Men: do you know that it is very important these days to be able to type? If you cannot type, you will be overtaken. There is no room in the modern world for those who cannot type. You can now learn, in confidential conditions, at the Kalahari Typing School for Men, under the supervision of Mma Grace Makutsi, Dip. Sec. (magna cum laude) (Bw. Sec. Coll.).
Prospective students were then referred to the telephone number of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and instructed to ask for the Typing School Department.
On the day of publication, Mma Makutsi was at work earlier than usual. She had obtained an early copy of the paper from the printers and had read and reread the text of the advertisement. It gave her considerable pleasure to see her name in print. It was the first time that she had ever seen this, and she sat and stared at it for some time, thinking, That’s me, that’s my name, in print, in the newspaper, me.
The first call came half an hour later, and one followed another throughout the day. By four o’clock in the afternoon, there were twenty-two firm bookings for a place in the class; ten would start that week, a further ten would be admitted to the second course some two months later, and two were placed on a waiting list.
Mma Ramotswe shared Mma Makutsi’s pleasure.
“You were right,” she said. “There must be many men who are desperate to learn how to type. It is very sad.”
“I told you it would work out,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I told you.”
THE FIRST class took place on a Wednesday evening. Mma Ramotswe had given Mma Makutsi the afternoon off so that she could prepare for the occasion, and Mma Makutsi had spent some time setting out sheets of paper at each desk and distributing the exercise booklet which she had herself typed out and duplicated. On a makeshift blackboard at one end of the room she had drawn, in chalk, the layout of the keyboard, dissected with wavy lines for the domain of each finger and each thumb. This was the basic knowledge of the typist, the foundation stone of the skill that would send the fingers racing across the keyboard and the keys clattering against the roller.
There had never been any doubt about the pedagogical philosophy which would underpin the efforts of the Kalahari Typing School for Men. This was the same as the philosophy of the Botswana Secretarial College, and it held that every finger must be taught to know its place. There would be no shortcuts; there would be no leeway for sloppy habits. The little finger must think q; the thumb must think space bar. That is how they had put it at the Botswana Secretarial College, and Mma Makutsi had never heard the philosophy of typing put so succinctly and so truly.
On the basis of this instinctive positioning of fingers, the students would be taught, by sheer repetition, to bridge the gap between perception of the word to be typed (or its imagination) and the movement of the muscles. That was something that could be acquired only through practice, and through the constant performance of standard exercises. Within a few weeks, if the student had any aptitude at all, words could be typed slowly but accurately, even making allowances for the fact that men have larger, more ungainly fingers.
The class was due to begin at six, which gave time for the students to make their way from their workplaces to the hall. Well before that time, however, they had all assembled, and Mma Makutsi found herself confronted with ten expectant faces. She looked at her watch, counted the students, and announced that the class would begin.
The hour went very quickly. The students were instructed in the insertion of sheets of paper and in the function of the various keys. Then they were asked to type, in unison, on the command of Mma Makutsi, the word “hat.”
“All together,” called out Mma Makutsi, “h and a and t. Now stop.”
A hand went up.
“My h does not work, Mma,” said a puzzled-looking, smartly dressed man. “I pressed it twice, but it has not worked. I have typed ‘at.’”
Mma Makutsi was prepared for this. “Some keys are not in working order,” she said. “This does not matter. You must still press them, because you will find that these keys will work in the office. It does not matter at this stage.”
She looked at the man, who had his hair parted down the middle and a neatly trimmed moustache. He was smiling up at her, his lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something. But he did not, and they moved on to new but equally unchallenging words.
“Cat,” shouted Mma Makutsi. “And mat. Hat cat mat.”
At the end of the hour, Mma Makutsi made her way round the desks and inspected the results. She had learned at the Botswana Secretarial College the importance of encouragement, and she made sure that she had a word of praise for each student.
“You will be a very good typist, Rra,” she would say. “You have good finger control.” Or: “You have typed ‘mat’ very clearly. That is very good.”
Once the class was over, the men made their way out of the hall, talking enthusiastically amongst themselves. Mma Makutsi, tidying up in the background, overheard a remark which one of the students passed to another.
“She is a good teacher, that woman,” he said. “She does not make me feel stupid. She is good at her job.”
Alone in the hall, she smiled to herself. She had enjoyed the class and had discovered a new talent: an ability to teach. And what was more, she had in the small cash box on her desk the first week’s fees, in carefully counted notes of the Bank of Botswana. It was a comfortable sum, and there were virtually no overheads to pay. This money was hers to dispose of, although she planned to give a small portion of it to Mma Ramotswe to cover the cost of the telephone and as a recognition of her contribution to the business. Once she had done that, she would put the balance in her savings account. The days of poverty were over.
