“I’m sure it’s true, Mma,” said Charlie.
The nurse laughed. “Well, if I needed to solve any mysteries in my life I would certainly go to Mma Ramotswe—I can tell you that for sure.”
“She is very good at that,” said Charlie, a note of pride in his voice. “And I am her apprentice, you see. Mma Ramotswe is teaching me.”
“Then you will become a very fine detective, Rra,” said Sister Montsho. “But now we must have a cup of tea because I shall have to get back to those poor people out there.” She gestured towards the waiting knot of people, seated on benches under a shade awning.
Over tea, Mma Ramotswe explained the reason for her visit. Although Charlie looked a bit uncomfortable, she told the story of Charlie’s conversation with Eddie and the subsequent visit of Eddie. Sister Montsho listened intently, sipping at her tea and occasionally looking at Charlie, as if to assess him.
When she had finished, Charlie reminded her that there was something to add. “And I had a brick thrown through my window, Sister,” he said. “It could have killed somebody. My little cousins were in the room.”
Sister Montsho shook her head. “I know that young man Eddie,” she said. “I know exactly who he is.” She made a clicking sound with her tongue, an unambiguous sound of disapproval.
Mma Ramotswe looked at Charlie, and then back at the nurse. “If we were able to find out who Eddie’s friends are,” she said, “then we might be able to work out which one of them is the person who knocked Dr. Marang over.”
Charlie had picked up on Mma Ramotswe’s plan and now he thought he might explain. “We know it was a blue car, Mma. So if we find one of them who drove a blue car, then that would be him.”
“Could be him,” corrected Mma Ramotswe.
Sister Montsho looked thoughtful. “Why not ask his mother,” she suggested. “Mothers usually know everything about their sons, I find. It’s just like wives knowing everything about their husbands.”
Charlie, who was standing during this conversation, shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Or husbands,” he said. “Husbands will know everything about their wives, remember.”
Both Sister Montsho and Mma Ramotswe turned to look at him.
“I don’t think so,” said the nurse. “Husbands often know very little, Rra. I don’t want to sound rude, but that’s just the way it is.”
Mma Ramotswe was more tactful. “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don’t. It all depends.”
“Well, we could discuss that for a long time,” said Sister Montsho. “But I still think you should speak to Eddie’s mother. She runs a small store out that way.” She pointed vaguely to the north. “It’s about five miles outside town—you know, one of those very small rural stores. She comes to the clinic here because she has an albino child.” She paused. “That child is the half-brother of that boy Eddie. Same mother, different father.”
“Is the albino child not well?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Sister Montsho sighed. “The child is all right. They can have sight problems, you know, but there is something much more difficult. They cannot be in the sun—because of their skin. They burn very quickly. They can get blisters, sometimes deep burns if the exposure to the sun is too long. They have to use sun-blocking creams all the time. She gets them here from us. The government pays.”
Mma Ramotswe exchanged a glance with Charlie. “Now that’s a good use of the government’s cattle,” she said.
Charlie smiled at the reference. “You’re entitled to your views, Mma,” he muttered.
Mma Ramotswe got the directions from Sister Montsho. “We shouldn’t keep you, Mma. You have work to do.”
Outside, one of the patients groaned—a long, protesting groan that carried into the nurses’ office where they were drinking tea. Mma Ramotswe looked guilty; she did not like the thought that their conversation was holding up the treatment of those in need.
Sister Montsho had heard the groan but was smiling cheerfully. “Oh, that man,” she said lightly. “He’s here almost every day. He is always groaning, but the doctor can find nothing wrong with him. He was in and out of the hospital, and then they started to send him here. I have something I give him now that is just coloured water. We call it a placebo. He loves it and he comes back a day or two later for more.”
“And the government pays for the coloured water?” asked Charlie.
