The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (26 page)

“I can see that,” she said. “What will you do, Mma?”

There was a silence. Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Potokwane with interest, as did Mma Ramotswe.

“Well …,” Mma Potokwane began. “Well …”

“You will be very busy,” Mma Makutsi suggested helpfully. “All those things …”

Mma Potokwane pursed her lips. “Many things,” she began. “There are many things.”

They waited. Mma Potokwane poked a stick into the fire, making a few short-lived sparks fly heavenwards. Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe; yes, there are so many other things that might come to mind, but not if you have given your life to orphaned children; not if you have spent every waking hour working out how to advance their interests, how to procure some little benefit, some little treat that would make each of them feel loved, special; not if you had given to those same children all the love that a large—traditionally built—frame could muster; not then, not then was there anything that you
wanted to do but to continue with what you had always been doing, which was to look after those children.

Mma Ramotswe decided to break the silence. “But the most important thing to you, Mma, is running the orphan farm. That’s what you really like doing, isn’t it?”

Mma Potokwane did not answer: she did not need to, as her expression said everything that needed to be said.

“I thought so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And that’s why I think you should come back with us.”

Mma Potokwane looked up sharply. “No. I have left now. My deputy will run the place until they get somebody else.”

“Then he will have won,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “That man will have won. Bullies often do.”

Mma Potokwane turned to look at her. “Why do you say that, Mma?”

“Because it’s true, isn’t it? Bullies often win. They know that people are not prepared to stand up to them, and so they win.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe for confirmation. “And there are many men who bully women. You agree with that, don’t you, Mma Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe’s reply was cautious. “Well, sometimes … But remember, Mma, there are many men who are not bullies.”

“Of course,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti is not like that. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is not like that. And your husband, Mma Potokwane, I have heard he is not like that either …”

“He is certainly not like that,” said Mma Potokwane. “Rra Potokwane is very kind. He does not go around pushing people about.”

No
, said a small voice,
you do all the pushing, don’t you?

Mma Makutsi shot a glance down in the direction of her shoes.

Sorry, Boss, we couldn’t resist that
.

She looked at the other two women: Had they heard too? Mma Ramotswe had a slightly puzzled expression on her face—it was possible that she might have heard—but Mma Potokwane seemed unaffected. Of course she would not have heard, Mma Makutsi reminded herself: there was nothing to hear. These apparent interventions by her shoes were nothing but her own imagination: a sort of conversation with herself—that was all.

So you think, Boss!

Mma Ramotswe now continued. “But even if not all men are like that, at least some are. They insist on getting their way on everything, even on the question of whether children should eat at home or in big rooms …”

“Horrible big rooms,” said Mma Potokwane.

“Yes, horrible big rooms,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “And how will they get to know each other and their house-mother if they do not eat together, in a kitchen? How will they do that?”

Mma Potokwane became animated. “That’s just what I said! And it’s just what the house-mothers themselves said. All of them. They said: we want to feed the children in the houses. We want to do the cooking ourselves, in our own kitchen, with our own pots.”

“Of course they said that, Mma. And they said that because they knew what they were talking about. And then some man comes along—a man who probably has never cooked so much as a potato in his life—this man comes along and says,
I know best
.”

“Not one potato,” fumed Mma Potokwane.

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who was smiling. “Of course, if people—if women—let men like that get away with it, then they’ll do it again, and again, and again. Soon they’ll have all of us eating in big halls from big kitchens—just to save money.”

“That will not be possible,” said Mma Makutsi. “People would never agree …”

“I do not mean that exactly,” said Mma Ramotswe patiently. “I am just pointing out how things could get worse.” She turned to Mma Potokwane. “So it’s quite important, Mma, that we don’t give up too early. Not while there’s still a chance.”

Mma Potokwane gave Mma Ramotswe a searching look. “Do you think there’s still a chance, Mma? Do you really think so?”

Mma Ramotswe had not been able to come up with anything about Mr. Ditso Ditso that could be used to get him off the board, and she was not sure that she would. But of course there was a chance, and there was something that told her that she had already found what it was but just did not realise it. It was a curious feeling, but it was there, and it was enough to make her want to persist.

“I think so,” she said.

Mma Potokwane sighed. “So you want me to go back?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes, that’s what we want, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane hesitated before she gave her reply. “If that’s what you want, Mma, then … then I’ll do it.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “Good.”

They sat in silence after that. Later, though, shortly before they retired to bed in Mma Potokwane’s large sleeping hut, shared with two young Potokwane nieces who had been helping in the fields, Mma Ramotswe whispered to Mma Makutsi, “She’s still not herself, Mma. She says she hasn’t given up, but I think she has.”

Mma Makutsi was dismayed to hear this; she had been more optimistic. “But she said that she’s coming back. She said that …”

“People say things,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But when they’re in that frame of mind, they don’t mean them. The lips say one thing, the heart says another. Or says nothing.”

The lips say one thing, the heart says another
. Those words
echoed in Mma Makutsi’s mind as she drifted off to sleep that night. Outside, in the night, a dog barked at some shadow, some creature in the night.
The lips say one thing, the heart says another
. She wondered whether that was true, or whether it just
sounded
true. And what did it mean to say that the heart said nothing? Were there people whose heart really did say nothing? And if there were, who exactly were they? The dog gave another bark, followed by a yelp. Then there was silence. She opened her eyes in the darkness. Nothing.

