After the meetings with the teachers, Mma Ramotswe made her way into the school hall, where the choirs were to perform. Puso’s was on first, and she listened intently as they sang one of the songs that she remembered being taught as a girl, all those years ago, in Mochudi. Then Motholeli’s choir came on and sang ‘Shall We Gather By the River?’ She knew that song, and liked it. Soon we’ll reach the shining river. She closed her eyes. The voices of the children were pure; their hearts were pure. Some of them had already discovered how hard life could be; others had yet to do so and probably did not fully understand what the world could be. We wanted to protect them, she thought, of course we did, but we knew that we could not and they would have to deal with the disappointments and shocks of life as best they could. All we could do was to give them that one thing that they could use to protect themselves from all of that. At least we could do that. That thing was love, of course.
She stayed to the end, although some of the parents slipped out early. Then they travelled back to the house together, where they saw that Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was already at home and in the kitchen. Leaving the children to do their homework, Mma Ramotswe joined her husband. She was surprised to find him standing over the sink, a pot before him.
‘What are you doing, Rra?’
He turned round almost guiltily.
‘I am cooking the potatoes, Mma Ramotswe. I am helping you with the evening meal.’
She looked over his shoulder and into the pot. It was tricky to work out exactly what he was doing. ‘What is happening inside this pot, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni?’
He shot her a puzzled glance. ‘I thought we might have mashed potatoes. I know you like those.’
‘I do. So you are mashing them now?’
He nodded. ‘And it’s rather hard work, Mma.’
‘You’re mashing them even before you have cooked them, Rra?’
He frowned. ‘You cook them first?’
Mma Ramotswe reached around him and took the pan from his hands. It was half-filled with water in which fragments of raw potato floated morosely, like a soup. Very gently she poured the mixture down the drain. ‘I will show you how to start with new ones,’ she said. ‘You cook the potatoes first and then you take them out and mash them up with butter and salt. That is how mashed potatoes are made, Rra.’
He turned away sheepishly. ‘I was only trying to help, Mma.’
She felt a warm rush of affection for the man beside her. ‘But of course you were, Rra. But I am quite happy to cook mashed potatoes. I do not mind.’
‘I want to be a more modern husband, Mma.’
She nodded. ‘That is a very good thing to want. I think you are quite modern enough, but even if that were not true, I think that you are something even better than that. You are a kind husband, Rra. That is the most important thing, I think. A husband may be very modern, but not kind. That is no good.’
He looked embarrassed. ‘I actually went on a course,’ he said. ‘It was for husbands.’
Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘I know about that course, Rra. Everybody has been talking about it. But I didn’t know you were going.’
‘It was very… very…’ He searched for the word. ‘Frightening. It was frightening, Mma.’
‘You don’t have to go, Rra,’ she said.
‘No?’
‘No. Not if you don’t want to.’
‘Then maybe I won’t go any more. I will still try to be more modern, though.’
He sat down while she attended to the cooking of the potatoes. She poured him a beer from the fridge and they talked of what had happened to each of them that day. There was much to discuss. There was the story of the snake and Phuti’s aunt. There was the account of the meeting with Mma Manchwe, an enemy who was not an enemy. There were the comments that the teachers had made and the songs that the choirs had sung. For his part, there were events at the garage: a gearbox restored, a braking system replaced, an invoice issued and a bill paid in full.
She sought his views on Mma Manchwe. Could she be lying? Mma Ramotswe wondered.
‘No,’ he said. ‘She is innocent.’
‘Why, Rra?’
‘Because, in general, people are, Mma, unless there is good reason to suspect otherwise. Only in books and films are they not, Mma. In real life it is different, I think.’
The children ate first, so then, because the business of the potatoes had made it run late, husband and wife ate dinner alone. After they had finished, they went out into the garden as it was hot in the house and they wanted fresh air.
There was a wind coming up. They felt it on their skin; it was cooler than the air it replaced, and it bore on it the smell that they had been longing for so intensely – the smell of rain.
‘It will be here soon,’ he said. ‘Later tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning.’
The rain came the following morning. The cool breeze of the previous evening had dropped away and the night had become almost unbearably hot as the humidity built up. By breakfast time both Mr J. L. B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe felt quite exhausted, although the day was just beginning.
‘I think we should buy a bigger fridge,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘Then you and I could sit in it, Mma Ramotswe. We could sit in it and drink iced tea all day.’
Mma Ramotswe fanned herself with an old copy of the Botswana Daily News. She imagined herself lying in the vegetable tray, perhaps, while Mr J. L. B. Matekoni leaned against the icebox. It would be a refreshing alternative to the heat.