“The government doesn’t mind that,” said Sister Montsho. “Coloured water is very cheap to make. You just add some of that red colouring they use for icing. Then you put it in a bottle with a pharmacy label and people are very happy. Often it makes them better because they think they are getting a powerful medicine.”
Charlie looked up at the shelves lining the office walls with their ordered rows of boxed pills, bottles of medicines, cough syrups, and analgesics. “Perhaps you could give me something,” he said. “I would like to be stronger.”
Sister Montsho laughed. “You don’t need anything, young man,” she said. “Just experience. Get experience. That’s much better than any placebo.”
“Placebo,” muttered Charlie, savouring the word. “That’s a very good word, Sister.”
Sister Montsho nodded. “The human body can be easily tricked, Rra. You have to be careful.”
“You hear that, Charlie?” said Mma Ramotswe, rising to leave. “You have to be careful.”
They went outside. As Sister Montsho walked to the van with Mma Ramotswe, she raised the subject of the election. She had read about Mma Ramotswe’s candidature and was interested to find out how the campaign was going.
“People are voting today,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think the results will be out by nine o’clock tonight.”
“I hope you win,” said Sister Montsho.
“I don’t think I will.”
Sister Montsho looked dubious. “Remember my sister?” she said. “The one who lives in Gaborone?” Mma Ramotswe did. “She says that everybody she knows is going to vote for you. That’s what she told me.”
It was not the news that Mma Ramotswe wanted to hear, but she put a brave face on it. “I don’t know what will happen, Mma,” she said. “It is in God’s hands.”
“I know which way he voted,” said Charlie.
Mma Ramotswe looked at him disapprovingly, but then both she and Sister Montsho smiled.
“It’s not over yet,” said Mma Ramotswe. She knew that to be true; it was certainly not over. In fact, it was only just beginning, she told herself, and it would go on, she feared, for a long time yet: meeting after meeting, letter after letter, speech after speech. It was not the life she had planned for herself, but neither was being a private detective. Life happens, she thought; whatever we do, life just happens.
* * *
—
EDDIE’S MOTHER was Mma Maria Lelotong. Entering the one-room general store, the Good Housewife Shopping Centre, Mma Ramotswe addressed the woman behind the counter, in the correct way of the old Botswana, as Mma Eddie—mother of Eddie.
“Yes,” said Mma Lelotong. “That is me, Mma.” She glanced at Charlie, and recognition slowly dawned. “I think I know who you are. You were a friend of Eddie’s a long time ago. I think I have seen you, Rra.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at Charlie. He was clearly uncomfortable, but she could not work out why this was.
Charlie inclined his head. “I was his friend, yes.”
“Was?” asked Mma Lelotong.
“Am,” replied Charlie.
Mma Ramotswe looked about the store. In spite of its grandiose name, there was not much to distinguish it from any number of minute general dealer businesses that dotted the remoter areas of Botswana. It had the characteristic smell of such places too—a combination of the odours of maize meal, paraffin, candle wax, and carbolic soap, all mixed up to create an unmistakable “gene
ral store” smell. Exiles from Africa, returning after years away, would know it immediately—the smell of home; comforting as only familiar smells of childhood can be.
Her gaze moved along the shelves. The goods on display told the story of the land and its people. Jars of petroleum jelly were stacked next to tins of baby powder—a reminder of the fact that some people still liked to smear a baby with petroleum jelly to make the infant’s skin shine. A brand of well-known cough sweets spoke to the faith that rural people had in such products, even if they were mostly sugar and a token dash of mild antiseptic. Then, in the soap section, a bit further along, there were only two choices: Lux for women, pink, self-indulgent, and Lifebuoy for men—red, bracing, clinical. Then there were tins of baked beans, tubs of margarine, groundnut cooking oil; Tate and Lyle’s Golden Syrup, with its lion crest; Lion matches too, a tiny black-maned lion on the box. Batteries. In one corner, against the wall, a religious picture told a different story. Mma Lelotong was a Catholic, Mma Ramotswe saw. That explained her being called Maria.
