‘Rra?’ Mma Ontoaste started. ‘May I ask you a question?’
For a second the man in the uniform of the Botswana Postal Service stared at her but then, before Mma Ontoaste could ask her question, he snatched up the remaining slice of cake and jammed it in his mouth before bolting across the yard and out through the gate in the stock fence, his postal bag swinging wildly behind him.
Well, thought Mma Ontoaste, still sitting in her chair, does that not take the biscuit!
Mma Delicious Ontoaste took the envelope that the man in the uniform of the Botswana Postal Service had left on the table and she opened it with a letter knife that her father – that dear good man – had left her, commemorating his visit to Las Vegas. She was surprised by the contents. A single sheet of thin paper stamped in a long line of capital letters. Mma Ontoaste read the letters that together made up a series of words:
TO MMA ONTOASTE STOP OWNER OF THE BEST DETECTIVE AGENCY IN THE WORLD EVER EXCLAMATION MARK NO. 2 STOP TOM HURST LECTURER IN TRAN AND PATH ON WAY TO BOTSWANA STOP URGENT HELP NEEDED STOP SENSITIVE MATTER STOP MURDER MOST FOUL STOP MALICE AFORETHOUGHT STOP ARRIVES GABORONE FLIGHT SA 235/1763 06/01 STOP. DEAN CUFF COLLEGE
‘Well,’ exclaimed Mma Ontoaste. ‘What can that be about, I wonder?’
CHAPTER TWO
Mma Murakami does not answer the door when Mma Ontoaste knocks on it and Mma Ontoaste thinks this is very rude. Then, a bit later, she has a disagreeable surprise as a new bride loses and then, to be fair, finds, her new husband but not without having had a fright on the way.
Mma Ontoaste sat for a second on the veranda and she thought that this would be the perfect thing to talk to Mma Murakami about over a cup of bush tea. It would be their first case together and it promised to be an especially interesting case too, and so Mma Ontoaste knocked on the door of Mma Murakami’s office, the implication of this being that she wanted to come in. But Mma Murakami was typing loudly and still listening to jazz music on her new transistor radio and so she did not hear the owner of The Best Detective Agency in the World Ever! No. 2 knocking on the door and, after a minute, Mma Ontoaste returned to her own desk, a frown on her face.
Mma Ontoaste would be able to think about Mma Murakami’s curious behaviour only after she had spoken to her husband, that good man, Mr JPS Spagatoni, over lunch at his the Salt-’n’-Sauce Scotch Chip Supper Shop on Murieston Road, or perhaps later, when the children were in bed and the sun had sunk behind the red hills and the moon hung in the old acacia tree, a time when the air was cool, a time when it was proper to sit on the veranda with a foaming mug of bush tea and talk about the events of the day.
First, though, she must go to the loo.
After that her next task would be to find out why a man who had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and who was probably a Nigerian in the first place should have been given a job representing that fine old institution the Botswana Postal Service. Mma Ontoaste knew that in some countries, such as South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Namibia, Angola, Mozambique and Malawi, and not forgetting of course the Democratic Republic of Congo, there was such a thing as corruption, where a man such as the man who had so recently been to see her to deliver that telegram might wangle himself a job that he did not deserve simply because he had connections in high places. This would never happen in Botswana, of course, but constant vigilance was the price that needed to be paid, and so Mma Ontoaste made up her mind to go and see whomever it was in charge of the Botswana Postal Service and have the impostor exposed.
‘That will be a nice job to do,’ she said aloud.
It was nice to hear a voice; even if it was her own, and for a second Mma Ontoaste found that she missed the company of her former assistant, Mma Pollosopresso, whom she had had to replace with Mma Murakami after Mma Ontoaste had read of that good lady’s score in her final examination from the Napier Secretarial College. Mma Ontoaste had now twice been given cause to regret her decision to let her former assistant leave. The first time had been when she had been walking along the road and seen a painter painting a sign for a new Detective Agency – The Only Detective Agency You Will Ever Need Ever! No. 3, – that Mma Pollosopresso was trying to set up in Gaborone.
