“If there is anything I can do?” she asked. “I can’t fix cars for you, but maybe there’s something else?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni tossed the greasy scrap of lint into the waste-paper basket. “Well, there is something, Mma,” he said, “now that you ask. And although it has something to do with cars, it doesn’t involve actually fixing anything. I know you are a detective, Mma Ramotswe, and not a mechanic.”
“I would like to be able to fix cars,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Maybe some day I will learn. There are many ladies now who can fix cars. There are many girls who are doing a mechanic’s apprenticeship.”
“I have seen them,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I wonder if they are very different from …” He did not finish the sentence, but tossed his head in the direction of the workshop behind him, where the two apprentices, Charlie and the younger one—whose name nobody ever used—were changing the oil in a truck.
“They are very different,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Those boys spend all their time thinking about girls. You know what they’re like.”
“And girls don’t spend any time thinking about boys?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
Mma Ramotswe considered this for a few moments. She was not quite sure what the answer was. When she was a girl she had thought about boys from time to time, but only to reflect on how fortunate she was to be a girl rather than a boy. And when she became a bit older, and was susceptible to male charm, although she occasionally imagined what it would be like to spend time in the company of a particular boy, boys as a breed did not occupy her thoughts. Nor did she talk about boys in the way in which the apprentices talked about girls, although it was possible that modern girls were different. She had overheard some teenagers—girls of about seventeen—talking among themselves one day when she was looking for a book in Mr Kerrison’s new book shop, and she had been shocked by what she had heard. Her shock had registered in her expression, and in the dropping of her jaw, and the girls had noticed this. “What’s the trouble, Mma?” said one of the girls. “Don’t you know about boys?” And she had struggled for words, searching for a reply which would tell these shameless girls that she knew all about boys—and had known about them for many years—while at the same time letting them know that she disapproved. But no words had come, and the girls had gone away giggling.
Mma Ramotswe was not a prude. She knew what went on between people, but she believed that there was a part of life that should be private. She believed that what one felt about another was largely a personal matter, and that one should not talk about the mysteries of the soul. One should just not do it, because that was not how the old Botswana morality worked. There was such a thing as shame, she thought, although there were many people who seemed to forget it. And where would we be in a world without the old Botswana morality? It would not work, in Mma Ramotswe’s view, because it would mean that people could do as they wished without regard for what others thought. That would be a recipe for selfishness, a recipe as clear as if it were written out in a cookery book: Take one country, with all that the country means, with its kind people, and their smiles, and their habit of helping one another; ignore all this; shake about; add modern ideas; bake until ruined.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s question about whether girls thought about boys hung in the air, unanswered. He looked at her expectantly. “Well, Mma?” he asked. “Do girls not think about boys?”
“Sometimes,” said Mma Ramotswe nonchalantly. “When there is nothing better to think about, that is.” She smiled at her husband. “But that is not what we were discussing,” she continued. “What is this thing that you want me to do?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni explained to her about the errand he wished her to carry out. It would involve a trip to Mokolodi, which was half an hour away to the south.
“My friend who dealt with the cobra,” he said. “Neil. He’s the one. He has an old pickup down there, a bakkie, which he kept for years and years. And then …” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni paused. The death of a car diminished him, because he was involved with cars. “There was nothing much more I could do for it. It needed a complete engine re-bore, Mma Ramotswe. New pistons. New piston rings.” He shook his head sadly, as a doctor might when faced with a hopeless prognosis.
Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling. “Yes,” she said. “It must have been very sad.”
“But fortunately Neil did not get rid of it,” he said. “Some people just throw cars away, Mma Ramotswe. They throw them away.”
Mma Ramotswe reached for a piece of paper on her desk and began to fold it. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni often needed some time to get to the point, but she was used to waiting.
“I have a customer with a broken half-shaft,” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “That is part of the rear axle. You know that, don’t you? There’s a shaft that comes down the middle until it gets to the gear mechanism in the middle of the rear axle. Then, on each side of that there’s something called the half-shaft that goes to the wheel on either side.”
The piece of paper in Mma Ramotswe’s right hand had been folded in two and then folded again at an angle. As she held it up and looked past it, it seemed to her that it was now a bird, a stout bird with a large beak. She narrowed her eyes and squinted at it, so that the paper became blurred against the background of the office walls. She thought of the customer with a broken half-shaft—she understood exactly what Mr J.L.B. Matekoni meant, but she smiled at his way of expressing it. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni regarded cars and their owners as interchangeable, or as being virtually one and the same, with the result that he would talk of people who were losing oil or who were in need of bodywork. It had always amused Mma Ramotswe, and in her mind’s eye she had seen people walking with a dribble of oil stretching out behind them or with dents in their bodies or limbs. So, too, did she picture this client with the broken half-shaft; poor man, perhaps limping, perhaps patched up in some way.
“So,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “So, could you go and fetch this for me, Mma Ramotswe? You won’t have to lift anything—he’ll get one of his men to do that. All you have to do is to drive down there and drive back. That’s all.”