Mma Ramotswe went straight to the point. “Mma, there is something I need to talk to you about,” she began. “It is a very complicated story, and it may be that you cannot help me, but I would like to tell you about it.”
Mma Lelotong gave her a guarded look. “Is it something that Eddie has done?”
It was Charlie who answered before Mma Ramotswe could speak. “No, no, not him. One of his friends, Mma. It’s one of his friends.”
“I think that’s right, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We want to know who your son’s friends are.”
Mma Lelotong looked away. “But why should I speak to you about this, Mma? Why should I tell you about my son’s friends?”
Mma Ramotswe spoke quietly. “You know Dr. Marang, Mma?”
Mma Lelotong nodded. “Of course, Mma. He is a good man. We all know him.”
“And you know he had an accident?”
The other woman hesitated. “I have heard that.”
Mma Ramotswe chose her words carefully. “You are a Catholic, Mma?”
“I am.”
Mma Ramostwe waited a moment or two. “Dr. Marang is too, Mma. You’ll know that, won’t you?” She did not wait for an answer, but continued, “Perhaps I should tell you the full story, Mma.”
There was nobody else in the store, and they were invited to sit down on two rickety canvas chairs behind the main counter. Mma Lelotong herself did not sit down, but leaned against the counter while Mma Ramotswe spoke.
At the end of Mma Ramotswe’s explanation, Mma Lelotong sighed. “Eddie is not a bad boy,” she said. “He has a kind heart, you know—he has always been like that.”
“I’m sure that’s so,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“But he has some friends who are not so good,” went on Mma Lelotong. “Some of them have already been in trouble with the police.” She paused, and Mma Ramotswe saw the sadness written across her face. “You said it was a blue car, Mma?”
Charlie answered this. “Yes, that’s what the doctor told the police. He saw a blue car—that was all.”
Mma Lelotong shrugged. “I can give you the names of his friends. Some of them drive cars, I think, but I do not know what colour those cars are.”
Mma Ramotswe became aware that while Mma Lelotong was speaking Charlie had become agitated. Now he touched her briefly on the shoulder, leaning forward to whisper to her.
“Mma, I need to talk to you outside.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Lelotong. “Would you excuse us for a moment, Mma?”
They went outside, into the sun. The sky was high and empty, the heat pressing down upon them.
“What is it, Charlie? Why have you—?”
He cut her short. “It’s Eddie, Mma. He is the one.”
She stared at him. “Eddie?”
“He’s the one with the blue car. It is him, Mma. I know because…”
She waited for him to finish. He lowered his head, as if ashamed.
“I know because when he came to see me he was driving a red car. But I looked closely at the paintwork and I could tell that it had been repainted.”
She said nothing.
“I knew,” said Charlie. His expression—and his tone of voice—were ones of misery. “I was frightened, you see, Mma. I was too frightened to tell you, but now I realise that was wrong. I should have told you before.” He paused. “I am very sorry, Mma.”
She looked at him. “Charlie,” she said, “you may have been frightened, but now you are brave.”
“I should have told you, Mma. I should have—”
She silenced him with a gesture. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “And now we should go back in.”
Mma Ramotswe did not have to confront Mma Lelotong. When they went back in, they found her with her head sunk in her hands. Gently, Mma Ramotswe asked if she was all right.
“I am all right, Mma,” replied the other woman. “But I am very sad—that is all.”
Mma Ramotswe waited a few moments before she asked, “Does Eddie drive a blue car, Mma?”
Mma Lelotong dropped her hands. “Oh, I am very sad, Mma—very sad. He did. Then his car became red. It is now a red car.”
Charlie glanced at Mma Ramotswe. “When, Mma? When did this happen?”
Her voice was shaky. “It was just after I went to the dentist, so that would make it…” She struggled to remember, and then gave them the date. It was, as Mma Ramotswe expected, a day or two after Charlie’s earlier visit to Mochudi, when he had informed Eddie that the car they were looking for, the car that had hit Dr. Marang, was known to be blue.
