“I am from Mochudi,” she said. “That is where I was born.”
The old woman seemed visibly to relax. “Ah! So you are Kgatla, like us. Which ward did you live in?”
Mma Ramotswe explained her origins, and the old woman nodded. She knew that headman, yes, and she knew his cousin, who was married to her brother’s wife’s sister. Yes, she thought that she had met Obed Ramotswe a long time ago, and then, dredging into memory, she said, “Your mother is late, isn’t she? She was the one who was killed by a train when you were a baby.”
Mma Ramotswe was mildly surprised, but not astonished, that she should know this. There were people who made it their business to remember the affairs of the community, and this was obviously one. Today they called them oral historians, she believed; whereas in reality, they were old women who liked to remember the things that interested them most: marriages, deaths, children. Old men remembered cattle.
Their conversation went on, the old woman slowly and subtly extracting from Mma Ramotswe the full story of her life. She told her about Note Mokoti, and the old woman shook her head in sympathy, but said that there were many men like that and that women should look out for them.
“My family chose my husband for me,” she said. “They started negotiations, although they would not have pressed the matter if I had said that I didn’t like him. But they did the choosing and they knew what sort of man would be good for me. And they were right. My husband is a very fine husband, and I have given him three sons. There is one who is very interested in counting cattle, which is his hobby; he is a very clever man, in his way. Then there is the one you know, Mma, who is a very big man in the Government, and then there is the one who lives here. He is a very good farmer and has won prizes for his bulls. They are all fine men. I am proud.”
“And have you been happy, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Would you change your life at all if somebody came and said: here is some medicine to change your life. Would you do it?”
“Never,” said the old woman. “Never. Never. God has given me everything a person could ask for. A good husband. Three strong sons. Strong legs that even today can take me walking five, six miles without any complaint. And you see here, look. All my teeth are still in my head. Seventy-six years and no teeth gone. My husband is the same. Our teeth will last until we are one hundred. Maybe longer.”
“That is very lucky,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Everything is very good for you.”
“Almost everything,” said the old woman.
Mma Ramotswe waited. Was she due to say something more? Perhaps she might reveal something she had seen her daughter-in-law do. Perhaps she had seen her preparing the poison, or had word of it somehow, but all she said was: “When the rains come, I find that my arms ache in the wet air. Here, and just here. For two months, three months, I have very sore arms that make it difficult to do any sewing. I have tried every medicine, but nothing works. So I think, if this is all that God has sent me to carry in this life, then I am still a very lucky woman.”
THE MAID who had shown Mma Ramotswe in was summoned to take her to her room, which was at the back of the house. It was simply furnished, with a patchwork bedcover and a framed picture of Mochudi Hill on the wall. There was a table, with a crocheted white doily, and a small chest of drawers in which clothes could be stored.
“There is no curtain in this room,” said the maid. “But nobody ever goes past this window and you will be private here, Mma.”
She left Mma Ramotswe to unpack her clothes. There would be lunch at twelve o’clock, the maid explained, and until then she should entertain herself.
“There is nothing to do here,” said the maid, adding, wistfully, “This is not Gaborone, you know.”
The maid started to leave, but Mma Ramotswe prolonged the conversation. In her experience, the best way of getting somebody to talk was to get them to speak about themselves. This maid would have views, she felt; she was clearly not a stupid woman, and she spoke good, well-enunciated Setswana.
“Who else lives here, Mma?” she asked. “Are there other members of the family?”
“Yes,” said the maid. “There are other people. There is their son and his wife. They have three sons, you see. One who has got a very small head and who counts cattle all day, all the time. He is always out at the cattle post and he never comes here. He is like a small boy, you see, and that is why he stays with the herdboys out there. They treat him like one of them, although he is a grown man. That is one. Then there is the one in Gaborone, where he is very important, and the one here. Those are the sons.”
“And what do you think of those sons, Mma?”
It was a direct question and probably posed prematurely, which was risky; the woman could become suspicious at such prying. But she did not; instead she sat down on the bed.
“Let me tell you, Mma,” she began. “That son who is out at the cattle post is a very sad man. But you should hear the way that his mother talks about him. She says he is clever! Clever! Him! He is a little boy, Mma. It is not his fault, but that is what he is. The cattle post is the best place for him, but they should not say that he is clever. That is just a lie, Mma. It is like saying that there is rain in the dry season. There isn’t.”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is true.”
The maid barely acknowledged her intervention before continuing. “And then that one in Gaborone; when he comes out here he makes trouble for everybody. He asks us all sorts of questions. He pokes his nose into everything. He even shouts at his father, would you believe it? But then the mother shouts at him and puts him in his place. He may be a big man in Gaborone, but here he is just the son and he should not shout at his elders.”
Mma Ramotswe was delighted. This was exactly the sort of maid she liked to interview.
“You are right, Mma,” she said. “There are too many people shouting at other people these days. Shout. Shout. You hear it all the time. But why do you think he shouts? Is it just to clear his voice?”