Mma Ramotswe rather liked the idea of a run down to Mokolodi. Although she lived in Gaborone, she was not a town person at heart—very few Batswana were—and she was never happier than when she was out in the bush, with the air of the country, dry and scented with the tang of acacia, in her lungs. On the drive to Mokolodi she would travel with the windows down, and the sun and air would flood the cabin of her tiny white van; and she would see, opening up before her, the vista of hills around Otse and beyond, green in the foreground and blue beyond. She would take the turning off to the right, and a few minutes later she would be at the stone gates of the camp and explaining to the attendant the nature of her business. Perhaps she would have a cup of tea on the verandah of the circular main building, with its thatch and its surrounding trees, and its outlook of hills. She tried to remember whether they served bush tea there; she thought they did, but just in case, she would take a sachet of her own tea which she could ask them to boil up for her.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her anxiously. “That’s all,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking you to do.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s fine. I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“About the hills down there,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And about tea. That sort of thing.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “You often think about tea, don’t you? I don’t. I think about cars and engines and things like that. Grease. Oil. Suspension. Those are my thoughts.”
Mma Ramotswe put down the piece of paper she had been folding. “Is it not strange, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?” she said. “Is it not strange that men and women think about such very different things? There you are thinking about mechanical matters, and I am sitting here thinking about tea.”
“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is strange.” He paused. T
here was a car needing attention outside and he had to see to it. The owner wanted it back that afternoon or he would be obliged to walk home. “I must get on, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. Nodding to Mma Makutsi, he left the office and returned to the garage.
Mma Ramotswe pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. “Would you care to come with me, Mma Makutsi?” she asked. “It’s a nice day for a run.”
Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk. “But who will look after the business?” she asked. “Who will answer the telephone?”
Mma Ramotswe looked at herself in the mirror on the wall behind the filing cabinet. The mirror was intended for the use of Mma Makutsi and herself, but was used most frequently by the apprentices, who liked to preen themselves in front of it. “Should I braid my hair?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think, Mma Makutsi?”
“Your hair is very nice as it is, Mma,” said her assistant, but added, “Of course, it would be even nicer if you were to braid it.”
Mma Ramotswe looked round. “And you?” she asked. “Would you braid your hair too, if I had mine done?”
“I’m not sure,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti Radiphuti is an old-fashioned man. I’m not sure what his views on braiding would be.”
“An old-fashioned man?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “That’s interesting. Does he know that you’re a modern lady?”
Mma Makutsi considered the question for a moment. “I think he does,” she said. “The other night he asked me if I was a feminist.”
Mma Ramotswe stiffened. “He asked you that, did he? And what did you reply, Mma?”
“I said that most ladies were feminists these days,” said Mma Makutsi. “So I told him, yes, I am.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m not sure that that’s the best answer to give in such circumstances. Men are very frightened of feminists.”
“But I cannot lie,” protested Mma Makutsi. “Surely men don’t expect us to lie? And anyway, Phuti is a kind man. He is not one of those men who are hostile to feminists because they are insecure underneath.”
She’s right about that, thought Mma Ramotswe. Men who put women down usually did so because they were afraid of women and wanted to build themselves up. But one had to be circumspect about these things. The term feminist could upset men needlessly because some feminists were so unpleasant to men. Neither she nor Mma Makutsi was that sort of person. They liked men, even if they knew that there were some types of men who bullied women. They would never stand for that, of course, but at the same time they would not wish to be seen as hostile to men like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni or Phuti Radiphuti—or Mr Polopetsi, for that matter; Mr Polopetsi, who was so mild and considerate and badly done by.
“I’m not saying that you should lie,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “All I’m saying is that it’s unwise to talk to men about feminism. It makes them run away. I have seen it many times before.” She hoped that the engagement would not be threatened by this. Mma Makutsi deserved to find a good husband, especially as she had not had much luck before. Although Mma Makutsi never talked about it, Mma Ramotswe knew that there had been somebody else in Mma Makutsi’s life—for a very brief time—and that she had actually married him. But he had died, very suddenly, and she had been left alone again.
Mma Makutsi swallowed hard. Phuti Radiphuti had seemed unnaturally quiet that evening after their conversation. If what Mma Ramotswe said was right, then her ill-considered remarks might prompt him to run away from her, to end their engagement. The thought brought a cold hand to her chest. She would never get another man; she would never find another fiancé like Phuti Radiphuti. She would be destined to spend the rest of her days as an assistant detective, scraping a living while other women found comfortably-off husbands to marry. She had been given a golden chance and she had squandered it through her own stupidity and thoughtlessness.
She looked down at her shoes—her green shoes with the sky-blue linings. And the shoes looked back up at her. You’ve done it, Boss, said the shoes. Don’t expect us to carry you all around town looking for another man. You had one and now you don’t. Bad luck, Boss. Bad luck.
Mma Makutsi stared at the shoes. It was typical of shoes to be so uncaring. They never made any constructive suggestions. They just censured you, crowed at you, rubbed it in; revenge, perhaps, for all the indignities to which they themselves were subjected. Dust. Neglect. Cracking leather. Oblivion.
