The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party (23 page)

“I’m sure he can,” said Mma Ramotswe. And he would; her soft-hearted husband, she knew, would never turn down a request from the orphan farm.

“I shall bake him a cake,” said Mma Potokwane, who knew of
the mechanic’s soft spot for the heavy and immensely rich fruit cake for which she was so well known throughout southern Botswana. In her view, it was a fair exchange of the sort that kept the orphan farm running: a whole list of skills of one sort or another could be called upon in return for her cake. This was how the accountant was paid (ten cakes a year); how the painter and decorator was rewarded (three cakes per room); and, in the case of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, two large slices of cake for attention to a small mechanical or electrical problem, and a complete cake for each larger or more time-consuming chore.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s services having been booked, Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe had made their way into the office, where Mma Makutsi was sitting at her desk contemplating one of her to-do lists. It was her last day at work before going off on four days’ pre-wedding leave, and her filing, accounts, and typing tasks were all up-to-date.

When Mma Potokwane made her remark about only a week being left, Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. She and Mma Potokwane did not enjoy the closest of relationships, but this was not a time to be on difficult terms with anybody. Besides, Mma Potokwane had been treating Mma Makutsi with more consideration recently, owing, Mma Ramotswe thought, to the impending change of Mma Makutsi’s status. It was nothing to do with Mma Makutsi’s origins—Mma Potokwane was completely indifferent to such matters, but she showed the tendency that many women of her generation had not to take unmarried women completely seriously.
That’s what you may think now,
such an attitude implied,
but just wait until you’re married—you’ll think differently then.
That view was not intended unkindly or cuttingly, but of course there was nothing more annoying for those at whom such condescension was directed, and this went some way to explaining the tension between the orphan-farm matron and Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, it’s on Saturday,” Mma Makutsi said. “And there is still a lot to do.”

Mma Potokwane settled herself into the client’s chair. “There is always so much to do when you’re getting ready for a wedding,” she said. “There’s so much that can go wrong—and it usually does.”

Mma Ramotswe, who was busy switching on the kettle, pointed out that Mma Makutsi was very well organised. “I don’t think anything will go wrong with this wedding,” she said reassuringly.

“I hope not,” said Mma Potokwane. “But there is always something. There is always something unforeseeable.”

Mma Makutsi was listening to this attentively. “Such as, Mma? What unforeseeable things?”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “I cannot answer that,” she said. “And that is because unforeseeable things cannot be foreseen. So I do not know what they are.”

Mma Makutsi glanced at her list. “What sort of thing, though, Mma? To do with guests? To do with food?”

“Both of these,” said Mma Potokwane.

“It will be a very big wedding, this one,” interjected Mma Ramotswe. She did not want Mma Makutsi to be unsettled just when she seemed to be getting on top of all the arrangements.

“That is very nice,” said Mma Potokwane, in a slightly strained tone. She and her husband had not been invited to the wedding; lines had had to be drawn, and they were on the wrong side. “I like large weddings. It is so kind of the people getting married to invite all their friends—that way nobody feels left out, Mma.”

“It is very difficult,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly. “Often the couple want to invite everybody, but cannot do so because there simply is not enough room. Everybody understands that, of course.”

“I’m sure they do,” said Mma Potokwane, in the same rather pinched voice.

Mma Makutsi looked up from her list. “What sort of unforeseeable things, Mma? Can you give me examples?”

“Certainly,” said Mma Potokwane. “Guests. How do you know that family members travelling down from wherever will not bring extra relatives with them? Then where do you put these people? You may have arranged for places to stay for everybody on the list, but what about those who are not? That can be a big problem.”

Mma Makutsi sat quite still. She had arranged accommodation for forty people from Bobonong—staying with friends of the Radiphuti family, or with distant relatives on the Makutsi side. It had been a major feat of calculation and persuasion, and she did not know what she could do if any more people turned up unannounced, expecting a bed to be found for them for three or four days.