Mma Ontoaste put the telegram aside and thought back to her time at Cuff College, from which she had graduated without any great expectations many years before. Although she had not enjoyed the cold5 of that far-off country, and had missed Botswana and its people while she had been away, she knew that she would be happy to help this man whom the Dean was sending. She would be able to show him the glories of Botswana: the bush, the grass huts, the other stuff, but most of all she would show him the simple decency of the people of Botswana. He would find that there were still parts of the world where people were in touch with the earth and their own souls.
The rest of the day was rather quiet at The Best Detective Agency in the World Ever! No. 2 and there were no appointments booked at all. All that Mma Ontoaste had in mind was to sit on her veranda and sip bush tea until the afternoon was sufficiently cool enough for her to consider walking to the main telegram office in Gaborone to see if she could not get to the bottom of the mystery of the man in the uniform of the Botswana Postal Service. She hoped that the man would be sent back to where he came from: Nigeria. Yes. It was definitely Nigeria. Only a Nigerian would wipe away crumbs with the back of his hand. Mma Ontoaste thought to herself that the man probably hawked and spat occasionally and that he probably practised witchcraft or played football.
But it was when Mma Ontoaste awoke from her afternoon nap, thinking it might be cool enough for her to go and get the Nigerian, as she had come to think of him, sacked that she found an unwelcome surprise: a woman was sitting on the veranda with her head in her hands, weeping. She was a young woman of about 35, in a red dress and some other things such as shoes that she believed women wore.
Mma Ontoaste studied the Botswana sky and guessed that it must be about now that a client with a human-interest case was due and so here she was. Ordinarily in a situation such as this, Mma Ontoaste and Mma Pollosopresso might offer the lady a mug of bush tea and sit and listen to her as she told them all about her problems. After that they would have a think about what the lady had said and then, drawing on a little common sense and a modicum of human understanding, they would tell the woman what they thought she ought to do. Sometimes they did not even have to think very hard about what their client ought to do. In fact, it was often very obvious what their client ought to do from the very beginning, and that was the way that Mma Ontoaste liked it. It was, after all, why she lived in Botswana. That and all the other stuff, of course, such as the easy access to pumpkins.
‘Mma, can I help you?’ asked Mma Ontoaste. The lady briefly stopped sobbing to wipe her eyes and look at Mma Ontoaste.
‘Oh, Mma,’ she said. ‘It is my husband. He has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared! Oh, Mma! That is bad. Can you tell me about him? What is his name?’
‘My husband’s name is Machende Arimuhapwa. We have been married for only a very short time, just over a week in fact, Mma, and we live in a house further along this road towards Lobatse.’
The woman, Mma Arimuhapwa, pointed at the road that passed Mma Ontoaste’s yard, the one that joined Lobatse to Gaborone.
‘Oh, that is a nice address,’ said Mma Ontoaste. ‘Your husband sounds like a nice man, Mma.’
‘Oh, he is, Mma,’ replied the Mma Arimuhapwa. ‘After our wedding we travelled to see his people in a village near Molepolololopole and we enjoyed ourselves very very much. His people are very kind, Mma, and we were sad to leave, but my husband has a job at a government office here in Gaborone and he does not get very much holiday.’
‘I see,’ said Mma Ontoaste.
‘We got back from his people’s place just yesterday and then this morning my husband got up and he put on a suit and a shirt and a tie, Mma, and then he took a small case with him and he kissed me on each cheek and then he left our grass hut and I hav
e not seen him since.’
The woman started sobbing again. This was a mystery indeed.
‘And was he acting strangely before he left?’
‘Not at all, Mma. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world.’
‘Did you see which way he went after he had left your grass hut?’
The woman’s eyes flew open and Mma Ontoaste felt she was on to something here.
‘Oh Mma! That was the strange thing. I forgot about that. My husband stood for a while with three or four other men by a metal post stuck in the side of the road and they were talking only half-heartedly, as if they were waiting for something, or as if they did not know each other very well, you know, Mma? And then this great big grey motor car came along and stopped in front of them and a door opened and one by one the men went into it and then the door closed behind them with a strange hissing sound and then the car drove off.’
‘I think I have seen such a vehicle,’ said Mma Ontoaste.
‘And I saw that above a window on the front of the car there was a sign that said ‘Gaborone’. Oh Mma, whatever can it mean?’
