Hercules was the first-born child of Lucas and Tippy. The arrival of a son was a source of great pride to Lucas, particularly since the baby was the largest child of either sex born that year at the Princess Marina Hospital in Gaborone. The sheer weight of the baby—twelve pounds and one ounce—meant that the labour was long and arduous: thirty-two hours, and at the end of it Tippy had not been in a fit state to share her husband’s delight at the birth. He saw this, and generously assured her that, having presented him with such a fine son, he would not expect her to go through the gruelling experience again. “We can be a small family,” he said. “We do not need to have many children.”
In spite of this resolution, Tippy wanted a daughter, and assured Lucas that a second pregnancy and delivery would be altogether easier. “The first time is a big problem,” she said. “The second is always much easier.”
But it was not, or at least it was only very slightly less traumatic. Queenie-Queenie arrived after a shorter labour and weighed considerably less than her brother, but the delivery led to severe complications for the mother, and these were sufficient to resurrect the parents’ earlier resolve. There would be no more children. “We have one of each,” said Lucas, “and we shall be very satisfied with that. God has sent us two children, and we shall not ask him for any more.”
Hercules was two years older than Queenie-Queenie, but he showed none of the resentment or rivalry that older children might feel on the arrival of a younger sibling. He seemed immensely proud of his sister, and this pride grew with each fresh achievement of the young Queenie-Queenie. Her first steps, taken in his presence, led to whoops of delight and shouted claims that he had taught her to walk. In the same way, he solemnly told relatives that it was he who should get the credit for her first real achievement at school: a prize for a drawing she did of a hoopoe. “I have taught her everything,” he announced with an eight-year-old’s solemnity. “I am her teacher, you see.”
The pride and affection Hercules showered on his sister was fully reciprocated. In her view, there was nothing he could not do; no feat of strength was beyond him, no task too daunting, no problem too difficult to admit of a solution at his hands. His disapproval, rarely shown, would send Queenie-Queenie into the deepest despair—would turn off the sun, she felt, until she was forgiven and the natural equilibrium of their relationship was restored.
Hercules was not the name given to him as an infant. In the Register of Births for the Gaborone district there was no Hercules Modikwe; there was, however, a Muso Ketakile Modikwe, Muso being the name of his maternal grandfather, and Ketakile being the family name of his paternal grandmother. The name Hercules was first used by an aunt, a teacher at a school in the north, who called him this when she first met him. The boy was then just over two, but already had the stocky, muscular constitution that was to become so evident later on.
“He is a strong one, this,” she said, admiringly. “He will be a very strong man, just like Hercules.”
Neither Lucas nor Tippy had heard of Hercules, and they had listened with interest to the aunt’s version of the legend. She had a book of Greek and Roman stories, she explained, and had learned of Hercules from that. “I do not think he existed,” she said. “These tales are all false. They are nonsense, really, like some of the stories the grandmothers tell here. You know—those stories about talking birds and so on.”
“Maybe there was a really strong man some time ago,” said Lucas. “Sometimes these stories are about something that was almost true.”
“That’s possible,” said the aunt. “But one thing is certain: this boy will be just like Hercules—very, very strong.”
The name stuck, and by the time Muso went to school Hercules was the only name to which he would answer. That was entered into the school register as the child’s name, and no more was heard of the names he had been given at birth. It proved appropriate, as nicknames often do: Hercules was by far the strongest boy in his age group at school, his strength being an effortless expression of his underlying muscularity. Yet he was not satisfied with the endowments of nature, and by the time he reached the teenage years he had begun a course of muscle-building, following manuals he had ordered from a body-building institute in Durban. These manuals showed before and after pictures of the transformation that could be expected, many of the successful body-builders being photographed on one of the beaches near Durban, muscles rippling under a glistening layer of the oil with which such people liked to anoint themselves. Hercules had less work to do than these young men to achieve the same result: he was already muscular and had only to look forward to an increase in muscle bulk, encouraging that strange bodily look in which small muscles seem to grow on the surface of underlying muscles, creating an undulating topography of ridges and valleys, dunes of tissue like the sandscape of the Namibian desert.
Lucas encouraged his son in his body-building. “If you’re strong,” he said, “you need never be afraid. Nobody will try to push you around. It is very good to be strong.”
Tippy agreed, although she felt there were limits. “You do not want to end up with too many muscles,” she warned. “If you have too many muscles, you will seize up. You can’t move if you are made entirely of muscle.”
Hercules listened, but was not deterred. By the time he was sixteen he was already becoming well known at the body-building competitions that were occasionally held at the Sun Hotel, and when he left school at eighteen, going straight into the family transport business, he already had two titles to his credit. For a year he had been Mr. Teenage Botswana, as well as runner-up in the Southern African Power Man competition held over the border at a popular South African resort. Now his sights were firmly set on the Mr. Botswana contest. This was still fourteen months away, a period during which Hercules would redouble his efforts to increase his already prodigious strength.