T
HEY RETURNED THE
next day, a Saturday, arriving back in Gaborone in the middle of the afternoon. On Sunday Mma Ramotswe went to church at the Anglican Cathedral, as she always did, and helped with the tea afterwards, an opportunity for people to chat, to inspect at closer quarters what others were wearing, and to discuss—and if necessary criticise—the day’s sermon. One of the members of the congregation, an Indian accountant from Kerala who had lived in Botswana for twenty years or so, was going home to India for a daughter’s wedding. He told Mma Ramotswe about the wedding plans, which involved, he revealed with a modicum of pride, several hundred people travelling from all over India, all wanting hotels and feasts and special treatment. She listened to this with sympathy—weddings were rarely simple, and Indian weddings, it seemed to her, were even more complicated and fraught with difficulty than their Botswana counterparts—but she was not really concentrating. Nor did she pay attention when Bishop Mwamba himself came up to speak to her and told her about a book he had been reading that he thought she might enjoy, if she had the time.

“But I know how busy you are, Mma Ramotswe,” the Bishop said, “what with your business and all those investigations, and so on.”

She nodded politely. He was right, but it was the
so on
that was the trouble now, and in particular that bit of the
so on
that was made up of Mma Potokwane’s troubles. And then there was Fanwell, whose trial was due to take place the following day.

“Yes, Bishop. There are many things to worry about in this life. Many things.”

The Bishop smiled. “But we must not let those overwhelm us,” he said. The smile faded, to be replaced by a look of concern. “You are all right, aren’t you, Mma Ramotswe?”

She looked up at the sky. The man to whom she was talking, she reminded herself, had major concerns to think about. He knew the issues of Africa, its sorrows. He knew all about the burdens and difficulties of those who struggled to get by in countries where there was cruelty and oppression. It was all very well for her to stand here drinking tea in a peaceful and well-ordered country, but what about those who did not have that luxury? And should she then worry him with her petty concerns—very small ones, really—when there were many weightier things occupying his attention? No, she thought. No. “Everything is all right, Bishop,” she said.

The Bishop was tapped on the shoulder by one of the members of the choir and detached himself from Mma Ramotswe. She helped a few people to tea, poured another cup for herself, and then looked around the group of people who were still talking to one another in the church courtyard. Mma Ramotswe felt that she needed to catch up on local news. There were always the newspapers, of course, but the
real
news, a complete picture of what was really happening, could only be gleaned from actual conversation with people. It was ordinary people who knew what was happening—not official spokesmen or the editors of newspapers.
And the closer one got to the grass roots, the nearer one came to the people who actually experienced the effect of what was happening in the public world above them, the more complete one’s understanding could become.

She surveyed the faces of the congregation. These were all good people—or they were good people at that hour on a Sunday morning. Some of them, she knew, found it more difficult still to be good as the day wore on, and even more difficult when Monday morning dawned. But they were all human, just as she was, and the real issue was whether they were doing their best. Mma Ramotswe felt that as long as you did your best, then it was not too important if you fell below the standards that others might expect of you. What mattered was doing your best and then, if your best turned out to be not very good, at least admitting it and trying a bit harder next time.

There were some people, of course, who clearly had no intention of doing their best—Violet Sephotho, for instance, but that was another matter … Fanwell’s trial: that was the thing she would have to think about now. Poor Fanwell—how would he be feeling now? She imagined that he would not sleep that night—how could one be expected to sleep, knowing that at nine o’clock the next morning one would be standing in the dock facing the full force of the law of Botswana?

She looked down into her cup. If only she could speak to the magistrate, whoever he was, and tell him what sort of young man Fanwell was; of course he would be reading the letter that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had so painstakingly drafted that would say much about Fanwell’s character—and she had drafted one too—but it was one thing to receive a letter, quite another to have somebody express her feelings to you in person. If she were to be given five minutes—only five minutes—with the magistrate, she would
explain to him that it was simply impossible that Fanwell would knowingly fix a stolen car. He was not like that; it was just not in his character. She would say, “Rra, I beg you. Rra, I beg you: listen to what I am saying. I have met many wicked people in my work, Rra—just as you have—and I’m telling you, Rra, from the bottom of my heart I do not think this young man could have done what they say he has done.”

She sighed, and took a sip of her tea. Magistrates must hear that sort of thing day in, day out. They could be forgiven if their eyes glazed over, or if they looked out of the window in the face of such pleas. Everyone has a mother who believes in them; everyone has somebody who says that they would never do anything wrong; of course they have. And the job of a magistrate was not to let everybody off just because their mother, or their aunt, or their employer spoke highly of them.

Again her eyes moved over the members of the group. It was interesting, she thought, to see how different people held their teacups: that woman over there, for example—the woman who sometimes arranged the flowers and whose daughter had married that man whose brother was a pilot with Air Botswana—that woman held her cup round the rim, ignoring the handle. And the man she was talking to was balancing the saucer on his palm as if his hand were a table; it was very strange. And the man next to him, the one in the dark suit … he was a lawyer. She stopped; a possibility had occurred to her. He was a lawyer.