The Kalahari Typing School for Men

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Yes,” said the minister. “There are strangers here. You are very welcome, but you must declare your sins before God’s people. We shall help you. We shall make you strong.”

  There was now complete silence. Mma Makutsi looked around anxiously. Surely this was no way to welcome visitors. Usually congregations greeted strangers warmly and clapped when you stood up. This must be a strange religion to which the apprentice had subscribed.

  The minister now pointed at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Speak, my brother,” he said. “We are listening.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked frantically at Mma Ramotswe.

  “I …” he began. “I am a sinner. Yes—I suppose …”

  Suddenly Mma Ramotswe stood up. “Oh my!” she called out. “I am the sinner here. I am the one! I have committed so many sins that I cannot count them. They are weighty. They are making me sink. Oh! Oh!”

  The minister raised his right arm. “The power of the Lord be upon you, my sister! He will release you from these sins! Tell the sins! Speak their awful name!”

  “Oh, they are so numerous,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Oh! I cannot bear these sins. They are making me hot. I am feeling the fire of hell! Oh, the fire of hell is consuming me! I am so hot! Oh!”

  She sank back on the pew, fanning herself with the hymn sheet.

  “The fires!” she shouted. “The fires are all about me. Take me out!”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni felt the dig in his ribs.

  “I must take her outside,” he said to the congregation at large. “The fire—”

  Mma Makutsi rose to her feet. “I will help you. The poor lady. All those sins. Oh! Oh!”

  Once outside, they walked as quickly as they could to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s car, which was parked alongside a row of believers’ cars, outwardly no different from any of them.

  “You are a very good actress,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as they drove away. “I was very embarrassed there. I was having to think of sins.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t acting,” said Mma Ramotswe dryly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE CIVIL SERVICE

  M R. MOLEFELO had given Mma Ramotswe very little information. All she knew about the people for whom she was to look was that Mr. Tsolamosese had been a senior officer at the prison; that the Tsolamosese family had lived in a government house near the old airfield; and that the girlfriend, whose name was Tebogo Bathopi, came from Molepolole and was hoping to train as a nurse. This was not a great deal to go on: much would have happened in the course of twenty years; Tebogo would probably have married and changed her name; Mr. Tsolamosese would surely have retired and the family would have left the house. But it was hard to disappear completely in Botswana, where there were fewer than two million people and where people had a healthy curiosity as to who was who and where people had come from. It was very difficult to be anonymous, even in Gaborone, as there would always be neighbours who would want to know exactly what one was doing and who one’s people had been. If you wanted anonymity, you had to leave the country altogether and go somewhere like Johannesburg, where nobody knew, nor cared very much, it would seem.

  Tracking down the Tsolamosese family would be relatively easy, thought Mma Ramotswe. Even if Mr. Tsolamosese had retired from the prison service, there was bound to be somebody at the prison who would know where he had gone. Prison officials were a close-knit community; they lived cheek by jowl with one another in the prison lines, and their families often intermarried. They had to be protective of one another, as there was always the danger that a released prisoner might try to settle a score, which had happened on one or two occasions, as Mma Ramotswe had read. In one case, a prisoner who succeeded in escaping hid in the house of a warder, under his bed, and waited for him to go off to sleep before he crawled out and stabbed him through his blankets. It had been a chilling incident, although the warder had survived the attack relatively unscathed, and the prisoner had been rearrested and beaten. Such evil was difficult to contemplate, thought Mma Ramotswe. How could anybody do that sort of thing to a fellow human being? The answer, of course, was that such people were cold inside. They had no feelings, and it was easy for them to do things like that and worse. God would judge them, she knew, but in the meantime they could do a great deal of damage. Worst of all, these people destroyed trust. You used to be able to trust people, but now you had to be so careful, even in a good country like Botswana. It was unimaginably worse in other places, of course, but even in Botswana you had to hold on to your handbag if you walked out at night, in case a young man with a knife came and took it from you. What could be further from the old Botswana ways of courtesy and respect? What, she wondered, would Obed Ramotswe make of it if he were to come back and see what had happened; her father, who, if he found so much as a one-pula note on the roadway, would hand it over to the police, oblivious to their surprise at his honesty.

  Mma Ramotswe decided to divide her task into two. First she would find the Tsolamosese family and propose the reparation which she had discussed with Mr. Molefelo. Then, that piece of the past set to rest, she would set about the more difficult task of tracing Tebogo. The first step, though, was a telephone call to the prison, and an enquiry as to whether Mr. Tsolamosese still worked there. As she had anticipated, the official who answered the telephone had not heard the name. Mma Ramotswe asked then to speak to the oldest person in the office.

  “Why do you want to speak to an old person, Mma?” she had been asked politely.

  “Because they know more, Rra,” she had replied.

  There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then, after a few moments of hesitation, the oldest official was fetched.

  “I am fifty-eight, Mma,” he said, introducing himself over the line. “Is that old enough for you, or do you want somebody who is eighty or ninety?”

  “Fifty-eight is very good, Rra,” she said. “A person who is fifty-eight will know what he is talking about.”