Queenie-Queenie followed his progress with special pride. It had been the greatest moment of her life, she felt, when she had read the Botswana Daily News headline: Big Hope for Botswana Body-Building. And there, beneath those echoing, dramatic words, had been a photograph of her brother—her own brother—the upper part of his body exposed, his muscles exhibited for the whole country to marvel over. “Yes,” she said to those who enquired, “that is my brother, as it happens. Yes, he is very strong, but he is also very kind and gentle. Strong men do not need to throw their weight around. Strong men have nothing to prove, you know.”
Queenie-Queenie had mentioned to Charlie that she had a brother, but had not said much about him. Certainly she had not mentioned the body-building, nor the titles, nor the fact that she spent at least an hour a day preparing for him the special high-protein foods that he ate in place of regular meals. These required close attention to temperature and had to be served in a special order at particular intervals, often between bouts of intense weight-lifting. Queenie-Queenie kept a record of all this, complete with graphs and tables to show body-mass index, body temperature, liquid consumption, and so on.
“Making the perfect body is a science,” pronounced Hercules. “You are a scientist now, Queenie-Queenie.”
Hercules took a protective interest in his sister’s life. He had been a stout defender of her interests at school, where, if there were occasional incidents of bullying, none of these was ever directed at Queenie-Queenie—for obvious reasons. He could see that his sister was attractive, and would come to the attention of boys, but he let it be known that any boy who wanted to approach her would have to come through him, and such interviews proved to be rare. One unfortunate boy who asked whether he could invite Queenie-Queenie to accompany him to the cinema was left in no doubt that such requests would be given short shrift. He was lifted up, given a good shaking, and then told to ask the same question once he had a job, a car, and twenty thousand pula in the bank. Word of that soon got round, and there were no further requests made to Hercules.
Queenie-Quee
nie was vaguely aware that Hercules was acting as some sort of gate-keeper. She did not mind this—indeed she was flattered by her brother’s concern. She found boys interesting enough, but was in no hurry to start seeing any one boy in particular. There would be time enough for that in the future, she thought, when she imagined that a suitable man would present himself, propose to her, and agree to a proper Botswana wedding with a great deal of feasting, music, and smart clothing. Then she would carry out her long-cherished plan to present her parents with the grandchildren they were hoping for, while at the same time continuing to cook high-protein meals for her brother. Queenie-Queenie was a home-loving person, and these ambitions were quite enough for her.
Charlie was not her first boyfriend. Shortly after she had taken up her first job, as an assistant in another, less fashionable dress shop, she had been asked out by a young man working in a domestic appliance shop next door. She liked him, and had begun to see him without telling Hercules or her parents. Then, quite abruptly, the young man had broken off the relationship without any explanation other than a mumbled excuse about being too busy and having to work on the book-keeping course he was pursuing at night school. The real reason, unknown to Queenie-Queenie, was that her brother had made an adverse assessment of the suitor’s intentions. Hercules had heard of the relationship, made enquiries, and discovered that the young man had had four girlfriends in the previous eighteen months. Drawing his own conclusions from this, he had visited the young man in his lodgings and made it clear to him that he should no longer see Queenie-Queenie. The young man, who recognised Hercules from his photograph in the Botswana Daily News, did not argue, and was quick to give the necessary assurances.
This habit of intimidating his sister’s would-be friends might suggest that Hercules was a bully. But he was not: in most of his dealings with people he was courteous, even slightly diffident; it was only when it came to the protection of what he saw as his family’s interests that he used the undoubted leverage that his superior strength gave him. He was sure that in time a suitable young man would appear, and when that happened he would give the liaison all the support he could muster. But for the time being Queenie-Queenie needed protection from predators, of which there were considerable numbers, Lotharios all, circling any beautiful—and rich—young women. It would be folly, Hercules thought, for a brother or any other close relative to ignore the danger that such men posed to Botswana womanhood.
As for the parents, they remained unaware of any young men whom their daughter was seeing. They lavished attention on Queenie-Queenie, whose photographs in various poses adorned every wall of their house; they spoke of her to their friends to such an extent that all but the most intimate, loyal friends dreaded the subject; and it was only reluctantly that they agreed to her finding work outside the safe confines of the family firm. She was adamant, though, that she wanted to earn her own living; she did not want people to know that her father was well off, and she never mentioned the fact to anybody—and especially not to Charlie.
“My father drives a truck,” she said to him when he had asked her about her family. “He moves cattle—and sometimes other things.”
Charlie had concluded that Queenie-Queenie’s father was a long-distance truck driver of the sort one encountered on every journey from the north down to Lobatse, carting cattle to market. It was good enough work, if nothing special, and no further mention was made of it.
“You should tell him I’m a mechanic,” he said. “If his truck needs fixing, I can do it cheaply. Tell him that.”