Mma Ramotswe reached out to touch Mma Lelotong on the forearm. “I am so sorry, Mma. I really am.”
“Will he be arrested?” asked Mma Lelotong.
“Yes,” said Charlie quickly. “The police will take him.”
Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “It’s not that simple, Charlie.” And then, to Mma Lelotong, “There are many ways of dealing with a problem, Mma. Going to the police is not the only way.”
Charlie disagreed. “We have to, Mma. And what about that brick through my window? What about that?”
Mma Lelotong lowered her eyes. “I am ashamed. I am very ashamed that it is my own son who does these things. But—”
Mma Ramotswe interrupted her. “But you are his mother, Mma. That is something that does not change. You will always be his mother.”
They lapsed into silence. Charlie was staring at the shelves, his eyes fixed on a row of cans. Mma Lelotong was twisting the hem of her skirt with her right hand, worrying away at the fabric in her distress. Mma Ramotswe sat quite still.
“So,” Mma Ramotswe said at last, “I’m going to suggest something to you, Mma. You may not want to do it, but I think you should at least give some thought to it.”
Mma Lelotong looked at her with gratitude. “I am listening, Mma. I will listen to every word you say.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THIS RIFF-RAFF PERSON
WHEN MMA RAMOTSWE ARRIVED at the office the following morning, Mma Potokwane was already there, sitting in the client’s chair and drinking a cup of tea brewed for her by Mma Makutsi. They both rose to their feet on Mma Ramotswe’s entry, putting aside their teacups and both giving voice to the traditional ululation that greeted any special achievement in Botswana. “Here she is!” cried Mma Potokwane. “Here she is! The winner of the election!”
“Here she is!” echoed Mma Makutsi. “The famous councillor!”
Mma Ramotswe’s embarrassment was obvious, causing Mma Potokwane to signal restraint to Mma Makutsi. “Well, Mma,” she said. “We are maybe a bit too excited, but we are very, very pleased with the result. We just want you to know that.”
Mma Ramotswe accepted the congratulations. “I didn’t think I’d win,” she said. “I was very
surprised when they phoned me last night.”
“Well, there you are,” said Mma Potokwane. “Now that you’re on the council, we can put a stop to that hotel.”
“And sort other things out as well,” contributed Mma Makutsi. “That intersection near my house needs traffic lights. Perhaps you could—”
Mma Potokwane shook her head vigorously. “No, Mma Makutsi, you must not ask Mma Ramotswe to do anything like that.”
Mma Makutsi glared at Mma Potokwane. “It’s a legitimate request,” she said, pouting in displeasure. “That’s what councillors are for, isn’t it? They have to do things for the people who voted for them.”
“I could try,” said Mma Ramotswe, reaching her desk and sitting down. “I don’t know how these things work, but I suppose I could try.”
“Traffic lights would be very helpful,” said Mma Makutsi, staring defiantly at Mma Potokwane.
The matron did not argue; she had larger fish to fry.
“Do you know when the first meeting will be?” she asked. “They will probably discuss the hotel then.”
Mma Ramotswe explained that the official who had telephoned her with the result the previous evening had mentioned that there was to be a meeting in two days’ time. “He told me that I would get the papers for the meeting later today,” she said. “I will know then what’s going to be discussed.” She paused. “I shall do my best, Mma Potokwane, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Of course you can’t,” said her friend. “Nobody can guarantee that anything will happen—ever—but as long as we do our best to stop that thing, that’s all we can do.”
Mma Ramotswe was about to express her agreement with this, but the telephone now rang, to be answered by Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Potokwane listened as Mma Makutsi engaged with the caller.
“I don’t think it will be possible for you to speak to Mma Ramotswe this morning,” she said. “She is very busy now.”
The Colors of All the Cattle Page 21