THEY WERE SILENT as they left Gaborone, with the brooding shape of Kgale Hill to their right, and the road stretching out, undulating, to their front. Mma Ramotswe was silent because she was looking at the shape of the hills and remembering how, all those years ago, she had travelled this road on the way to stay with her cousin, who had been so good to her. And there had been unhappy journeys too, or journeys that had been happy and had become unhappy later on their being remembered. Those were the trips she had made, down this very road, with her former husband, Note Mokoti. Note used to play his trumpet in hotels down in Lobatse, and Mma Ramotswe had accompanied him on these engagements, her heart bursting with pride that she was the wife of this popular and talented man. She had accompanied him until she had realised that he did not want her to come with him. And the reason for that was that he had wanted to pick up women after the concerts, and he could not do that with his young wife there. She remembered this, and thought about it, and tried to put it from her mind; but the unhappy past has a way of asserting itself and sometimes it is best just to let such thoughts run their course. They will pass, she told herself; they will pass.
Beside her, in her own silence, Mma Makutsi was mulling over the brief exchange that she had had with Mma Ramotswe on the subject of feminism. Mma Ramotswe had been right—she was sure of that—and she had inadvertently frightened Phuti Radiphuti. It had been so foolish of her. Of course she believed in those things which the feminists stood up for—the right of women to have a good job and be paid the same amount as men doing the same work; the right of women to be free of bullying by their husbands. But that was all just good common sense, fairness really, and the fact that you supported these goals did not make you one of those feminists who said that men were finished. How could they say such a thing? We were all people—men and women—and you could never say that one group of people was less important than another. She would never say that, and yet Phuti Radiphuti now probably imagined that she would.
They passed a man asking for a ride, waving his hand up and down to stop a well-disposed vehicle. Other cars were driving past regardless, but Mma Ramotswe believed that this was not the old Botswana way and made an elaborate set of hand signals to indicate to him that they were shortly going to turn off. The tiny white van swerved as she did so, and for a moment it must have seemed to the man that they were intending to run him down, but he understood and acknowledged them with a friendly wave.
“People say that these days you should not stop for people like that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But how can they be so heartless? Do you remember when my van broke down and I had to get back to town in the darkness? Somebody stopped for me, didn’t they? Otherwise I could still be out here at the side of the road, even now, getting thinner and thinner.”
Mma Makutsi was glad to be distracted from her morbid thoughts of engagements broken on the grounds of undisclosed feminism. She laughed at Mma Ramotswe’s comment. “That is one way to go on a diet,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe threw her a sideways glance. “Do you think that I need to go on a diet, Mma?” she asked.
“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “I do not think that you need to go on a diet.” She paused, and then added, “Others may, of course.”
“Hah!” said Mma Ramotswe. “You must be thinking of those people who hold that it is wrong to be a traditionally built lady. There are such people, you know.”
“They should mind their own business,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am traditionally built too, you know. Not as traditionally built as you, of course—by a long way. But I am not a very thin lady.”
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Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She was not enjoying this conversation, and she was glad that the turn-off to Mokolodi had now appeared. Slowing down, she steered the van off the main road and onto the secondary road that ran alongside for a short way until it headed off into the bush. As the van turned, an observer would have noticed that it listed markedly to one side, Mma Ramotswe’s side, while Mma Makutsi’s side was higher—an appearance that would have confirmed what had just been said by Mma Makutsi. But there was nobody to see this; only the grey lourie on the acacia branch, the go-away bird, which saw so much but confided in none.
CHAPTER SIX
HOW TO DEAL WITH AN ANGRY OSTRICH
THE ARRIVAL OF Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi at Mokolodi Game Reserve would normally be an occasion for the barking of dogs and for laughter and the shaking of hands. Mma Ramotswe was known here—her father’s brother, her senior uncle, was also the uncle (by a second marriage) to the workshop supervisor. And if that were not enough, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s cousin’s daughter worked in the kitchen at the restaurant. So it was in Botswana, almost everywhere; ties of kinship, no matter how attenuated by distance or time, linked one person to another, weaving across the country a human blanket of love and community. And in the fibres of that blanket there were threads of obligation that meant that one could not ignore the claims of others. Nobody should starve; nobody should feel that they were outsiders; nobody should be alone in their sadness.
Now, though, there was nobody on duty at the gate, and they drove in quietly. They parked near an acacia tree. Several people had already had the same idea, as shade was always sought after, and cars competed with one another to find relief from the sun. The tiny white van, by virtue of its size, was able to nose into a space between two large vehicles, leaving just enough room for Mma Ramotswe to get out of her door and, by breathing in, to squeeze through the space between the van and the neighbouring vehicle. It was a tight squeeze, and it brought back to her the subject of her earlier conversation with Mma Makutsi. If she went on a diet, there would be fewer occasions like this where she would find that the passages and doorways of this world were uncomfortably narrow for a person of traditional build. For a moment she was stuck, and Mma Makutsi was poised to render help, but then with a final push she was free.