After she had locked up, she tucked the cash box into her bag of papers and started the walk back home. She walked along an untarred back road, past small houses from which light spilled, and in which she witnessed, framed in the windows, scenes of everyday domesticity. Children sat at tables, some upright, attentive, while others stared up at the ceiling; parents ladled the evening meal into their bowls; bare lightbulbs in some rooms, coloured lamp shades in others; music drifted from kitchens, a young girl sat on the kitchen step, singing a snatch of song which Mma Makutsi remembered from her own childhood, and which made her stop for a moment, there in the shadows, and remember.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MMA RAMOTSWE GOES TO A SMALL VILLAGE TO THE SOUTH OF GABORONE
SHE DROVE down in the tiny white van, the morning sun streaming through the open window, the air warm against her skin, the grey-green trees, the browning grass, the plains stretching out on both sides of the road. The traffic was light; an occasional van, minibuses crowded and swaying on their ruined suspensions, a truck full of green-uniformed soldiers, the men calling out to any girl walking along the edge of the road, private cars speeding down to Lobatse and beyond on their unknown business. Mma Ramotswe liked the Lobatse road. Many trips in Botswana were daunting in their length, particularly the trip up to Francistown, in the north, which seemed to go on forever, along a straight ribbon of a road. Lobatse, by contrast, was little more than an hour away, and there was always just enough activity on the way to keep boredom at bay.
Roads, thought Mma Ramotswe, were a country’s showcase. How people behaved on roads told you everything you needed to know about the national character. So the Swazi roads, on which she had driven on one frightening occasion some years earlier, were fraught with danger, full of those who overtook on the wrong side and those who had a complete disregard for speed limits. Even the Swazi cattle were more foolhardy than Botswana cattle. They seemed to lurch in front of cars as if inviting collision, challenging drivers at the very last moment. All of this was because the Swazis were an ebullient, devil-may-care people. That was how they were, and that was how they drove. Batswana were more careful; they did not boast, as the Swazis tended to do, and they drove more carefully.
Of course, cattle were always a problem on the roads, even in Bo
tswana, and there was nobody in Botswana who did not know somebody, or know of somebody who knew somebody, who had collided with a cow. This could be disastrous, and each year people were killed by cattle which were knocked into the car itself, sometimes impaling drivers on their horns. It was for this reason that Mma Ramotswe did not like to drive at night, if she could possibly avoid it, and when she had to do so, she crawled along, peering into the darkness ahead, ready to brake sharply if the black shape of a cow or a bull should suddenly emerge from the darkness.
A journey was a good time to think, and as she drove, Mma Ramotswe mulled over in her mind the possible outcomes of this rather unusual affair. The more she thought about Mr. Molefelo, the more she admired what he had done in coming to see her. Most do not bother with the really old wrongs; many forget them entirely, whether deliberately—if you can make a deliberate effort to forget—or by allowing the past to fade of its own accord. Mma Ramotswe wondered whether people have a duty to keep memories alive, and had decided that they have. Certainly the old beliefs were that those who had gone before should be remembered. There were rituals to this effect, the purpose of which was to remind you of your duties to grandparents and great-grandparents, and the parents of great-grandparents and their parents, too. If you did not remember them, then they might pine and die, not here, of course, but in those other places where the ancestors lived; somewhere over there, where you could not see. Half of Botswana thought that way, and the other half thought the church way, which held that when you died you went to heaven, if you deserved it, of course, and once you were there you were looked after by saints and angels and people like that. Some people said that there were cattle in heaven, too, which was probably true; white cattle, with sweet breath, and watery brown eyes; saintly cattle who moved slowly and allowed children, the late children, to ride on their backs. What fun for those poor children, who had never known their mothers and fathers perhaps, because they had died too young; what a consolation that they should have these gentle cattle to be their companions. Mma Ramotswe thought this, and then, for a moment, she felt tears well in her eyes. She had lost her baby, and where was she? She hoped that her baby was happy and would be waiting for her when she herself left Botswana and went to heaven. Would Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni get round to naming a wedding date before then? She hoped so, although he certainly seemed to be taking his time. Perhaps they could get married in heaven, if he left it too late. That would certainly be cheaper.
To return to Mr. Molefelo and Mma Tsolamosese. It was difficult to anticipate what Mma Tsolamosese would say when the truth was revealed to her about what had happened all those years ago. She would be angry, no doubt, and she might even talk of going to the police. Mr. Molefelo had presumably not thought of that possibility when he came to her with the request to trace Mma Tsolamosese. He had assumed that the matter could be cleared up informally, but if Mma Tsolamosese made a complaint at the local police station, then they might feel obliged to press charges. It would be surprising if they did that, after all those years, but Mma Ramotswe imagined that there was nothing in the Botswana Penal Code to prevent that happening. She had not read the Botswana Penal Code from cover to cover; in fact she had not read it at all, but it could be bought from the Government Printer for a few pula; she had seen copies lying about and had paged through one of these, but it had not been immediately obvious to her what the Code was trying to say. This was the difficulty with laws and with legal language: they used language which very few people, apart from lawyers, understood. Penal Codes, then, were all very well, but she wondered whether it might not be simpler to rely on something like the Ten Commandments, which, with a bit of modernisation, seemed to give a perfectly good set of guidelines for the conduct of one’s life, or so Mma Ramotswe thought. Everybody knew that it was particularly wrong to kill; everybody knew that it was wrong to steal; everybody knew that it was wrong to commit adultery and to covet one’s neighbour’s goods.… She hesitated. No they did not. They did not know that at all, or at least not anymore. There were children, horrible, cheeky children being brought up with precisely the opposite message ringing in their ears, and that was the problem, she thought grimly. People were far too ready to abandon their husbands and wives because they had tired of them. If you woke up one day and thought that you might find somebody more exciting than the person you had, then you could walk out! Just like that! And you could take it even further, could you not, and just walk out on all sorts of people. If you decide that your parents are beginning to bore you, then just walk out! And friends, too. They could become very demanding, but all you had to do was to walk out. Where had all this come from, she wondered. It was not African, she thought, and it certainly had nothing to do with the old Botswana morality. So it must have come from somewhere else.
