Botswana. I am just one of them.”
They sat down while Mma Potokwane poured the tea. “Now there is one thing I need to say,” began the matron. “There is no pressure on any person to take their child away from this place. We understand that there are some people who cannot look after children. We do not sit here in judgement. We do not shake our finger at them. We say nothing about anything of that nature.” She looked at Stella. “Do you understand that, Mma?”
Stella bit her lip and nodded.
“So this little boy will stay here,” said Mma Potokwane. “That will be the best thing for him. He will get a good education. He will be given a lot of love. We will help him to grow up into a good citizen of Botswana.”
Mma Ramotswe turned to Stella. “Do you understand all that, Mma? You must tell us that you understand.”
Stella nodded again. “I understand,” she muttered.
Mma Potokwane drained her teacup quickly. “We should not sit here too long,” she said. “We should go outside in a moment.”
They finished their tea without further conversation, leaving the cake untouched. Then, following Mma Potokwane, they went out of the office and began to make their way towards a small thatched summer house—a hut without walls that was used for meetings.
“Has he been told that she is not late?” whispered Mma Ramotswe to Mma Potokwane.
“Yes,” said the matron. “He has been told. He is…well, you will see what he is like.”
They approached the hut. There was a woman sitting inside—one of the housemothers—and she had her arm around a child. They were close now, and as they approached the housemother stood up and pointed. The boy who had been crouching on the floor got to his feet. He turned his head.
Suddenly he broke away from the housemother and dashed out into the open, running towards them. Stella stood stock-still. She looked at Mma Ramotswe, uncertain what to do.
“This is your little boy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “This is Samuel.” And with that she pushed her forward, gently but firmly. She pushed her towards her son.
The boy stopped in front of his mother. He looked up at her. She opened her arms and bent down to embrace him, and they saw that she was crying, as he was too.
Mma Makutsi said something that Mma Ramotswe did not catch.
“What was that, Mma?” she whispered.
Mma Makutsi repeated herself: “I said I do not think we need to be here, Mma.”
Mma Potokwane agreed. “I think we should go back to finish off the cake,” she said.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series, and the 44 Scotland Street series. He is a professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and has served with many national and international organizations concerned with bioethics. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and was a law professor at the University of Botswana. He lives in Scotland.
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The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine Page 22
