Mma Potokwane’s husband was a keen gardener, and his touch was very much in evidence. Surrounding the house was a four-strand goat-proof fence, creating a protected yard in which he had planted vegetables, flowering shrubs, and the waxy desert plants that thrived so well in Botswana’s climate. The visual interest provided by these plants was complemented here and there by small concrete ornaments, painted in white and blue, the national colours of Botswana—a kingfisher perching on one concrete leg, a hippo the size of a small dog, an indeterminate crouching creature that might have been a lion or a domestic cat, or something in between.
She made her way up to the front door, pausing briefly to examine the flowers on a round, cactus-like plant. The plant itself was ugly—like a turnip into which needles had been placed—but the flowers were tiny, delicate things, as beautiful as any expensive and exotic orchid.
She was disturbed by a voice from within the house. “That’s very pretty, that one, Mma Ramotswe. If it has any children, I shall give you one or two for your own garden.”
She looked up to see Mma Potokwane standing in her doorway. It was a surprise to see her dressed in the way she was—not in the matron’s outfit she always seemed to wear but in a pair of blue jeans and a white muslin top. The jeans were sufficiently voluminous—Mma Potokwane, like Mma Ramotswe, was traditionally built—but seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the pressures of the flesh, looking as if they might at any moment be shed like a snake’s skin.
“They are very beautiful,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What are they called, Mma?”
Mma Potokwane shrugged. “I have forgotten, Mma. My husband knows their Setswana name, but he is probably the only one who does. Those names are going, Mma. We are all forgetting them. Soon we shall look about us and not be able to identify anything. Even the sky will have lost its name.”
“That will not happen. The sky will always be…” And for a dreadful moment, Mma Ramotswe forgot the name of the sky, until Mma Potokwane, laughing, came to her rescue.
They went inside, where Mma Potokwane said a pot of tea had just been brewed. Mma Ramotswe realised that she had been in Mma Potokwane’s house only once before, and that had been some years ago. The two friends invariably met in the matron’s office, which meant that it was there that Mma Ramotswe always imagined her. It was the same with her bank manager, her dressmaker, and the women who taught Puso and Motholeli. All of these people must have houses, but she could not envisage them in a domestic setting. Nor could she imagine the President in his house, although she had driven past its high white walls on many occasions and knew the colour of its roof. Even the greatest in the land must have a room that was just for them, where they kept personal things, where they could go barefoot or put their feet on the chairs.
Mma Potokwane’s house was furnished simply. There were no shiny surfaces, no glass tables or expensive sitting-room suites; none of the furniture, she noticed, matched. But it was homely, and from the kitchen, and pervading the whole house, came a delicious smell of baking—a smell that was redolent of rich fruit, of molasses, of roasted almonds.
Mma Potokwane invited Mma Ramotswe into the sitting room. “I was baking,” she began, and then paused, waiting for her friend’s reaction.
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “It is my job, Mma, to put two and two together. That is what I do.”
Mma Potokwane was already making for the kitchen. Over her shoulder she called, “So the only question is one slice or two?”
“There are some questions,” said Mma Ramotswe, “that do not really need to be asked.”
There were several framed photographs on the walls of the living room. Mma Ramotswe rose from her chair to study these while Mma Potokwane was out of the room. She felt justified in doing this: photographs on a wall were there for people to see and to examine if interested; an album is a different thing, and she would never have opened a photograph album without Mma Potokwane’s permission, tempting though that might have been.
There was a wedding photograph: a slimmer, and younger, Mma Potokwane stood with a good-looking man in front of a doorway, a group of older people to the side. That was the family, she imagined, but she could not tell whose side it was. Sometimes physical appearance made that quite clear, but not in this case. Then there was a photograph of Mma Potokwane, again a younger version, in a nurse’s uniform, smiling broadly. That must have been taken when she finished her training, Mma Ramotswe thought, perhaps on her first day as a fully qualified nurse, as there was a look of pride on her face and the uniform looked so pristine. And now that she came to examine the background, she could see that it was a hospital and, yes, it was the Princess Marina in Gaborone, as she could make out one of the buildings in the background, a ward with some patients looking out of the window. That building was still there, though now it was used as an office block for the hospital administration.
Then there was a photograph of a small group of children, with a middle-aged woman standing beside them. She recognised the surroundings as being the Orphan Farm, but she did not recognise the woman.
