The Colors of All the Cattle

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Mma Makutsi had felt that the discussion was treating a serious subject with excessive levity, and had stopped using the expression. She still took pleasure, though, in the magazine’s assessment of her abilities, and in particular she liked the thought that she was a doer. Looking back on her life, she was inclined to agree: she had come a long way from Bobonong, her home town in the remote north. It had been a hard battle—firstly, studying at school when she had been expected to help in the family’s fields, and then, again by dint of hard work, securing her place at the Botswana Secretarial College. That had involved sacrifice by the wider Makutsi family, who had contributed to her fees, often at the cost of going short themselves. She would never forget that sacrifice, and had managed in due course to repay those uncles and aunts tenfold, thanks to the generosity of her husband, Phuti Radiphuti, owner of the successful Double Comfort Furniture Store. Phuti was another of life’s doers, although he had completed no questionnaire to find that out about himself.

  She took quiet satisfaction in reflecting on how she had come to be where she was. Not only had she met and married the kindest of men, he was a comfortably off one at that, with a considerable herd of cattle and a total of sixteen people working for him. That total was reached by counting the people in the store as well as the cattle-men and herd boys, a herd boy counting for half a man. That resulted in an employee total of fifteen and a half, and she rounded it up to sixteen: you could not talk, she decided, of half-employees, not these days, when people were so sensitive. Although there were some people who behaved as if they were not quite full people: Charlie, for one, did not think as much as a full person should think. He was always jumping to conclusions or saying foolish things, none of which a full person would do or say. And then there was Mr. Polopetsi, who was so apologetic in his manner, so mousy. He referred to himself as just me or only me, which suggested that he did not see himself as being of the same weight as those around him. And he was not, come to think of it: Mr. Polopetsi probably weighed less than half of what Mma Ramotswe weighed; which meant that there was almost twice as much Mma Ramotswe as there was Mr. Polopetsi…

  This led to another thought. Up in Bobonong there had been a man—a quite ridiculous man, Mma Makutsi recalled—who had said that large people should be allowed to talk for longer at the local community meeting, the kgotla. This man, a butcher, was of a generous build, a fact put down by many to his profession and its ease of access to steak. But that was no grounds for his claim to have greater attention paid to his views. Bigger people often thought they should be listened to more than smaller people, and that, unfortunately, was what did sometimes happen. But it should not be like that, thought Mma Makutsi; each of us had a voice that should be listened to with the same attention and courtesy as any other voice, not with any amplification just because of who we happened to be.

  But here was Mma Makutsi, an identified and admitted doer, lying in bed, thinking about these matters, and not actually doing anything. Phuti was an early riser and would already have set off for the Double Comfort Furniture Store, not even bothering to have breakfast before he started the working day. Of course, he would have something to eat when he reached his office—his secretary always bought fat cakes on her way into work, serving one of these with the cup of strong coffee that she made for him as her first duty of the day.

  Mma Makutsi could have stayed in bed longer if she wished; one consequence of being married to Phuti was that she had not only one helper in the house, but two—Naledi, a young woman from Molepolole, barely nineteen; and a more senior person, Mma Poeli, herself a grandmother of five grandchildren, who had come on the recommendation of Sister Banjuli of the Anglican Hospice. The young woman’s job was to keep the house clean, a task she tackled with a vigour that Phuti occasionally found excessive. “She polishes the floor too much,” he said. “It looks very nice and shiny, but floors are meant to be walked on—they should not be too slippery.”

  Mma Makutsi had been tactful. She remembered the zeal with which she had approached her work when she had first been appointed to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. There had been very little actual work to do in those early days, and she had put body and soul into the few tasks that there were, in case Mma Ramotswe should decide that there was really no need for a secretary. She had spent hours checking and then re-checking her filing system, creating file after file for letters that were merely hoped for rather than actually received. She was so proud of her job, and would arrive for work half an hour earlier than necessary, waiting patiently for Mma Ramotswe to drive up in her white van and open the doors for the business that seemed so slow to materialise. They had become busier, of course, as the reputation of the agency spread and more people came to realise that they would benefit from the services of a private detective agency. But she had not forgotten those early times, and how she felt about the job. So now, to Naledi, for whom the position as maid in the house of Phuti Radiphuti and his wife was a matter of such status, she explained that, while hard work was always appreciated, it was not necessary to overdo things. She suggested that more time might be spent on ironing rather than polishing, and this, for a time at least, seemed to work. But then Phuti complained that, although it was always a pleasure to put on a well-ironed shirt in the morning, it was not necessary to have underpants, trousers, and socks so stiffly starched.

  Both Naledi and Mma Poeli helped with the Radiphutis’ son, Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti, who was now eighteen months old and enjoying mobility with all the gusto of that age. He had been an early walker, and an enthusiastic one, and it was a full-time job for Mma Poeli to supervise him in his explorations of the world. In the house itself that was not too much of a problem, as Naledi’s efforts meant that there were no dusty corners in which dangers might lurk; no spider would find a peaceful haven there, nor any other potentially harmful insect that might bite incautious young fingers. Outside in the garden, it was another matter, and vigilance was always required, particularly in the hot weather, when snakes might migrate from the stretch of scrub bush that adjoined the Radiphuti plot. Phuti had created a small pond in the garden, and this attracted frogs, which in due course interested snakes. Most of these would keep well away from people, but some, particularly the lethargic and slow-moving puff adder, would be slow to get out of the way and could inflict a devastating bite. Itumelang loved being outside, but vigilance was required.