To return to Mr. Molefelo and Mma Tsolamosese once again. Mma Ramotswe hoped that Mma Tsolamosese would not be inclined to go to the police, to rake over these very old coals; in which case she would inform her that Mr. Molefelo wished to make an apology and buy her a new radio. She had not discussed with him the precise terms of his amends, but he had said to her that money would be no object. “I shall pay whatever it takes,” he had said. “My conscience is more important to me than money. You can get lots of money out of the bank. You cannot get peace of mind out of the bank.”
Well, she would have to see what happened and handle matters accordingly. It would not be long now, with the turning to the village coming up, badly signposted, and a bumpy track to be negotiated up the hillside to Mma Tsolamosese’s house, which, if her directions were correct, she could just make out at the edge of the village.
An elderly woman was sitting on a stool outside the house, pounding corn in a traditional wooden mortar. She stopped as the tiny white van drew up, and rose to her feet to greet Mma Ramotswe.
They exchanged greetings in the traditional way.
“Dumela, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said. “Have you slept well?”
“Yes, Mma. I have slept well.”
Mma Ramotswe introduced herself and asked whether the woman was Mma Tsolamosese.
The woman smiled. She had a pleasant, open expression, and Mma Ramotswe warmed to her immediately. “I am Mma Tsolamosese. This is my place.”
Mma Ramotswe accepted the invitation to sit down on a wooden chair, strung with strips of leather. It was not strong-looking, but she knew that these traditional chairs were well made and could bear her weight. The woman then went inside and fetched a mug of water for her visitor, which Mma Ramotswe accepted gratefully.
The house was of average size for such a village. It was square, neatly thatched, and had mud-daub walls of a warm ochre colour. The front door was painted white but had been scratched at the base by a dog. From inside the house, which was dark, as the curtains were drawn, there came the sound of two childish voices.
“There are two children who live here,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “There is the daughter of one of my sons, whose wife has gone to look after her mother in Shashe. Then there is the daughter of my daughter, who is late. I am looking after both of these children.”
“That is the work of so many women,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Children and more children, all the time until we die. That seems to be what women have to do.”
Mma Tsolamosese nodded her agreement. She was looking very carefully at Mma Ramotswe, her intelligent gaze moving over her visitor’s face and clothes, going off to the tiny white van and then back.
“I have looked after children all my life,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “It started when I was fourteen and had to look after my older sister’s child. Then it carried on when I had my own children, and now I am a grandmother and the task is not finished.” She paused for a moment and then continued: “Why have you come to see me, Mma? I am very happy to see you, but I wonder why you have come.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I have not come all this way to discuss children with you,” she said. “I have come to talk to you about something which happened a l
ong time ago.”
Mma Tsolamosese opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. She was puzzled, and eager to find out, but she would wait for her visitor to explain herself.
“I believe your late husband worked for the Prison Department,” Mma Ramotswe said.
“He did,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “He was a good man. He worked for the department for many years and was quite senior. Thanks to that, I get a pension today.”
“And you lived near the old airfield in Gaborone?” went on Mma Ramotswe. “And you let students live in your spare room?”
“We always did that,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “It helped with housekeeping money. Not that they could pay much rent.”
“There was a student called Molefelo,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was studying at the Botswana Technical College. Do you remember him?”
Mma Tsolamosese smiled. “I remember that boy well. He was a very nice boy. He was always clean.”
Mma Ramotswe hesitated. It was not going to be easy to tell her; even now, at this distance in time, it would be news of a gross betrayal. But she had to do it; it was part of her job to be the bearer of bad news, and she would have to steel herself.
“When he was staying with you,” she said, watching Mma Tsolamosese’s face closely, “you had a burglary. A man forced a window and stole a radio. Did that happen?”
Mma Tsolamosese frowned. “Yes, it did happen. I would not forget a thing like that. It was a very fine radio.”
Mma Ramotswe drew a deep breath. She would have to do it. “Molefelo took it,” she said. “He stole the radio.”
At first, Mma Tsolamosese looked confused. Then she reached down and dipped her fingers into the maize flour in the mortar.
“No,” she said. “He did not do it. He was living with us when it happened. You have got it wrong. Somebody else stole it. One of the prisoners, I think. That is always a danger when you live near a prison.”
“No, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, her voice gentle. “It was not a prisoner. It was Molefelo. He needed money urgently for some … something he had to do. So he stole your radio and made it look like a burglary. He sold it for one hundred pula to a man near the railway station. That is what happened.”