This was a good question and, for a moment, Mma Ontoaste was stumped. Behind her the typing of Mma Murakami was getting faster than ever and Mma Ontoaste was finding it hard to concentrate.
‘I will have to do some looking around, Mma, and I will let you know.’
‘Don’t you want to know what he looks like?’ asked the woman.
‘I am sorry, Mma,’ replied Mma Ontoaste. ‘Descriptions are of no use to me. You see, all black men look the same to me.’
The woman looked puzzled as Mma Ontoaste began to walk with her towards the stock fence. Mma Ontoaste walked Mma Arimuhapwa through the stock gate and they stood for a second by the side of the road.
‘I am sure your husband will turn up, Mma. It is not uncommon that men go away for a bit every day.’
It was while Mma Ontoaste was saying this that a grey bus appeared along the road in the direction of Gaborone, heading towards them.
‘Look, Mma!’ cried the woman, pointing down the road over Mma Ontoaste’s shoulder. Her eyes were big and round and she was clearly terrified.
‘Another one of those strange cars! We must be careful that it does not eat us up alive!’
Mma Arimuhapwa turned and ran up the road away from the approaching bus, her hands waggling in the air.
‘Aiyeeee!’ she cried.
A sign on the front of the bus read Lobatse and just as the bus drew level with a pole in the side of the road and the fleeing Mma Arimuhapwa, it stopped. Out stepped a man wearing a suit and tie. In his hand he had a briefcase and it looked as if he had just come back from work in one of the government offices in Gaborone.
This, observed Mma Ontoaste with some satisfaction, might be the missing government office worker Machende Arimuhapwa.
* * *
5. Again! But what does it mean?
CHAPTER THREE
It’s moral dilemma time again! They cried.
The next morning Mma Ontoaste was wide awake in time for her 11 o’clock Moral Dilemma. She could see that an important client had arrived and was standing waiting under the mopane tree. Mma Ontoaste wondered why someone might hang about under a tree – such a dismal spot – rather than wait in the waiting room of the grass hut, but that was for them. Some people were just backward: pig-ignorant, stuck in their ways. Mma Ontoaste could hear Mma Murakami’s jazz playing loudly now, and she began to like what she heard.
The client who had been standing beneath the mopane tree was a lady of about the same age as Mma Ontoaste, but as she emerged from the shade and came to sit down at the proffered chair, Mma Ontoaste could see that this lady was fat. She was at least a size 22 and for a second Mma Ontoaste feared for her supplies of cake. This lady looks as if she might be able to eat me out of hut and home, thought Mma Ontoaste, and she suddenly decided not to offer her any cake. It was as simple as that and once she had made the decision, Mma Ontoaste felt happy. It would be silly to waste cake on a person like this. It would be like trying to fill Lake Victoria with bush tea.
‘Mma, what can I do for you?’ Mma Ontoaste asked, ignoring the slightly thirsty noises the woman was making as she slumped into the chair.
‘Oh, Mma,’ said the lady, ‘I can see you are an old-fashioned lady and that you take the time to talk—’
Mma Ontoaste rolled her eyes and promised herself that she would buy herself a stopwatch of the sort that were used in chess matches. That way she would be able to time people as they spoke and make it very clear to them that she was the owner of The Best Detective Agency in the World Ever! No. 2, and not just some nosey old curtain twitcher with a little too much time on her hands.
‘Yes, yes, Mma. Never mind all that. Time is money. What can I do for you?’
The woman was taken aback, but she carried on as best she could.
‘Mma, I have a friend who is a woman who used to work as an assistant to a lady private detective but has been given the sack because the private detective thought that she had not achieved a high enough score in some secretarial exams.’
‘Right,’ said Mma Ontoaste wearily. ‘So?’
‘Well, a few weeks ago I saw a lion in my garden and I was very frightened and so my friend – the same one who is very upset, I should say – lent me a gun.’
‘A gun?’
‘Yes: a big black gun, full of bullets. It is, I think, big enough to stop an elephant in its tracks.’
‘It sounds very dangerous, Mma.’
‘It is. And yesterday my friend asked me if I could give it back to her.’
