He sighed, but privately and inaudibly. There was no point in bemoaning these things, because you could find yourself shaking your head so much that you would end up with a sore neck. And what was the point of that? You could not uninvent things; you could not bring back a world that had gone forever, even if you could remember it from time to time, and think fondly of what had been. It was important to be positive, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was positive; he was. So he said, “I suppose you’re right, Mma Ramotswe.” This was always a good thing to say, and he meant it too, because she was usually right, and if there ever came a point when he could not say that, then that would be a sad day indeed. So, having said that, he went on to enquire about her day.
“And what about you, Mma? What about you?”
She replaced the lid on the pot in which the melon was being cooked.
“We had a visit from Mr. Polopetsi,” she said. “Did you see him?”
He shook his head. “I was under that car. I was trying to work out what was what. You know, in the old days, if you went under a car…”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It was simpler then.” Everything had been simpler then, she thought—not just cars, but people and the world too. People knew what to do because they had the old Botswana morality to guide them, and that had never proved wanting. You respected your elders, you stood by those who were connected to you through friendship or family, you shared the things you had with those you knew and with those you did not know.
“So, what did old Polopetsi want?” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni often called him that—old Polopetsi—although Mr. Polopetsi was only in his early forties. It was a term of affection, because he liked him, even if he found him slightly odd, with his frightened manner and his self-effacing comportment. “Is he doing some work for you?”
Mma Ramotswe joined him at the table. “He came to talk about a woman who is the sister of one of the teachers at the school.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. So many things in Botswana started that way: somebody knew somebody who was a brother or sister of somebody else, and this person, or even this person’s brother, needed your help, or even a loan. That was the way the country worked. “So, there is this woman…”
“She’s called Charity Mompoloki.”
He thought for a moment, but then shook his head. “I’ve never heard of her.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if to find there some clue that would jog his memory. Mma Ramotswe had noticed his habit of doing this before, of looking to the ceiling for assistance, and had playfully said to him, “Yes, Rra, there could be something written on the ceiling—you never know.” But now there was nothing, and he said, “I don’t know of any family of that name—not personally, that is.”
“She used to work at that office furniture place—the one near Kgale Hill.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni knew the place. “The man who owns that has a Mercedes-Benz. I have fixed it for him several times, but he does not drive it carefully. He is hard on the gearbox. A gearbox will not forget you if you are unkind to it. Gearboxes have a long memory—just like elephants.”
Mma Ramotswe told him the story that Mr. Polopetsi had recounted that morning. She told him how Charity had worked at the store for over six years and had done well. Then, without any warning, even as she was in the middle of taking an order for six filing cabinets and a receptionist’s desk, she had been called to the manager’s office and summarily dismissed. The pretext, Mr. Polopetsi said, had been rudeness to an important client. This had been denied vigorously, but the client had made it clear that he would not be bought off with a mere apology: he wanted the offender fired.
“That was all Mr. Polopetsi knew about the incident,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni tutted in disapproval. He had heard that employers were getting tougher with their staff and were less tolerant than they used to be. It was not unconnected, he thought, with the desire to cut down the size of the workforce: find a pretext to dismiss somebody—any excuse would do—and slim down the payroll that way. He would never do that sort of thing, but there were many who would, and he strongly disapproved of the practice. “If you cannot afford to keep people on,” he said, “then you should explain the situation to them rather than fire them for something else—something you’ve just made up.”
Now, to Mma Ramotswe, he said, “She should have had a warning. I’m not excusing rudeness, but it’s a bit extreme to get rid of somebody just because she forgot to be polite.”
“I agree,” said Mma Ramotswe. She knew that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would never do anything so harsh; on the contrary, he had always forgiven his apprentices for even the most exceptional mistakes and had never threatened to dismiss them. It was true that Charlie had lost his job at the garage, but that was only when financial stringency made it impossible to pay his wages, and since then he had been taken back, even if only on a part-time basis, the rest of his salary being made up by Mma Ramotswe. She had given Charlie a number of hours’ work a week as an assistant in the agency—with mixed results.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni asked why Mr. Polopetsi had brought up the case of the dismissed woman. In response, Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of acceptance with her hands, the sort of gesture you make when there is no alternative. “He wondered whether I could help to get her job back.” She looked apologetic, as if it were she who had made the awkward request.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked doubtful. “I don’t see what you can do, Mma,” he said. “The labour court won’t interfere in a case like that. They’d probably say that the dismissal was justified.”
“Unless it’s not true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Unless she was not rude in the first place.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked puzzled. “But you said she had been.”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I said that was the reason given for the dismissal. That’s not the same thing as saying that she did what they said she did.”
He looked up at the ceiling again, but only briefly. “You’re suggesting that the client made it up?”