The maid laughed. “He has a big voice, that one! No, he shouts because he says that there is something wrong in this place. He says that things are not being done properly. And then he says …” She lowered her voice. “And then he says that the wife of his brother is a bad woman. He said that to the father, in so many words. I heard him. People think that maids don’t hear, but we have ears the same as anybody. I heard him say that. He said wicked things about her.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Wicked things?”
“He says that she is sleeping with other men. He says that when they have their firstborn it will not be of this house. He says that their sons will belong to other men and different blood will get this farm. That’s what he says.”
Mma Ramotswe was silent. She looked out of her window. There was bougainvillaea directly outside, and its shadow was purple. Beyond it, the tops of the thorn trees, stretching out to the low hills on the horizon; a lonely land, at the beginning of the emptiness.
“And do you think that’s true, Mma? Is there any truth in what he says about that woman?”
The maid crumpled up her features. “Truth, Mma? Truth? That man does not know what truth means. Of course it is not true. That woman is a good woman. She is the cousin of my mother’s cousin. All the family, all of them, are Christians. They read the Bible. They follow the Lord. They do not sleep with other men. That is one thing which is true.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF BEAUTY
MMA MAKUTSI, Acting Manager of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, went to work that day in some trepidation. Although she welcomed responsibility and had delighted in her two promotions, she had nonetheless always had Mma Ramotswe in the background, a presence to whom she could turn if she found herself out of her depth. Now, with Mma Ramotswe away, she realised that she was solely responsible for two businesses and two employees. Even if Mma Ramotswe was planning to be no more than four or five da
ys on the farm, that was long enough for things to go wrong and, since Mma Ramotswe could not be contacted by telephone, Mma Makutsi would have to handle everything. As far as the garage was concerned, she knew that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was now being looked after at the orphan farm and that she should not attempt to contact him until he was better. Rest and a complete break from the worries of work had been advised by the doctor, and Mma Potokwane, not accustomed to contradicting doctors, would be fiercely protective of her patient.
Mma Makutsi secretly hoped that the agency would get no clients until Mma Ramotswe came back. This was not because she did not want to work on a case—she certainly did—but she did not wish to be solely and completely responsible. But, of course, a client did come in, and, what was worse, it was a client with a problem that required immediate attention.
Mma Makutsi was sitting at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s desk, preparing garage bills, when one of the apprentices put his head round the door.
“There is a very smart-looking man wanting to see you, Mma,” he announced, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls. “I have opened the agency door and told him to wait.”
Mma Makutsi frowned at the apprentice. “Smart-looking?”
“Big suit,” said the apprentice. “You know. Handsome, same as me but not quite. Shiny shoes. A very smart man. You watch yourself, Mma. Men like that try to charm ladies like you. You just see.”
“Don’t wipe your hands on your overalls,” snapped Mma Makutsi, as she rose from her chair. “We pay for the laundering. You don’t. We give you cotton waste to use for that purpose. That is what it’s for. Has Mr J.L.B. Matekoni not told you that?”
“Maybe,” said the apprentice. “Maybe not. The boss said lots of things to us. We can’t remember everything he says.”
Mma Makutsi brushed past him on her way out. These boys are impossible, she thought, but at least they were proving to be harder workers than she expected. Perhaps Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been too soft on them in the past; he was such a kind man and it was not in his nature to criticise people unduly. Well, it was in her nature at least. She was a graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College, and the College teachers had always said: Do not be afraid to criticize—in a constructive way, of course—your own performance and, if necessary, the performance of others. Well, Mma Makutsi had criticised, and it had borne fruit. The garage was doing well and there seemed to be more and more work each day.
She paused at the door of the agency, just round the corner of the building, and looked at the car parked under the tree behind her. This man—this smart man, as the apprentice had described him—certainly drove an attractive car. She ran her eye for a moment over the smooth lines of the vehicle and its double aerials, front and back. Why would somebody need so many aerials? It would be impossible to listen to more than one radio station at a time, or make more than one telephone call while driving. But whatever the explanation, they certainly added to the air of glamour and importance which surrounded the car.
She pushed the door open. Inside, seated in the chair facing Mma Ramotswe’s desk, knees crossed in relaxed elegance, was Mr Moemedi “Two Shots” Pulani, immediately recognisable to any reader of the Botswana Daily News, across whose columns his handsome, self-assured face had so often been printed. Mma Makutsi’s immediate thought was that the apprentice should have recognised him, and she felt momentarily annoyed at his failure to do so, but then she reminded herself that the apprentice was an apprentice mechanic and not an apprentice detective, and, furthermore, she had never seen the apprentices reading the newspapers anyway. They read a South African motorcycle magazine, which they pored over in fascination, and a publication called Fancy Girls which they attempted to hide from Mma Makutsi whenever she came across them peering at it during their lunch hour. So there was no reason, she realised, for them to know about Mr Pulani, his fashion empire, and his well-known work for local charities.
Mr Pulani rose to his feet as she entered and greeted her politely. They shook hands, and then Mma Makutsi walked round the desk and sat in Mma Ramotswe’s chair.
