‘What then, Mma Ramotswe?’
She was brought back to where she was – not in the sky, looking down on Botswana, but in a very real and immediate part of Botswana, namely the kitchen of her house on Zebra Drive, where her husband was about to leave for work and where there were still many chores to do before she herself could leave for her office.
‘When Mma Makutsi goes off on maternity leave,’ she answered, ‘then I shall have to get another assistant.’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni looked unconvinced. ‘Easier said than done, you know.’
He was right – she knew that. No doubt she would find somebody who fancied the idea of being her secretary. And this time, she resolved, the post would be very clearly and unambiguously described as a secretarial one, with no suggestion that it was a stepping stone to being an assistant detective or, as Mma Makutsi was at pains to insist, an associate detective, whatever that was. Yes, there would be many applicants for the job, but would any of them be as well qualified and efficient as Mma Makutsi?
It was difficult to see this happening, for the simple reason that there were presumably no secretaries with anything like Mma Makutsi’s ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College. Mma Makutsi had reported that a young woman from Mahalapye had recently managed to get eighty-three per cent in the finals – a very creditable mark but still a whole fourteen per cent shy of her own.
‘It was her shorthand that let her down,’ Mma Makutsi had said, adding in a resigned tone: ‘It always is, you know.’
Mma Ramotswe had replied, ‘Yes, it always is,’ as if she knew about these things. Perhaps she should have said, ‘Yes, and I am let down too, as mine is very rusty,’ but she did not.
Now, she too stood up from the breakfast table. If she had to get a new secretary, then that was what she would do. And even if she ended up with a secretary whose shorthand let her down – and that seemed to be something that it was simply impossible to avoid – she would make the best of it and the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency would continue in whatever way it could.
She would have to speak to Mma Makutsi that day. At least she did not have to broach the subject of pregnancy itself; at least Mma Makutsi had told her about that. It would be far more difficult for an employer if the employee had not said anything about being pregnant. That would not be easy, she thought, because if you went up to somebody and said, Are you pregnant? the question might be taken the wrong way. It might sound as if you had said, Are you pregnant yet? Or, Are you pregnant yet again? Both of these could be considered rude by some people, and would almost certainly be so viewed by Mma Makutsi, who was very sensitive to slight.
Another way of doing it would be to introduce the subject into the conversation by simply making a remark that suggested you knew. You could, for example, give somebody a cup of tea and then say something like, Would you like a piece of cake as well – now that you’re pregnant? That would allow the other person to answer, Well, cake is always welcome when one is eating for two. Or she might say, What makes you think I’m pregnant? That could be awkward, because you could hardly say, I thought you were pregnant because you’re looking so large. There were some people who became larger simply because of fattening foods, of cake or the like, or because they were traditionally built by nature rather than because of… because of anything else. They might resent an inference that they were too large, and indeed there were those who might be trying to become pregnant and not yet succeeding; they might be upset if you reminded them of something they wanted but were not achieving. Or there might be people who could conclude that you thought that they should be pregnant, and they, in turn, might think, What business is it of yours whether or not I’m pregnant? There was no getting away from it: it was very difficult all round and even a discussion of maternity leave would have to be handled very carefully. There were undoubtedly many employees who were easy, with whom you could raise any issue without having to take care to be tactful, but Mma Makutsi, for all her many merits, was certainly not one of those.
She drove past the traffic circle at the university and then along the road towards the part of town known as the Village. Although she remembered it when it was a sleepy collection of meandering, tree-lined streets, it was less of a village now, since several large blocks of flats had been built on its periphery. Blocks of flats could change everything, thought Mma Ramotswe. They were designed for people, but people were not necessarily designed for them. These flats at the edges of the Village, though, were made more human by the washing that was hung out to dry from their balconies; by the children who congregated in their doorways, or played with skipping ropes and dogs on their pathways; by the music that the residents listened to, melodies that drifted out of the open windows and throbbed with life. All of this made it harder for large new buildings to deaden the human spirit. It was like the bush: you could clear it and build something where once there had been nothing but trees and grass and termite mounds, but if you turned your back for a moment, Africa would begin to reclaim what had always been hers. The grass would encroach, its seeds carried by the wind; birds would drop the seeds of saplings that would then send tiny shoots up out of the ground; the termites would marshal their exploratory troops to begin rebuilding their own intricate cities of mud in the very places they had claimed once before. And sooner or later the bush would have covered all your efforts and it would be as it was before, the wound on nature completely healed.
By the time she reached the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni had already arrived for work at his garage, Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, with whom the agency shared premises. He was talking to a client who had brought in a car for repair – one of his regular clients, Mma Ramotswe noticed; one of that unfortunate category of people whose cars always seemed to be breaking down but who could not bring themselves to part with them and buy a new model. Mma Ramotswe understood that attitude only too well; she loved her van and had resisted every effort on the part of Mr J. L. B. Matekoni to trade it in for something newer. And when he had eventually succeeded, she had pined for her late van until it had been recovered, restored and given back into her ownership, where it was surely destined to be.