“That is one of the housemothers,” said Mma Potokwane, who had reappeared from the kitchen and was standing behind her. “She retired shortly after I came here, but she was very good to me when I was appointed. She showed me everything.”
“That must have been very helpful,” said Mma Ramotswe. “A new job can be very confusing.”
“Who did you have to help you?” asked Mma Potokwane, placing a low tray on the table in the middle of the room.
“I only had a book,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is a book by a man called Mr. Clovis Andersen. I found a copy of that.”
“Then that would have helped,” said Mma Potokwane, pouring tea from a teapot.
“It did. And then, you know, I met him. Mr. Andersen came to Botswana. He called in at the office.”
Mma Potokwane looked impressed. “I have never met a person like that, although I did know Professor Tlou. He wrote a book on the history of Botswana. He was a very good man. He is late now, but many people remember him very fondly.”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have had some very good people in this country…” She stopped, realising that the conversation had taken her naturally, and without any forcing, to precisely that point where she could talk about what she wanted to talk about. “I have come to see you, Mma…”
“Yes, Mma. I was wondering. You’re always welcome to drop in any time—you know that—but I was wondering.”
Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. “It is a delicate matter.”
Mma Potokwane made an expansive gesture. “I am used to delicate matters, Mma Ramotswe; they do not worry me one little bit. Not one little bit. All these children…their young lives are full of delicate matters.”
“Of course, of course. A matron knows about such things.”
“So, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Potokwane. She knew that she could be as direct as she liked with her, and that anything she said would be treated confidentially. There were very few people, apart from her friend, of whom she could say that: Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, of course, who was always very discreet, and…The list petered out at that point.
“As you know, Mma, I am on holiday.”
“Well deserved, I must say.”
“Thank you. But of course business has to go on as usual, and I have left Mma Makutsi in charge of the office.” She paused. “This is very good cake, Mma.”
Mma Potokwane passed Mma Ramotswe her second slice. “She’ll be quite capable, I should think.”
“Oh, she is certainly capable. We also have Mr. Polopetsi working with us—on a part-time basis, of course—and we have young Charlie.”
The mention of Charlie’s name brought a smile to Mma Potokwane’s face. “That young man will go far,” she said. “I don’t know in what direction, but he will go far.”
They both laughed. Then Mma Ramotswe continued, “Now the problem is this, Mma. I have been dragged into
a case they took on. I did not want to be involved, because I have not wanted Mma Makutsi to think that I am interfering, but Mr. Polopetsi came to talk to me, you see, and I did not really have much choice in the matter.”
“She’s pushing him too hard?”
Mma Ramotswe was taken aback at the insight. “You’re right. Yes.”
“And he feels he’s out of his depth?”
“Yes.”
Mma Potokwane sat back in her chair. “I’ve seen that sort of thing. We’ve had it out here. You appoint a new foreman or whatever and then a few days later the first of the junior staff comes knocking at your door. It’s a very familiar thing.”
Mma Ramotswe asked how Mma Potokwane handled such situations. The explanation was simple. “A quiet talk with the senior person. Not a dressing-down. Lots of compliments on efficiency and so on. Then you mention that the junior staff are so impressed that they are trying too hard to please their new superior. They are becoming exhausted, and they need to conserve their strength. Perhaps a little bit less pressure?”
Mma Ramotswe listened carefully, nodding her agreement at the solution. “That is very helpful,” she said. “I have tried to talk to her, though, and I got nowhere. She has put him in charge of a particular case and she will not listen.”
Mma Potokwane had crossed swords with Mma Makutsi before. “She can be a very stubborn lady. She is famous for that, I think.”
“The case, though, is an interesting one,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “The agency had a visit from a Mma Potokwane.”
This brought silence—and puzzlement.
“Not you, of course,” continued Mma Ramotswe. “This Mma Potokwane is the sister of the late Mr. Government Keboneng.”
“Ah,” said Mma Potokwane. “For a moment I was confused, Mma. That is another Potokwane. I do not know that lady very well, but I do know her slightly. We do not see one another very much, but there is a connection. We meet at baptisms and funerals—that sort of thing.”
“Can you tell me about that family?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“It is a complicated story. We shall need more tea.”