  Both Naledi and Mma Poeli lived in the small servants’ block at the back of the main house. In Botswana, any house of any size—even relatively modest, suburban houses in the main towns—might be expected to have such accommodation in the garden. More often than not these places were cramped in their dimensions—single rooms in which there was little natural lighting, four roughly distempered walls topped with a flat cast-iron roof. These were mean quarters for anyone, reminders of a time when domestic servants were treated with little consideration. That had changed, of course, and people were now obliged to meet certain minimum standards in their treatment of those whom they employed; but the legacy of mean-spiritedness remained in the hovels in which people were obliged to live.

  Phuti would have none of that, and neither would Mma Makutsi. In his case, he had never lived in poverty: the Radiphutis had been well-to-do—starting in a modest way—for three generations. Phuti’s grandfather, Edward Radiphuti, had been the headmaster of a school, while his father, Thomas Radiphuti, had grown the family fortunes—and cattle herd—through his hard work in the furniture business. Thomas had taught Phuti a valuable lesson in how to deal with people less fortunate than oneself. “Think of what you have,” he said. “Then think of what they have. See what that does to the way you think about other people.” He had found this simple act of imagining had the desired effect: from the well of security it is not hard to draw the water of generosity.

  Mma Makutsi, of course, had come from a very different background. She had known poverty and knew very well what
it was to have no money—just no money at all—and to wonder where the next meal would come from. That experience could either make people grasping and selfish once their fortunes changed, or it could have the opposite effect. In her case it was the latter. Naledi and Mma Poeli were not expected to work long hours, and were given both Saturday and Sunday off, something that few domestic servants enjoyed. Then there was the money: although she was canny in her housekeeping—Mma Makutsi did not believe in waste—she insisted on paying Naledi and Mma Poeli well above the rather pitiful minimum wage that many people paid their domestic helpers. This was topped up with generous food allowances, and with gifts of furniture that Phuti would occasionally bring back from the store. These were items he described as shop-soiled—tables with scratches on the surface, chairs with discoloured coverings because somebody had left them too long under a window in the warehouse and the sun had done its damage, beds with legs that had unaccountably broken between factory and store. There was not much room for such items in the servants’ quarters, which were already furnished, but they were gratefully received by relatives. There was always somebody who would appreciate something—always: an aunt, a cousin, or one of that strange, unlimited category of distant, unspecified connections. To these people Naledi and Mma Poeli would pass on Phuti’s gifts, with Phuti’s blessing, because he too understood the way in which things worked—the way in which people looked after one another.

  Lying in bed that morning, Mma Makutsi heard the sound of Mma Poeli’s voice drifting through from the kitchen, where she would be feeding Itumelang. She was telling him to eat up; sometimes, though, she would be singing, as grandmothers did to small children, and Mma Makutsi would recognise the song from somewhere back in her own childhood. A few days earlier she had heard Mma Poeli singing the song of the wedding of the baboons, and had told Mma Ramotswe about it over the first office cup of tea. Mma Ramotswe had smiled and remembered: she knew the words, about how the baboons had celebrated their wedding and dressed each other in scraps they had managed to steal from human houses—an old hat, a dishcloth made to serve as a skirt, a torn handkerchief making the groom’s shirt.

  Mma Makutsi stretched out in her bed. She knew that there was no need to get up if she felt disinclined to do so. Her hours at the agency were flexible now, as she did not have to work for a salary and could choose when she went in. Mma Ramotswe paid her, it was true, but only for one-third of her time—the figure they had agreed upon after Mma Makutsi’s marriage to Phuti. She had no need of that money now, and occasionally, after a slack period in the agency, she would tacitly fail to draw what was owing to her. This was a gesture very much appreciated by Mma Ramotswe; although she too could rely on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s income, she still liked to avoid the business going into the red at the end of the month.

  Mma Makutsi looked at her watch. It was now almost eight, and Mma Ramotswe would be sitting at her desk, attending to the mail that had been collected the previous afternoon, too late to be dealt with before the close of business. It was usually Mma Makutsi’s job to slit open the envelopes and log the contents in a large ledger labelled Mail In. She would give each letter a reference number—a vital component in any good filing system, she believed—and then glance at its contents before passing it on to Mma Ramotswe. This was the way things had always been done, although Mma Makutsi believed that there was no reason why the mail should not be divided into two piles, one for Mma Ramotswe to deal with and one for herself. Passing on every letter to Mma Ramotswe might have made sense in the days when she was simply the secretary, but now that she was a director—no, joint managing director—there was no reason why she should not respond to correspondence in her own words, and under her own name. She would suggest that to Mma Ramotswe at some point, even if not just yet. There was still a feeling that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was Mma Ramotswe’s creation and therefore she had a greater say in its affairs. Mma Makutsi could not argue with that: Mma Ramotswe had started the agency; she had chosen its name; she had determined where its office would be, which happened to be under a roof shared with her husband’s garage, Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. And yet there must come a time, Mma Makutsi thought, when the centre of gravity in a business shifted from the old guard to the new, and up-and-coming people could assume control.