She nodded a greeting to the client, whom she knew slightly, before making her way into the office. Mma Makutsi was sometimes in before her. Good time-keeping, she had often pointed out, was one of the lessons learned in the Botswana Secretarial College – at least by those who were willing to learn, and that did not include people like Violet Sephotho, who learned nothing except, perhaps, how to distract men. This morning, though, it was Mma Ramotswe who opened up the office, pulling up the blind on the main window, filling the kettle, and brushing the ants off the top of the filing cabinet. The presence of the ants on the cabinet was a mystery; they were there every morning, a long line of pinheaded creatures, marching obediently across the painted metal wastes on some quite unfathomable mission. Mma Makutsi had suggested that the ants were there before the filing cabinet or the building itself; that this was some ancient ant highway that they still felt compelled to follow. She had been opposed to ant powder, as had Mma Ramotswe. These insects did not bite, nor did they have that curious unpleasant smell that the larger Matabele ants had – and they had none of the aggressive instincts of those warriors. Every child had been bitten at one time or another by a Matabele ant and, remembering the pain, learned to leave a wide berth when those determined black ants were on the march.
She filled the kettle and prepared her first cup of tea. It was, in fact, her third of the day, but she did not count the two that she had at home before she reached the office; those cups were merely preparatory and therefore exempt from tally. Her cup of tea in her hand, she stood by the window looking out at the acacia tree behind the office. She had not given much thought to yesterday’s conversation with Mma Sheba, but now she wondered whether there was much that she could do. It seemed to her to be very odd that Mma Sheba should doubt the wor
d of Rra Edgar’s sister. She was, after all, the boy’s aunt and if she said that Liso was the same boy who had been coming to stay on the farm every school holiday since he was very young, then that should be the end of the matter. Surely it would be easy enough to talk to the people who worked on the farm, or to the neighbours, and ask them whether Liso was the same boy. And if they said yes, which they no doubt would, then that would be the end of it. Why, she wondered, could Mma Sheba not have done that herself? And what interest, for that matter, would the aunt have in telling lies?
She was distracted from these considerations by the arrival of Phuti Radiphuti’s car. He usually dropped off Mma Makutsi on his way to the Double Comfort Furniture Store, and that was what he would be doing now. Phuti was getting out of the car, yet she noticed immediately that he was not wearing his normal working outfit of neatly pressed black trousers, white shirt and tie. Instead, he was wearing a pair of denim jeans and an open-necked shirt. And where was Mma Makutsi, Mma Ramotswe wondered. Was she ill? She had rarely missed a day’s work since she started; she came in even when she was beginning to go down with flu and had to be sent back to her bed. Something must be wrong or… She saw Phuti’s expression. This was not a man about to deliver bad news, and at that moment she knew what he had come to say.
She opened the door as Phuti approached.
‘Dumela, Rra. This is a surprise…’
‘Mma Ramotswe, Mmmmmma…’
His mouth was open; he was stammering.
‘It’s all right, Rra, I am not in a hurry. I’m listening.’
‘Itttt… it’s…’
She reached out to take his hand. There was a momentary doubt that this was bad news rather than good, but his expression belied that. No, this man was a father. Any new father, whether or not he was given to stammering, might be expected to be nervous and to behave just like this.
She decided to take the initiative. ‘Has she had it?’
He nodded, almost gratefully. ‘Yes. Yes. She is now a father.’ He shook his head and corrected himself. ‘No, she is a mother and I am a father. It is a boy child. One boy.’
Mma Ramotswe smiled. It would have been much more difficult, she thought, for Mma Makutsi to have said nothing about twins. ‘That is very good news, Rra! Very good. When did the baby arrive?’
‘Seven days ago,’ said Phuti. ‘No, what am I saying? Seven hours ago. He is now seven hours old – my first-born.’ He closed his eyes, as if uttering some sort of prayer. ‘And it is three weeks earlier than we thought, Mma. Three weeks!’
She was still holding his hand, and she squeezed it. It was moist with heat and excitement. ‘That is wonderful, Rra! Your first-born – a new Radiphuti.’
She saw that there were tears in his eyes.
‘My father would have been very proud,’ he said. ‘But he is late now.’
Mma Ramotswe spoke gently. ‘I think that there are some things that late people know,’ she said. ‘Wherever they are. This is the one bit of news that they get, I think.’
‘Maybe,’ said Phuti.
‘And they will be very happy up in Bobonong,’ went on Mma Ramotswe. ‘It will be good news for all those Makutsi people up there.’
Phuti was now beginning to calm down. He gestured to a chair and asked whether he might sit.
Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘Of course, Rra. You will be very tired. Having a baby is very tiring – even for men, I think.’
Phuti extracted a handkerchief and mopped at his brow. ‘That’s true, Mma Ramotswe. Of course, it is the woman who has the hard work to do.’
Mma Ramotswe struggled not to laugh. ‘I think that is probably true, Rra.’ She paused. ‘I am very happy for you, Rra – for both of you. This is very good. Well done.’
He acknowledged her tribute. ‘Thank you, Mma. And do you know something? When I was at the hospital – at the Princess Marina – there were some men there who…’
She looked at him expectantly. ‘Doctors?’ she prompted.
‘No, not doctors. Ordinary men. Husbands. And they were going to be there in the room when the baby came. Right in the room.’
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. ‘There are men who believe in that, Rra. They like to be with their wife when she has their baby. I can understand.’
Phuti Radiphuti frowned. ‘It is not part of our culture,’ he said gravely. ‘Not in Botswana.’
‘Traditionally,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But things are changing, Rra. I think there are some men who want to be there when their child comes into the world.’
Phuti Radiphuti shook his head in wonderment. ‘I take the traditional view, Mma. You know, there was a big row when I was there – not involving me, of course.’
Mma Ramotswe could not imagine Phuti being involved in any sort of row – big or otherwise. He was a mild man, and she had never heard him raise his voice. She had heard that this could be problematic at the Double Comfort Furniture Store, where he was sometimes required to deal with difficult staff. Awkward employees could be quick to sense when the person in authority over them was unprepared to be forceful.
‘A row, Rra? In the hospital itself?’
Phuti nodded. ‘Yes, there were three nurses on duty, you see. There was a senior nurse, who was a lady like you, Mma…’ He made a gesture to indicate size, and then, realising what he was doing, he quickly dropped his hands.
‘Traditionally built?’ prompted Mma Ramotswe.
He looked sheepish. ‘Yes, Mma. Traditionally built. And then there were two more junior nurses. And there was one of the fathers – or a man who was about to become a father – and he had asked one of the junior nurses whether he could go into the labour ward with his wife. He said that this is what she wanted, and he wanted it too. The nurse said that she thought this was a good thing to do. But then the older nurse started to shake her finger. She said to him that men had never been allowed anywhere near a woman who was having a baby and that he should be ashamed of himself for asking.’
Mma Ramotswe was not surprised. ‘People have different views. Certainly she was right about the old Botswana views – that is the position. My late father would never have imagined that any man would ask such a thing. He was a child of his time – as we all are, Rra.’
Phuti Radiphuti went on to describe what had happened. The man had begun to shout, he said, and had asked whose baby it was anyway. ‘The senior nurse shouted even more,’ he said. ‘She told him that the baby belonged to his wife and that he was just the father. He would be able to see the baby in due time, when his wife invited him to do so.’
‘And how did he react to that?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.
‘He was not very happy,’ replied Phuti. ‘And then the other junior nurse, who had not said anything, started to support him too. That made it two nurses and one man against one senior nurse. There was a lot of shouting.’ He paused. ‘Then more shouting started – this time from one of the ladies who was having a baby. And that stopped the man.’
‘He didn’t like it?’
‘No. He suddenly stopped shouting and he stood very still. I think he became frightened. Then he turned round and walked quickly away.’
Mma Ramotswe laughed. ‘He’d changed his mind?’
‘He decided that it was not a good idea after all,’ said Phuti.
Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window. She was remembering. She tried not to think about it, but every so often it came back to her – the birth of her only child all those years ago. Her baby by Note Mokoti; her baby who had lived for such a short time before being taken away from her. Her child, her baby – the only baby that she would ever have. She closed her eyes, trying to fend off the memory of how she had held the tiny baby, uncertain whether life had gone yet, and how they had taken the bundle from her, restraining her in the raw depth of her grief, because they said that she could not hold the child’s body for ever and would have to say goodbye. We all had to say goodbye, sooner or later, to those we loved – or they had to say goodbye to us. Those were th
e only two possibilities that this world allowed. But no matter how much we tried to face up to it, it never became easier.
She struggled to bring herself back. ‘So you waited outside?’
He nodded. ‘There is a place for fathers to go, but I think that most of us wanted to go outside. There were three other men there – the man who had changed his mind, and two others. One of them was a man who knew my cousin – a man who works in the Bank of Botswana. He has something to do with money.’
Again, Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. Phuti Radiphuti was just like Mma Makutsi, really: they both had a tendency to make odd, sometimes rather obvious, remarks. Married couples often reinforced one’s another’s quirks, she thought. Of course anybody who worked in the Bank of Botswana would have something to do with money. That, she thought, went with the job, although, to be fair to Phuti, there would be people there who were in charge of personnel, or the staff café, or some such thing, and they might be described as people who had nothing to do with money.