Mma Potokwane noticed the other woman’s uncertainty. “Yes,” she continued. “There’s that problem. And then there’s another one. Problems come in threes, I find, Mma. So the next one—problem number two, so to speak—is the cooking of food. You know what I find, Mma, it is this: the people doing the cooking
never
have enough pots. They say they do, but they do not. And right at the last moment they discover that there are not enough pots or, more likely, the pots they have are too small. A pot may be big enough to cook your meat and pap at home, just for a family, but do not imagine that it will be big enough to cook for a couple of hundred people. You need big, catering-size pots for that.”

She was now warming to her theme. “And the third problem is the food itself. You may think that you have enough for the feast, and you may be right when it comes to the meat. People usually have enough meat—often rather too much, in fact. But they forget
that after their guests have eaten a lot of meat, they need something sweet, and often they have made no arrangements for that. A wedding cake? Yes, but there will only be one small piece of that for each guest—usually not enough. So people find themselves wishing that they had had the foresight to get a supply of ordinary cake for the guests to eat with their tea. And where is this cake? Not there, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi; this was not the way to speak to a nervous bride, she thought. “I’m sure that everything will work out well,” she said reassuringly. “And if there are any problems, they will surely just be small ones—nothing to worry about.”

Mma Potokwane looked doubtful. “I hope so,” she said. “But in my experience it never works out like that. I think it’s better to be realistic about these things.”

Mma Makutsi picked up her pencil to add something to her list. “You said something about pots, Mma. Where would I be able to get these big, catering-size pots?”

Mma Potokwane examined her fingernails. “Well, we have them at the orphan farm. Each of the house-mothers has a very large pot. I’m sure that we could do something …”

Mma Makutsi seized her chance. “Oh, would you, Mma?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mma Potokwane said. “And I wondered if I could help out with cake. There are many people, I believe, who like my cake.”

Mma Makutsi made a mental calculation. “You’re very kind, Mma,” she said. “And I was wondering—I know it’s short notice—but I was wondering whether you would care to come to the wedding too? You and your husband, of course.”

Mma Potokwane waited a decent interval of time before replying. “Come to the wedding? Well, I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, I think that we might be free.”

“Well, that’s settled, then,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Potokwane gave Mma Ramotswe a triumphant look. She suspected that her friend thought that she was occasionally a little bit too pushy, but there were times when pushiness was the only way to get what you wanted. Mma Ramotswe needed to learn that, and if she asked in the right way, Mma Potokwane would be prepared to teach her.

The conversation now moved to other topics, including the forthcoming by-election.

“It will be the same result as before,” said Mma Potokwane. “It always is. Some will vote for the Government, and others will not. There will be many speeches made, and we all know exactly what will be in these speeches.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “You never know, Mma. There may be some surprises.”

She poured the tea and handed her guest a cup before giving one to Mma Makutsi.

“But there is a big threat in this election,” Mma Makutsi said. “One of the candidates …”

Mma Ramotswe remembered. “Oh, of course.” She turned to Mma Potokwane. “Violet Sephotho is standing. Do you know her, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane put down her cup so quickly that she spilled half her tea. “Violet Sephotho? That woman?”

Mma Makutsi nodded sadly. “Yes. I knew her at the Botswana Secretarial College, you know. We were contemporaries.”

“She is a danger to Botswana,” said Mma Potokwane. “If she gets anywhere near power, then we are—”

“Finished,” supplied Mma Makutsi.

Mma Potokwane asked which constituency Violet was standing in, and was told that it was the constituency next to her own. She groaned. “That is a big tragedy,” she said. “We must stop her.”

Mma Makutsi needed no persuading. “Yes, we must. I was saying the same thing to Patricia at the clothing shop a few days ago.” She frowned. “But how do you stop a political candidate from standing? We are a democracy. You cannot stop somebody from standing for election.”

“You can stop them winning,” suggested Mma Ramotswe. “You can tell people about them and hope that they’ll make the right decision.”

“Too late for that,” said Mma Potokwane. “No, something else is needed.” She looked thoughtful. “Do you think that she wants to get into parliament because she thinks she would like the work?”