  This remark was well received. “I shall try to help you, if I can. What is it you wish to know?”

  “I would like to know if you remember Mr. Tsolamosese,” she said. “He worked in the prison some years ago. Perhaps he is no longer working.”

  “Ah,” said the voice. “I was here when he was working here. He was a very quiet man. He did not say very much, but he did well in the service and was very senior.”

  “He is no longer working, then?” Mma Ramotswe pressed.

  “No, he is not working. In fact, I am sorry to tell you he is late.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s heart sank. But perhaps Mma Tsolamosese was still alive, and Mr. Molefelo would be able to make it up to her.

  “He had a heart attack, I think,” said the voice. “About eight years ago. He was still here then, but he was very ill and he became late.”

  “And the widow?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “She went away. I don’t think anybody here knows anything about her. She must have gone back to her village. You could ask the pensions people, of course. She will be getting her widow’s pension if she is still alive. That will mean that they will have her address somewhere. You could try them.”

  “You have been very kind, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have something to give that lady, and you have helped me to find her. You are very kind.”

  “It is my job to help,” said the voice.

  “That is very good.”

  “Yes,” said the voice.

  “I hope that you are very happy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have been very helpful.”

  “I am very happy,” said the voice. “I shall be retiring next year and I shall be growing sorghum.”

  “I hope it grows well,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “You are very kind, Mma. Thank you.”

  They said farewell, and Mma Ramotswe put down the telephone with a smile. In spite of everything, in spite of all the change, with all the confusion and uncertainty which it brought; in spite of the casual disregard with which people were increasingly treating one anot
her these days, there were still people who spoke to others with the proper courtesy, who treated others, whom they did not know, in the way which was proper according to the standards of the old Botswana morality. And whenever that happened, whenever one encountered such behaviour, one was reminded that all was by no means lost.

  Her next task was not a telephone call but a visit. She knew the office which dealt with pensions, and she would call there to find out whether Mma Tsolamosese was still receiving her pension. If she was, then she would have to try to get the address from them. That might be difficult, but not impossible. There was a tendency in government offices to treat everything as confidential, even if it clearly was not, but Mma Ramotswe had found that there were usually ways round this.

  The government pensions office, when she arrived there shortly after lunchtime, was still shut, but Mma Ramotswe was happy to wait under the shade of a nearby tree until a tired-looking clerk opened the door and peered outside.

  The public office to which she was admitted had that typical look and smell of government offices. The furniture, such as it was, was completely functional—straight-backed chairs and simple two-drawer desks. On the wall at the back there was a picture of His Excellency, the president of the Republic of Botswana, and on the other walls there was a map of Botswana, broken down into administrative districts, a calendar supplied by the Botswana Gazette, and a fly-spotted framed picture of cattle gathered round a borehole-fed watering tank.

  The clerk behind the desk looked at Mma Ramotswe in a sleepy way.

  “I am looking for the widow of a government pensioner,” she said, noting the spoiled collar of the clerk’s shirt. He would not go far in the civil service, she thought; civil servants were usually proud of their appearance, and this man was not.

  “Name?” he said.

  “Mine?”

  “Pensioner.”

  Mma Ramotswe had written the name on a piece of paper, and she passed it to the clerk. Underneath the name she had written: Prisons Department, and after that the date of Mr. Tsolamosese’s death.

  The clerk looked at the piece of paper and made his way out of the room into a corridor which Mma Ramotswe could see was lined with lever-arch files. She watched him walk down the shelves until he stopped, extracted a file, and ruffled through some papers. Then he returned to the desk.

  “Yes,” he said. “There is a widow of that name. She receives a pension from the Prisons Department.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Thank you, Rra. Could you give me her address? I have something to deliver to her.”

  The clerk shook his head. “No, I cannot do that. The details of the pensioners are confidential. We could not have the whole world coming in here and finding out where these people live. That is not possible.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. This was precisely what she had feared would happen, and she knew that she would have to be extremely careful. This clerk was not bright, and people like that could show a remarkable tenacity when it came to rules. Because they could not distinguish between meritorious and unmeritorious requests, they could refuse to budge from the letter of the regulations. And there would be no point in trying to reason with them. The best tactic was to undermine their certainty as to the rule. If they could be persuaded that the rule was otherwise, then it might be possible to get somewhere. But it would be a delicate task.

  “But that is not the rule,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I would never tell you your job—a clever man like you does not need to be told by a woman how to do his job—but I think that you have got the rule wrong. The rule says that you must not give the name of a pensioner. It says nothing about the address. That you can tell.”

  The clerk shook his head. “I do not think you can be right, Mma. I am the one who knows the rules. You are the public.”

  “Yes, Rra. I am sure that you are very good when it comes to rules. I am sure that this is the case. But sometimes, when one has to know so many rules, one can get them mixed up. You are thinking of rule 25. This rule is really rule 24(b), subsection (i). That is the rule that you are thinking of. That is the rule which says that no names of pensioners must be revealed, but which does not say anything about addresses. The rule which deals with addresses is rule 18, which has now been cancelled.”