“No, I’m suggesting that the client may not know anything about it. I’m suggesting that the employer might have made it up.”
“But why would he do that?”
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “There are many reasons for wanting to get rid of somebody. I don’t know what the reason might have been in this case, but what I do know is that if I were an employer in such a situation, and I wanted to get rid of somebody, my main worry would be the labour court. You can be taken to court, as you know, if you fire somebody without good reason. They may order reinstatement in the job. They may instruct compensation to be paid.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been aware of that. There had been a prominent case in the motor trade where a car salesman had been fired without good reason because he had been having an affair with the younger sister of one of the directors of the company. The director had considered the salesman unworthy of his sister, as the salesman came from a minority clan, and this element of animosity had been stressed in the newspaper reports of the case. The resultant bad publicity had its effect: sales had dropped because of public sympathy for the employee, and the firm had eventually filed for bankruptcy—all because of small-minded snobbery.
“It will be very difficult, Mma,” he said cautiously. “If the original complaint is true, then there’s not much you can do. If it is not true, then I don’t see how you can prove it.”
Mma Ramotswe appreciated his reservations, but they would not be enough to deter her from doing something for this woman—if she could. She could imagine nothing worse than being accused of something you did not do. There were few people in this world who would be able to do much for a person in that invidious position, but she felt that if anybody could do anything, it would be a private detective.
“I’m going to try to help her,” she said. “We cannot leave her.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni took a moment to react. He had noticed the use of the word we, and he knew that she was right. If she di
d not take on this sort of matter, then there would be nowhere for an innocent woman—if she were innocent—to turn. That was clear enough, but there remained the question of payment. This did not sound like a paying proposition, and there was a limit to the number of cases Mma Ramotswe could take on without payment. Or was there?
“I don’t suppose…,” he began, but stopped. She knew what he was going to ask.
“No, there isn’t,” she said. “Nothing was said about that.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, as cheerfully as he could. “The garage still makes a little bit of money and that will keep us going.”
She nodded. “That’s good of you, Rra.”
“And all we need,” he continued, “is to have enough money to clothe the children…and buy their schoolbooks and shoes and…” He waved a hand in the air. “And to eat, of course.”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And on that subject, Rra, I think this stew is about ready. Are you hungry this evening?”
She knew that she need hardly ask the question, but she did, out of politeness. Men were always hungry; they were hungry as boys, they were hungry as young men, they were hungry as mature men. It was part of being a man, and it was part of being a woman to observe this; not that women were never hungry—they were—but, thought Mma Ramotswe, they were hungry in a rather different way. One day, of course, these differences between men and women would disappear—there were signs of that beginning to happen already—but she did not think that day would come at all soon, and she was rather pleased that this was so. God had made things in a certain way, she felt; he had made Africa, he had made Botswana, he had made cattle—and then he made men and women; and he knew what he was doing and we should not be too quick to undo his work.
The reply to her question did not come in any words from Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, to whom it had been addressed, but in chorus in two higher-pitched voices. “Yes, we are very hungry.”
Puso and Motholeli had come into the room—Puso pushing his sister’s wheelchair, both smiling broadly.
“Is homework finished?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
This was answered with a solemn nodding of heads.
“And done neatly?”
Again, nodding heads provided the answer.
Then Puso added, “I had to draw a map of the world, and then colour in the countries.”
“He did it really well,” observed Motholeli. “But he put Australia in the wrong place.” She turned to her brother. “Australia is not at the top—it’s down at the bottom, Puso.”
“Then why don’t they fall off?” asked Puso. “If Australia is at the bottom, then people would fall off. But they don’t, do they?”
“It’s because we’re spinning round,” said Motholeli.
Puso looked doubtful. “We’re not spinning round.” He looked to Mma Ramotswe for support. “We’re not spinning around, are we, Mma?”
“I think we are, Puso, but gravity stops us from falling off, I think. You know what gravity is?”
Puso looked knowing. “Everybody knows what gravity is,” he said.
“And he made Botswana as big as South America,” Motholeli continued.
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I can see why he did that,” she said. “Botswana’s very important to us.”
“See,” said Puso, a note of triumph in his voice.
Both children looked pointedly at Mma Ramotswe. And then she said, “Dinner is ready now, I think.”
She ladled stew onto four plates and placed these, one by one, on the table. Once seated herself, Mma Ramotswe lowered her head and said grace. “We give thanks for the food our country gives us, and we think of those who do not have what we have. We give thanks for Africa and for the good things that Africa gives its children. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Motholeli.
“Me too,” said Puso.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT IS VERY DIFFICULT SOMETIMES TO KEEP UPRIGHT
“SO,” said Mma Makutsi the following morning; then, to make matters clearer, she added, “So, I see.”