Mma Makutsi snorted. “Violet, work? She is not one of these people who are made for work,” she said. “She did no work at the Botswana Secretarial College and she hasn’t done any since. No, it is not the work.”

“Then what is it?” asked Mma Potokwane.

Mma Makutsi said that she thought it was the power, and possibly the glamour, that had attracted Violet to politics.

“It’s not all power and glamour, though, is it?” said Mma Potokwane. “It’s a lot of hard work—answering letters from constituents, dealing with complaints and so on. That’s not the sort of thing that Violet likes, I think.”

“I knew a politician once,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He used to complain about having to deal with letters from members of the public. He said they expected him to solve all their problems, even to arrange rainfall during a dry spell. It very nearly drove him mad, he said.”

Mma Potokwane picked up her cup again and took a sip of tea. “It would be interesting,” she mused, “to see what would happen if Violet were to receive a lot of letters
before
the election—letters from her future constituents asking her to deal with all their problems.”
She paused, watching the effect of her words on the others. “Not small problems—big, difficult problems.”

A smile began to cross Mma Makutsi’s face. “You don’t happen to know people in her constituency, do you, Mma Potokwane?”

Mma Potokwane took a further sip of tea. “I might,” she said. “Let me think about it.”

She thought for only a few moments.

“It can be done,” she said. “I think that we’ll be able to persuade Violet that being a politician is no fun.”

THAT NIGHT,
Mma Ramotswe had a vivid dream. She was with Mma Potokwane and they were searching for cooking pots in a dark storeroom. Mma Potokwane was singing a strange, rather haunting song, but Mma Ramotswe was having difficulty in making out the words.
There are many pots,
the song began; thereafter the sounds became indistinct.
Potokwane, Pots, Potokwane, Pots
—these words suggested themselves, but she could not be sure.
Poto, Poto, Potokwane.
It was a very strange song.

Mma Potokwane disappeared, as people in dreams so seamlessly do. Now she found herself in a landscape at the same time both familiar and unfamiliar; it was Mochudi, or a place just outside it—a place where there is a great jacaranda tree, its spreading boughs weighed down by age, a tree she knew well from her childhood. Beneath this tree were two chairs, traditional Botswana chairs made of hardwood trunks, decorations—animals and people—carved into the wood; not far away, a traditional house with murals of brown and blue daub, the work of a grandmother, now sitting on a stool by the front door. It was the Botswana of the past, even if it still survived here and there in places where the modern world had now come barging in and destroyed it; and her father was
somewhere nearby, she thought; she heard his voice and knew that he was with her.
Our country, Precious,
he said to her.
Our Botswana.

She looked for him, but could not see him, because she knew, even in the dream, that he was dead. Sometimes people in our dreams are dead but not quite dead, yet still talk to us.
Late people can be loved too.
Yes, of course they can, she thought; and the dream dissolved, faded, and she saw not the landscape of Mochudi but the ceiling above her in the house on Zebra Drive and the first rays of the sun through the window.

She turned in her bed—she had been lying on her right arm and it felt numb, as if it belonged to somebody else who had carelessly left it in her bed. She noticed that she was alone in bed, that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who usually got up after she did, was not in his accustomed position. She sat up and looked about her, half expecting to see him standing in the room somewhere—by the wardrobe, perhaps, dressing himself in his daily khakis—but there was no sign of him.

Mma Ramotswe felt a twinge of alarm. He had been in the bed, had he not, when she drifted off to sleep the previous night? He had. There were, she assumed, marriages where wives did not notice whether or not their husband was in bed with them, but her marriage was not like that. She had said goodnight to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni before going to sleep—she did that every night, and she would have noticed if she had said goodnight to an empty bed or to a pillow on which no head was resting.

She put on her dressing gown and made her way out of the bedroom into the corridor outside. The children’s doors were closed—they would still be asleep, as she always awoke well before they did. The bathroom? She put her head round the door: he was not there.