  Up-and-coming…she savoured the sound of the expression as she lay there in bed. Up-and-coming…She was definitely up-and-coming, and the next time she was interviewed for a newspaper profile—as had happened a few months ago—she would suggest that form of words to the journalist. Grace Makutsi, Up-and-Coming Powerhouse in the World of Detection. That would be a very satisfactory heading for an article, not that one wanted to be too presumptuous in these things. Powerhouse might be a bit much, perhaps; figure might be better, or prospect, that had a good ring to it, and was suggestive of the future; so perhaps she might propose that, if the interview ever took place, that was. The last profile had been a bit dull for Mma Makutsi’s taste, and had given excessive weight, she felt, to her origins. A Long Way from Bobonong was not a particularly complimentary title for the piece, in her view, and there was far more to her career than a rags-to-riches story. There were her successful cases, for instance—her triumphs, as Mma Ramotswe had generously called them; Mma Makutsi had told the interviewer about them, in some detail, but there had been no mention of any of this in the newspaper article, other than a vague reference to “certain satisfactory results.” Instead there had been a whole paragraph on the fact that nobody of any note had ever come from Bobonong before and that it was a pity that people up there seemed completely unaware of Mma Makutsi’s stellar progress. Then there had been something about Mma Makutsi’s alma mater, the Botswana Secretarial College, which had been described as an “office school” where “office workers learned basic skills.” That had incensed Mma Makutsi, and understandably so. Basic skills? Did that journalist have any idea—the slightest idea—of just what was taught at the Botswana Secretarial College? Did he know, for example, that there was a full course entitled Advanced Accountancy? Not just accountancy, but advanced accountancy. Did people like that know the first thing about Filing Theory, Part One, a course in which Mma Makutsi had achieved a grade of one hundred per cent? She had mentioned in the interview that her examination paper in that subject had, with her permission, of course, been used by the college as a model paper for subsequent students. There was nothing about that in the final article, but that was the way that journalists behaved. Unless you gave them a positive steer, they could go off in some odd direction of their own.

  She closed her eyes. She could easily drift back to sleep, she thought, and then wake up again at nine, or even later. She knew that sleep was good for one, and in particular helped the skin. She needed to watch her skin; it had a tendency to excessive oiliness, although she managed to keep that in check by using a special lemon-based balm she ordered by post. That came all the way from Cape Town and would arrive in a small parcel marked Strictly Confidential. She did not think that was necessary—oily skin was not something she felt she had to be ashamed of; it was better, surely, to have what she called a “well-irrigated skin” rather than to have a dry skin or, even worse, a flaky skin. A flaky skin was particularly bad if you were a criminal, she had read, as it meant that you left a great deal of DNA at the scene of the crime. That had amused her. That would teach any flaky-skinned housebreakers to burgle people’s houses. “You really need to do something about your skin,” the police might say to such people when they arrested them.

  What was that? She opened her eyes, sure that she had heard something. From the kitchen she heard Mma Poeli’s voice, and this was followed by a brief exclamation in Itumelang’s high-pitched tones. Then Mma Poeli once again, saying something to Naledi, who must have been in the kitchen with them. But it was not this that Mma Makutsi had heard, but something quite different.

  She was wide awake now, and slipped out from under the
sheet to stand on the bedside mat. Had she imagined it? No, she was sure she had not. She knelt down and looked cautiously under the bed. Caution was always required when you looked under a bed—anybody’s bed, even your own. You never knew. She had heard of somebody who had looked under her bed to discover an intruder concealed there. That would have been a terrible shock—the sort of thing from which you might never recover. Other people had found snakes there—for some reason, snakes liked to curl up under people’s beds—or a scorpion nest, which would be almost as bad; or money, of course. There were still people who kept their money under their bed. It was not a wise thing to do, but these people somehow felt more secure if they knew they were sleeping over their savings.

  There was nothing under Mma Makutsi’s bed—thanks to Naledi, not even a sign of dust. Relieved, she stood up again and crossed the floor towards the cupboard in which she kept her clothes. And again she heard it: a tiny, almost inaudible voice, one that she recognised immediately. It was a voice she had not heard for some time, but now it had something to say once more. Careful, Boss! Don’t get mixed up in politics!

  It was her shoes. They were in the bottom of the cupboard, and that was why they sounded so faint. Her shoes.

  She opened the cupboard door gingerly. There had been cases of intruders hiding in cupboards, but there was nothing like that now. Just her clothing, and below that the shoes, staring up at her with the innocent look of shoes that would never take it upon themselves to address anybody about anything, let alone issue what sounded like an unambiguous warning.

  Mma Makutsi sighed. Imagination was an odd thing. It made you see things that were not there and hear things that were not said. Although sometimes the things that were not there or the things that were not said were things to which you should pay close attention. Sometimes, she thought, but not always.