Queenie-Queenie smiled. She was about to explain that her father already employed six mechanics. But she did not do so. If a boy liked her in the belief that she was just an ordinary girl, then his motives would be clear. The last thing she wanted was a boy who liked money more than the promptings of his heart. She had once read a magazine story about just that problem, and she had felt appalled by the plight in which the heroine found herself. How could anybody live with the suspicion that her partner, her spouse perhaps, had only taken her on because of the dowry that came with her? She could not; not for one moment, and for this reason she said nothing more to Charlie about her parents and steadfastly declined his suggestions that he could run her home.
“But you don’t have a car, Charlie,” she pointed out. “How can you run me home?”
“I can use one from the garage,” said Charlie. “There is a truck that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni lets me drive.”
Queenie-Queenie smiled. “You’re sweet, Charlie. But I won’t be driven back in a truck. No, that would not be a good thing.”
“It’s a comfortable truck,” said Charlie. “And I could put a blanket over the front seat—to protect you from grease.”
But she shook her head, closing the subject. “No. I wouldn’t want that, Charlie.”
He did not press the point, but he found himself wondering about the house she lived in. Was it shame over humble conditions that made her unwilling to show him her home? He could understand that—many people were ashamed of the conditions in which they lived their lives. Poverty was grubby, dirty even, and people did not like its taint, even if it was not in any way their fault. But how did you convince them that it didn’t matter, that what counted was the person rather than the surrounding circumstances? Charlie was still a young man, and young men do not always grasp that, but his outlook was maturing—even if rather late, according to Mma Makutsi—and he understood how Queenie-Queenie might feel. That surprised him; he had never taken girls particularly seriously—another of Mma Makutsi’s charges against him—but with Queenie-Queenie he found it was different. He found himself worrying about how she might feel about things; he imagined what she would be thinking; he found himself thinking of how she looked at the world, and he wanted to think about it in the same way. Charlie was growing up.
* * *
—
QUEENIE-QUEENIE allowed him to take her hand when he arrived. He pressed it gently, before she withdrew it. They were not at the stage of kissing one another in public which, anyway, was still frowned upon by some. “So, Charlie,” said Queenie-Queenie. “What’s new?”
Charlie waved a hand. “We’ve got a big case coming up,” he said. “I can’t really talk about it too much. A hit-and-run case.”
Queenie-Queenie’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “Will you find the driver?”
Charlie waved a hand insouciantly. “I’ll do my best. I can never guarantee results, you know.”
Queenie-Queenie smiled. “I’m sure you’re very good at all this, Charlie.”
“I get by,” said Charlie, thinking about how Mma Makutsi never told him he was good at being a detective. Yet here was somebody who knew nothing about his work expressing confidence in him. And it cost you nothing, thought Charlie, to say something nice to somebody.
“And the garage?” asked Queenie-Queenie. “You were working there too?”
Charlie nodded. “I lend a hand,” he said. “I help them out when they’re busy. The boss relies on me, I suppose.”
He swallowed. These were not real lies; they were exaggerations, perhaps, but they harmed nobody, and anyway, if only people treated him fairly, they would probably be true. If Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would let him get on with his work without constantly telling him he was doing it incorrectly, then he would become good enough to be relied upon. So it was not really untrue.
Charlie now asked Queenie-Queenie about her day.
“Very busy,” she replied. “There’s a big wedding coming up and they’re coming to us for dresses. All the guests, or most of them. Big dresses. Big shoes. These people are spending a lot of money.”
“Weddings…,” mused Charlie, leaving the sentence unfinished. Then he went on, “Who’s getting married?”
Queenie-Queenie shrugged. “Some guy—I don’t know him. But the bride works at the President Hotel. She arranges their functions—yo
u know, business dinners and so on. She has lots of friends and they all want a better dress than everyone else.”
Charlie laughed. “That’s because they’ll be looking for husbands. Weddings are a good place to meet a husband.”
Queenie-Queenie thought about this. “Many of them, maybe,” she said at last. “But not all. Not all girls want a husband, you know. Not all.”
Charlie looked sceptical. “What do they want, then?”
“They want the same as men want. A good job. Money to buy food. A good time.”
“And a husband,” added Charlie.
“Not all,” Queenie-Queenie repeated.
There was a bright checked tablecloth covering the table at which they were sitting. Coffee, ordered by Queenie-Queenie, had been brought to the table. Charlie fingered the edge of the tablecloth. He was not sure whether he should say what he wanted to say, but he decided to take the risk.
“And you, Queenie? Do you want a husband?”
Queenie-Queenie did not blink. “Yes, I’d like a husband.”
There was a silence.
“What sort of husband?” asked Charlie.
She shrugged. “I haven’t made my mind up yet. But he would have to have a good sense of humour.”
I have, thought Charlie.
“And he would have to be kind.”
I’m definitely kind, thought Charlie. Ask Fanwell. Ask anybody. They’ll all say the same thing.
“And it would be nice if he’s good-looking…”
No difficulty there, thought Charlie.
“And likes lots of children.”
Children, thought Charlie. Well, there’s nothing wrong with children.
The Colors of All the Cattle Page 8