  The clerk shifted on his feet. He felt uneasy now and was not sure what to make of this assertive woman with her rule numbers. Did rules have numbers? Nobody had told him about them, but it was quite possible, he supposed.

  “How do you know about these rules?” he asked. “Who told you?”

  “Have you not read the Government Gazette?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “The rules are usually printed out in the Gazette, for everybody to see. Everybody is allowed to see the rules, as they are there for the protection of the public, Rra. That is important.”

  The clerk said nothing. He was biting his lip now, and Mma Ramotswe saw him throw a quick glance over his shoulder.

  “Of course,” she pressed on, “if you are too junior to deal with these matters, then I would be very happy to deal with a more senior person. Perhaps there is somebody in the back office who is senior enough to understand these rules.”

  The clerk’s eyes narrowed, and Mma Ramotswe knew at that moment that her judgement had been correct: if he called somebody else, he would lose face.

  “I am quite senior enough,” he said haughtily. “And what you say about the rules is quite correct. I was just waiting to see if you knew. It is very good that you did. If only more members of the public knew about these rules, then our job would be easier.”

  “You are doing your job very well, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am glad that I found you and not some junior person who would know nothing about the rules.”

  The clerk nodded sagely. “Yes,” he said. “Anyway, this is the address of the woman you mention. Here, I’ll write it down for you. It is a small village on the way to Lobatse. Maybe you know it. She is living there.”

  Mma Ramotswe took the piece of paper from the clerk and tucked it into the pocket of her dress. Then, having thanked him for his help, she went outside, reflecting on how bureaucracy was very rarely an obstruction, provided that one applied to it the insights of ordinary, everyday psychology, insights with which Mma Ramotswe, more than many, had always been well endowed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE KALAHARI TYPING SCHOOL FOR MEN THROWS OPEN ITS DOORS (TO MEN)

  L OOKING BACK, as she later would do, on the early days of the Kalahari Typing School for Men, Mma Makutsi, assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and formerly acting manager of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, would marvel at just how easy it was to start the school. If all businesses were as easy, she reflected, then the road to plutocracy would be simple indeed. What made it all so simple and so painless? The answers might form the kernel of a business school essay: a good idea; a niche in the market; low start-up costs; and, what is perhaps most important of all, a willingness to work hard. All of these were present in ample measure in the case of the Kalahari Typing School for Men.

  The easiest task—potentially the most difficult—had been the finding of a place to hold the classes. This issue had been quickly resolved by the younger apprentice, who offered to speak to the minister about the possible use of the meeting room attached to his church.

  “It is never used during the week,” he had said. “The minister is always saying that we must share. This is a chance for us to do just that.”

  The minister was amenable, under the condition that the religious pamphlets be left in the hall so that those attending the classes might have the chance to be saved.

  “There will be many sinners wishing to learn to type,” he said. “They will see the pamphlets and some of them will realise what sinners they are.”

  Mma Makutsi had readily agreed and had taken the typewriters, most of which were now in basic working order even if not all the keys worked, over to the hall, where they were stored in two padlocked cupboards. There wer
e already tables and chairs in the hall, and these could seat over thirty, although the number of pupils would be limited by the ten typewriters available.

  Within a few days, everything was prepared. A small advertisement had been inserted in the Botswana Daily News, worded in such a way as to appeal to exactly the audience which Mma Makutsi had in mind.

  Men: do you know that it is very important these days to be able to type? If you cannot type, you will be overtaken. There is no room in the modern world for those who cannot type. You can now learn, in confidential conditions, at the Kalahari Typing School for Men, under the supervision of Mma Grace Makutsi, Dip. Sec. (magna cum laude) (Bw. Sec. Coll.).

  Prospective students were then referred to the telephone number of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and instructed to ask for the Typing School Department.

  On the day of publication, Mma Makutsi was at work earlier than usual. She had obtained an early copy of the paper from the printers and had read and reread the text of the advertisement. It gave her considerable pleasure to see her name in print. It was the first time that she had ever seen this, and she sat and stared at it for some time, thinking, That’s me, that’s my name, in print, in the newspaper, me.

  The first call came half an hour later, and one followed another throughout the day. By four o’clock in the afternoon, there were twenty-two firm bookings for a place in the class; ten would start that week, a further ten would be admitted to the second course some two months later, and two were placed on a waiting list.

  Mma Ramotswe shared Mma Makutsi’s pleasure.

  “You were right,” she said. “There must be many men who are desperate to learn how to type. It is very sad.”

  “I told you it would work out,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I told you.”

  THE FIRST class took place on a Wednesday evening. Mma Ramotswe had given Mma Makutsi the afternoon off so that she could prepare for the occasion, and Mma Makutsi had spent some time setting out sheets of paper at each desk and distributing the exercise booklet which she had herself typed out and duplicated. On a makeshift blackboard at one end of the room she had drawn, in chalk, the layout of the keyboard, dissected with wavy lines for the domain of each finger and each thumb. This was the basic knowledge of the typist, the foundation stone of the skill that would send the fingers racing across the keyboard and the keys clattering against the roller.