‘I know I’m going to have to work today,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know how I shall manage it. And you in your garage…’ She had given him a large electric fan, and that helped a bit, but the roof of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors was made of tin and there was no insulation from the sun’s rays. People talked about frying eggs on roofs like that. They were right – you could do it – but she thought that today the eggs would burn.
‘I’ll cope,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘And the rains will definitely come. It’ll cool down.’
By nine o’clock the first clouds had appeared in the sky. At first there was a darkening band of grey on the horizon, which became rapidly larger, filling the lower half of the sky and developing into great rounded masses, stacked high and angry. Grey became purple, and purple shaded into black, to be obscured suddenly by white veils of rain descending, fold upon fold, like great muslin curtains. There was thunder and distant forks of lightning joining sky to earth, the patter of the first drops, and then the steady roar of the downpour. There came the smell of laid dust, and then of lightning – the smell of electricity, if electricity had a smell. And finally the smell of rain, that watery scent that so lifted the heart of anybody who lived in a dry land.
All work stopped at the garage and in the agency. As the rain pelted down, thunderous on the tin roof of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, along with Charlie and Fanwell, joined Mma Ramotswe in her office. She made tea earlier than usual, in case the storm led to a power cut that would prevent the kettle from being boiled.
Charlie was excited by the rain. ‘You’ll get more work coming in, boss,’ he said. ‘All those cars with water in the wrong place and refusing to start. Nice busy time for us!’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni shook his head. ‘The misfortunes of others are no cause for satisfaction, Charlie,’ he said. ‘You should never take pleasure in the mechanical problems of other people. I’ve told you that before.’
‘Come on, boss,’ said Charlie. ‘If it weren’t for people wrecking their cars, there wouldn’t be enough work for us. Everybody knows that.’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni stared at him in reproach, but Charlie, unrepentant, continued. ‘Especially women, boss. If it weren’t for all those women breaking their engines, then we wouldn’t have much to do. We’d go hungry, boss – we really would.’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni shook his head. ‘That’s nonsense, Charlie. Women drivers are more careful than men. Men wreck their cars more often than women do, I’m afrai
d.’
Charlie laughed. ‘Good try, boss! But don’t worry, you can tell it like it is now that Miss Ninety-seven Per Cent is off having babies.’
Fanwell looked awkward. ‘I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe —’
‘And you don’t have to worry either,’ said Charlie. ‘She can’t hear you. You don’t have to be frightened of somebody who can’t hear you.’ He paused, his face breaking into a broad, mischievous smile. ‘I’m not afraid to say it: put me in the cab with a woman driver at the wheel and you’ll see me hop out pretty smartly.’
It was at that moment, within a second or two of his finishing, that the lightning struck. It did not hit the roof of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, even though its corrugated tin must have been a tempting target; it came to earth a short distance away, striking a small acacia tree and splitting its trunk neatly in two. The impact of the bolt shook the walls of the office, rattling the metal filing cabinet and causing a pane of glass in the window above Mma Ramotswe’s desk to crack. The clap of thunder that accompanied the strike rose briefly above the sound of the rain, and then died away. Now the steady sound of the falling rain asserted itself again.
Charlie stood quite still. He had dropped his mug of tea, and it lay shattered on the floor at his feet, steam rising from the spilled liquid.
Fanwell was staring at him. ‘You see,’ he said, half under his breath. ‘You see.’
Charlie opened his mouth but no intelligible sound emerged. Mma Ramotswe watched him, amused; it was costing her a great effort not to laugh.
‘Perhaps you should be a bit more careful of what you say, Charlie,’ she said at last. ‘You never know who’s listening, do you?’
Again Charlie started to say something, but again no words came. Mma Ramotswe reflected that it would be a very good story to relay to Mma Makutsi, but now there was a broken mug to be picked up off the floor, a pool of tea to be mopped up, and a trip to be made to the office of the Master of the High Court, the custodian and enforcer of the wills of Botswana.
The storm lasted forty minutes or so, stopping even more abruptly than it had started with the sudden cessation of the rain. One moment the air was white with the dense curtains of falling water; the next the curtains had parted, revealing a transformed world. The earth and the objects upon it seemed to shine – as if polished. The shimmering heat was gone; the soil, once hard, was soft again, and breathed; the heat-exhausted leaves on the trees were revived, instantly restored to dark green by the water that had fallen upon them.
The mechanics returned to work, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni saying, ‘Well, that’s the rains arrived, but the cars are still waiting.’
And Mma Ramotswe, gathering up her keys and her notebook, said, ‘Time for us to get back to work too.’ She stopped. The others, leaving the room, did not notice, but she did. She had spoken as if Mma Makutsi were still there.
She looked at the desk that she had tidied herself when Mma Makutsi had first gone off. And she thought, I must do something. There is something I can do for her, and I must do it.