It was during their first tea break—the eight o’clock one, not to be confused with the mid-morning one, which took place as near to ten o’clock as was convenient—and rather than answer immediately, Mma Ramotswe took a sip from her cup of red bush tea. It was her favourite brew by far; she liked the taste of ordinary tea, but found that caffeine could make her heart race and had decided to switch to red bush instead. It refreshed without raising her heart rate and she had read that it had all sorts of other benefits. It was even good for the complexion, she had heard, and she had mentioned this fact to Mma Makutsi as tactfully as she could, knowing Mma Makutsi’s sensitivity over her slightly difficult skin.
“I have read that red bush tea can be good for the skin,” she said. “There are people who drink a cup of red bush tea and then, when what is left in the pot has cooled down enough, they apply it to their skin.”
Mma Makutsi snorted. “They must look very foolish, Mma. Imagine picking up a teapot and pouring it over your head. Just imagine that. People would laugh at you if you did that.”
“I’m not suggesting you pour it directly,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi’s glasses had flashed a warning signal across the room. “Me, Mma? Are you saying I should pour this tea over myself?”
Mma Ramotswe was quick to reassure her. “I wasn’t talking about you, Mma. All I was saying was that there are some people—and I don’t know who these people are—but there are some people who use it for skin ailments. That is all. I do not know whether there is any evidence saying that red bush tea is good for the skin—”
“Is it on the packet?” interjected Mma Makutsi.
“No, there is nothing on the packet.”
In Mma Makutsi’s eyes, this settled the matter. “Well, there you are. If red bush tea really was good for people’s skin, then they would put it on the packet. They would say something like: This tea is very good for the skin too. Or, If you have problems with your skin, then this is the tea for you.”
Mma Ramotswe had decided not to press the matter, but later that day she noticed Mma Makutsi surreptitiously dipping her finger into the teapot—the one reserved for red bush tea—and then dabbing it on her cheek. The message had been received; sometimes it was necessary to be indirect in getting through to Mma Makutsi, as there were defences to be negotiated. These defences could appear in unexpected places, not just when you were talking about Bobonong or some other already identified area of sensitivity, but at other times too. Yet once these had been circumvented, then Mma Makutsi would listen, and would take to heart what you had to say. Some people never did that, thought Mma Ramotswe—they either did not listen, or they listened and then dismissed what they heard. Mma Makutsi was not like that; she had her pride, but she knew when to put those feelings to one side.
But now, on that morning, there had come a slightly ominous “So” from the other side of the office, and that meant Mma Ramotswe should tread warily.
“So,” Mma Makutsi repeated. “So you think that Mr. Polopetsi should go with you to see this woman, whatever her name is.”
“Charity Mompoloki.”
“Yes, this Charity Mompoloki. You think he should go, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe took another sip of her tea. “Well, it’s his case, in a way, Mma. Charity’s sister went to see him about it.”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, Mma. She did not go to see him. She was talking to him at the school. It was just one colleague talking to another colleague—like me talking to you. She did not consult him as a detective, because Mr. Polopetsi is not a detective, is he? He is a chemistry teacher.”
Mma Ramotswe let her finish.
“And there is a big difference,” Mma Makutsi concluded, “between being a chemistry teacher and being a detective.”
Mma Ramotswe made light of this. “Of course there is, Mma. You’re absolutely right. I would not like to be taught chemistry by
a detective.”
“Nor ask a chemistry teacher to carry out an investigation,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is the same thing, really.”
Mma Ramotswe wondered whether to let this pass, but decided not. She had to defend Mr. Polopetsi, who had, after all, once been a full-time employee of the agency, and who, for all his timidity, often came up with helpful suggestions. “No, Mma,” she said. “I think that Mr. Polopetsi is a perfectly good detective.” She sensed that Mma Makutsi was going to interrupt, so she raised her voice to complete what she had to say. “And in this case, he is the person who brought the matter to our attention, and so he should come with me to see this woman.”
Mma Makutsi looked deflated. “I was only trying to help, Mma. I didn’t want Mr. Polopetsi to be a burden to you.”
Mma Ramotswe hesitated. For all her occasional bluster, Mma Makutsi was vulnerable. She had come from nothing—although Mma Ramotswe would never openly refer to Bobonong as nothing—and she had achieved so much; yet in the background there remained all the uncertainties and insecurities that everyone felt, no matter who they had become. Inside every one of us, thought Mma Ramotswe, there is the child we once were, the child that was unsure about the world and our place in it. And she understood something else, too: if she were in Mma Makutsi’s shoes, she would be equally keen to be in on this rather unusual and intriguing enquiry, not to mention being eager to set right a manifest injustice. Who could resist the prospect of doing that? There was so much unfairness in the world that the chance of correcting just one small bit of it seemed attractive indeed.