Mma Ontoaste sat back on her chair and looked at her client. She was trying to stifle a yawn.
‘Mma,’ she said. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I have a problem, Mma, which I need to sort out. I am a virtuous woman, as you know, and in ordinary circumstances I should hand the gun straight back to my friend, shouldn’t I?’
‘Of course,’ agreed Mma Ontoaste.
‘But,’ the lady went on. ‘My friend is very unhappy about having lost her job, Mma.’
‘Oh, Mma, that is very bad,’ said Mma Ontoaste.
‘Yes. In fact, she has gone quite crazy. You see, she feels that she was unjustly treated.’
‘Injustice is a bad thing, a bad thing indeed. Your friend is right to be upset Mma.’
‘Yes. I feel I should give her the gun back, Mma, but I am worried she will do something dangerous with it. She might even go after her ex-employer and shoot her in her big fat head with the gun. Twice or even three times until her ex-employer is quite dead, Mma.’
Mma Ontoaste thought for a second. After a second she knew the answer.
‘You must give her the gun back, Mma. That is your duty as a virtuous woman. What your friend then does with the gun is up to her.’
The woman in the chair was silent for a minute. Then she slapped her hands on the arms of the chair and hauled herself to her feet. It was as if something had just been decided, but Mma Ontoaste could not say for sure what it was.
‘Very well,’ the lady said. ‘I shall give her the gun tonight.’
‘Good,’ said Mma Ontoaste. ‘And now I have to go and have some lunch. I am starving.’
Mma Ontoaste relieved the woman of 5000 Pula and then, since Mma Murakami was still hard at work and not in a position to join her for lunch, Mma Ontoaste went to find her husband, that good man, Mr JPS Spagatoni, in his chip supper shop out by the old Ulster Defence headquarters, on Murieston Road.
It was here at the Salt-’n’-Sauce Scotch Chip Supper Shop that Mr JPS Spagatoni served up the finest example of Scotch cuisine that sub-Saharan Africa had to offer. He battered everything from Mars bars to fillets of impala before dipping them into seething brown fat and, once they were cooked through, keeping them under heat lamps for as long as a week at a time and then selling them to passing drunks. He was especially proud of his deep-fried battered Pizza Calzo
ne, which, when covered with special brown sauce and served with a solid fist of damp chips, made the perfect supper for any right-thinking person.
Too many people these days were worried about the effect such suppers might have on a human’s digestion over a prolonged period of time, thought Mma Ontoaste, but her own beloved father, who had also fallen in love with the Scotch diet, had lived on such a diet until he had been taken happily, without a word of protest, at the age of 36, knowing his time was up.
It was as she was walking through the yard, with her footsteps especially firm so as to alert any snakes who were apt at this time of day to be at their most somnolent and therefore at their most dangerous, that Mma Ontoaste remembered of course that her former assistant, Mma Pollosopresso, had, in an act of vengeance that had taken Mma Ontoaste’s breath away, both literally and figuratively, detonated a sizeable bomb under the tiny white van that she had driven about the streets of Gaborone ever since receiving it as a graduation present from her dear (albeit dead) daddy.
This was a pity because Mma Ontoaste had given a lot of thought to which vehicle would be suitable for a lady detective of her standing, and the tiny white van, she had decided, had been perfect. Replacing it with anything else now would be difficult. There were no detectives she could think of who rented their cars, or who just drove blue cars, say, or red cars, or yellow cars, or who changed their car with each book. Of course it was a bit of a cheap trick to give a detective the characteristic of driving a particular car, as if the choice of car might say anything more about them than their choice of shoes, but it was memorable, and that Mma Ontoaste had to admit. Mma Ontoaste tried to think of any other type of character so easily identified by their car as, for example, Inspector Morse was by his old Jaguar, or even, Heaven help us, ‘Jim’ Bergerac was by his Triumph.
Could she not come up with anything better than that? Mma Ontoaste wondered. She recalled her Supervisor at Cuff College advising them that their choice of vehicle was just as important as their choice of companion. And yet had Mma Ontoaste not just replaced her companion? Perhaps this could be her trick? Could she not just go down to a garage in Gaborone and buy a hybrid car?
The No. 2 Global Detective Page 5