She went outside. The tiny white van had been washed by the downpour, and now stood sparkling and resplendent, as if some passing evangelist had chosen to baptise it, had sought to make it without sin. She smiled at the unexpected thought. It was the sort of thing that Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, with his tendency to speak of cars in human terms, might appreciate. He had once said cars had souls; well, perhaps he was right. Perhaps everything had a soul of sorts, which is what some people still believed – that the world all about us was endowed with life and with the very same spirit we saw within ourselves. It was only now, she thought, when we were finishing with the earth, using it up, that we were beginning to understand how right they were. Even Botswana, with all its air and its grasslands and its thorn trees and its brown-red earth, did not go on for ever.
They were big thoughts, and she knew that people had to think them. But for the moment, there was a more immediate task – the one of looking at Rra Edgar’s will. It might not tell her much that she did not already know from Mma Sheba’s account of the document, but Mma Makutsi was right in suggesting that she should look at it. Bless you, Mma Makutsi, she said to herself as she started the van and began to drive away. Bless you, and your shoes, and your baby, Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti, and that good husband of yours, and your ninety-seven per cent…
The woman who greeted her at the registry office was business-like.
‘That name, Mma,’ she said. ‘Molapo. That is a common name. There are many people who die and are called that.’
Mma Ramotswe frowned. ‘But do they all make wills?’ she asked.
The official hesitated. ‘There are many people who do not make wills. They are very foolish people, Mma.’
Mma Ramotswe was aware of the fact that the woman was staring at her in a way that was almost accusatory. She had no will herself; nor did Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. Most people, she thought, had no will. But did it really matter? Everything she had, such as it was, would go to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, and everything he had would go to her – or so she assumed. And then she thought of the children. Motholeli and Puso were not related to her – as foster children they presumably had no legal claim, and yet surely they had every other sort of claim. Of course they did.
‘I shall make a will,’ she muttered.
The woman behind the desk looked pleased. ‘That is a very good idea, Mma.’ And then added hurriedly, ‘Not that I am hoping that you will become late for a long time yet. But it is a very good idea and we always recommend it.’
Mma Ramotswe’s positive attitude to wills seemed to clear the obstructions that she felt officials could naturally, almost instinctively, place before those who wanted help or information.
‘Of course there are not many people called Molapo who become late and have wills,’ the woman said. ‘I shall be able to find it very quickly if you give me the year when this late person became late.’
‘He has been late for less than a year,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘And, as I said, he is called Molapo. Edgar Molapo, although he might have had another Setswana first name – I do not know, Mma.’
The official thought this would not be a problem. ‘And you are sure that the late Rra Molapo made a will?’
‘I am sure of that, Mma. There is a lawyer, Mma Sheba, who has consulted me about some problem in the estate. She is handling all this.’
Mma Ramotswe might easily have missed the official’s reaction to this had she not been looking directly at her when she spoke. As it was, she saw the tensing of muscles around the jaw and lips; sudden and transient, but enough to tell her that this woman did not like Mma Sheba.
‘You must know her, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe, keeping her voice even but watching closely.
The signs of animosity were still there, but the other woman was more guarded now, and that, thought Mma Ramotswe, may be because she thinks that I am an ally of Mma Sheba and she must be careful.
‘Yes, I know her, Mma.’ She rose from her chair. ‘I shall get you that will now.’
It did not take long for her to return with the document, bound with other documents into a large blue-backed binder. The front page of the deed had been stamped by the Master’s office, and a series of dates and figures had been added to it in blue ink.
‘You may have a copy,’ said the official. ‘Or you can read it here, Mma – also for a fee.’
Mma Ramotswe decided to read it where she stood, on the public side of a large government desk. It was not a long document – two and a half pages, most of which was in formal legal prose and of no interest to her. There was the instruction that the farm should go to Liso – described as ‘my nephew, the son of my late brother’ – and there was a generous financial legacy to ‘my dear sister, who has been a support for me over the years’. But then, at the end of the document, was a clause she had not expected. The residue of the estate was to go to ‘my good friend, Mma Sheba Kutso’.
Mma Ramotswe read this provision caref
ully, and then read it again. She looked at the official behind the desk, who was now watching her. ‘What does “residue” mean in these documents?’ she asked.
The official seemed pleased to be consulted. ‘It means what is left over,’ she said.
Mma Ramotswe pondered this. ‘And if, let’s say, somebody who is left something in a legacy becomes late before the person who makes the will —’
‘The testator,’ interjected the official. ‘We call the person who makes the will the testator.’
‘Yes, so let me get this right, Mma: if the person who has been left something in a will dies before the testator dies, then what happens to that thing?’
The other woman shrugged. ‘It goes into the residue of the estate,’ she said.
‘I see,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘And the person who gets the residue in the will – that person gets the thing that couldn’t go to the other person mentioned in the will because that other person —’