“I am glad that you could see me without an appointment, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mr Pulani, taking a silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket.
“I am not Mma Ramotswe, Rra,” she said, declining his offer of a cigarette. “I am the Assistant Manager of the agency.” She paused. It was not strictly true that she was the Assistant Manager of the agency; in fact, it was quite untrue. But she was certainly managing it in Mma Ramotswe’s absence, and so perhaps the description was justified.
“Ah,” said Mr Pulani, lighting his cigarette with a large goldplated lighter. “I would like to speak to Mma Ramotswe herself, please.”
Mma Makutsi flinched as the cloud of smoke drifted over the table to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That will not be possible for some days. Mma Ramotswe is investigating a very important case abroad.” She paused again. The exaggeration had come so easily, and without any thought. It sounded more impressive that Mma Ramotswe should be abroad—it gave the agency an international feel—but she should not have said it.
“I see,” said Mr Pulani. “Well, Mma, in that case I shall speak to you.”
“I am listening, Rra.”
Mr Pulani leaned back in his seat. “This is very urgent. Will you be able to look into something today, straightaway?”
Mma Makutsi took a deep breath before the next cloud of smoke engulfed her.
“We are at your disposal,” she said. “Of course, it is more expensive to handle things urgently. You’ll understand that, Rra.”
He brushed her warning aside. “Expense is not the issue,” he said. “What is at issue is the whole future of the Miss Beauty and Integrity contest.”
He paused for the effect of his words to be felt. Mma Makutsi obliged.
“Oh! That is a very serious matter.”
Mr Pulani nodded. “Indeed it is, Mma. And we have three days to deal with this issue. Just three days.”
“Tell me about it, Rra. I am ready to listen.”
“THERE IS an interesting background to this, Mma,” began Mr Pulani. “I think that the story begins a long time ago, a long time. In fact, the story begins in the Garden of Eden, when God made Adam and Eve. You will remember that Eve tempted Adam because she was so beautiful. And women have continued to be beautiful in the eyes of men since that time, and they still are, as you know.
“Now, the men of Botswana like pretty ladies. They are always looking at them, even when they are elders, and thinking that is a pretty woman, or that this woman is prettier than that woman, and so on.”
“They are like that with cattle, too,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “They say this cow is a good cow and this one is not so good. Cattle. Women. It’s all the same to men.”
Mr Pulani cast her a sideways glance. “Maybe. That is one way of looking at it. Perhaps.” He paused briefly before continuing. “Anyway, it is this interest of men in pretty ladies that makes beauty competitions so popular here in Botswana. We like to find the most beautiful ladies in Botswana and give them titles and prizes. It is a very important form of entertainment for men. And I am one such man, Mma. I have been involved in the beauty queen world for fifteen years, nonstop. I am maybe the most important person in the beauty side of things.”
“I have seen your picture in the papers, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have seen you presenting prizes.”
Mr Pulani nodded. “I started the Miss Glamorous Botswana competition five years ago, and now it is the top one. The lady who wins our competition always gets into the Miss Botswana competition and sometimes into the Miss Universe competition. We have sent ladies to New York and Palm Springs; they have been given high marks for beauty. Some say that they are our best export after diamonds.”
“And cattle,” added Mma Makutsi.
“Yes, and cattle,” Mr Pulani agreed. “But there are some people who are always sniping at us. They write to the newspapers and tell us that it is wron
g to encourage ladies to dress up and walk in front of a lot of men like that. They say that it encourages false values. Pah! False values? These people who write these letters are just jealous. They are envious of the beauty of these girls. They know that they would never be able to enter a competition like that. So they complain and complain and they are very happy when something goes wrong for a beauty competition. They forget, by the way, that these competitions raise a lot of money for charity. Last year, Mma, we raised five thousand pula for the hospital, twenty thousand pula for drought relief—twenty thousand, Mma—and almost eight thousand pula for a nursing scholarship fund. Those are big sums, Mma. How much money have our critics raised? I can tell you the answer to that. Nothing.
“But we have to be careful. We get a lot of money from sponsors, and if sponsors withdraw, then we are in trouble. So if something goes wrong for our competition, then the sponsors may say that they do not want to have anything more to do with us. They say that they do not want to be embarrassed by bad publicity. They say that they are paying for good publicity, not for bad.”
“And has something gone wrong?”
Mr Pulani tapped his fingers on the desk. “Yes. Some very bad things have happened. Last year, two of our beauty queens were found to be bad girls. One was arrested for prostitution in one of the big hotels. That was not good. Another was shown to have obtained goods under false pretences and to have used a credit card without authorisation. There were letters in the paper. There was much crowing. They said things like: Are these girls the right sort of girls to be ambassadors for Botswana? Why not go straight to the prison and pick some of the women prisoners and make them beauty queens? They thought that was very funny, but it was not. Some of the companies saw this and said that if this happened again, they would withdraw sponsorship. I had four letters, all saying the same thing.
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