Their cups refilled, Mma Potokwane began. “As you said, that woman was the sister of Government Keboneng. She is quite a bit older than me. She worked as a teacher, although I do not know exactly where. I think it was small children—maybe even nursery school. She met my husband’s cousin, who was also quite a bit older. He is late now. He was called Pound Potokwane.”
“Tell me about him,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Pound? He was one of three brothers. I’m not absolutely sure if I’ve got it right, but I think the other two were called Saint and Saviour. Yes, that’s right. Saint was the youngest, I think, and then there was Pound and then Saviour. Saviour is late too. He was killed in a tractor accident. It rolled right over him, I think. That can happen, you know. He drove into a donga, they said, and the tractor toppled over.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, it was very sad. He was a popular man.”
“And Saint? Is he still alive?”
“Yes, he is. He lives off the Lobatse Road. He is looked after by a cousin on his mother’s side. They have a small place there.”
“Looked after? Is he not well?”
Mma Potokwane sucked in a cheek. “He is not ill, if that’s what you mean, Mma. He is not any worse than he was before. No, I would not say that he is not well.”
Mma Ramotswe waited for her to continue; she was unsure how to interpret the look that Mma Potokwane was giving her, a look that seemed to be asking, Do I have to spell it out, Mma? “Of course, I do not mean to pry…”
Mma Potokwane smiled. “But that is what you do, Mma. You’re a private detective and I am a matron. You pry…on behalf of other people, I know, who cannot do their own prying. And I look after children…”
“…and the kitchens, and the housemothers, and the gardens, and your husband, and…”
They both laughed, and the slight tension that had built up dissipated. Not only had Mma Ramotswe paid tribute to her friend’s abilities, but she had also summed up the lot of women everywhere. There are broad shoulders, the saying went, even where there are no broad shoulders. Or Mma Ramotswe thought that somebody had said that; she was not quite sure. Usually, if she thought of an apt aphorism she would attribute it to the late Sir Seretse Khama, on the grounds that he’d said many wise things and even if he had not made that particular remark, then he might well have done—had he thought about it.
Mma Potokwane sipped at her tea. Her sips were large ones, Mma Ramotswe had noted; a cup of tea would be drained in two sips, if she had things to do, whereas Mma Makutsi could make a cup of tea last for almost half an hour, and even then there would be a small amount of tea left at the bottom of the cup. She had learned to leave cups like that when she first came down to Gaborone from Bobonong; Mma Ramotswe, with great tact, had told her that one should not drain one’s cup immediately and in one swig. “It is just one of these things,” she had said. “Down here we don’t drink the full cup immediately. That is considered a bit rude—not that I’m saying that people are rude up in Bobonong; I am definitely not saying that, Mma. It’s just that sometimes people do things differently in town, and this, I think, is one of those cases, Mma. It just is.”
The phrase “It just is” tends to bring any discussion to an end. There are some things that “just are,” and any amount of time spent questioning these will get you nowhere. If something “just is,” it needs no justification. It was, thought Mma Ramotswe, like the old Botswana morality: it was pointless to discuss the tenets of that; the ancestors knew what they were doing when they decided what that morality should be, and it was not for us to come along and disturb that settled expression of the will of so many generations. You respected those rules because they were like the sun and moon: they were always there. Of course if one really looked into what those rules said, you would find behind them the simple idea that people should be treated with respect. That was Rule Number One, if one liked to put it that way. And what was wrong with that rule? There were other rules, of course, right down to the rules about not putting one’s dusty shoes up on the chairs. You might look in vain for a precise statement of that rule, but there was no doubt that the old Botswana morality would disapprove of such conduct.
And it would disapprove, too, of the habit that men had of leaving their dirty clothes lying on the bathroom floor. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni tended to do that, as did Puso. And no amount of reminding them of the existence of the washing basket seemed to make any difference—the clothes were still thrown down. An enquiry to Mma Makutsi had revealed that Phuti Radiphuti, although considered a house-trained husband in so many other respects, did the same thing; perhaps, thought Mma Ramotswe, the government of Botswana should pass a law about it. It would be a novel piece of legislation that could provide a lead to the rest of the world. She imagined the wording: It shall be an offence for any man, either a husband or other person of the male sex, married or otherwise, being over the age of twelve years, to throw any item of clothing, having been worn by the said person for whatever length of time, upon the floor of any bathroom or any room adjacent to and connected to a bathroom, without good cause. There would be difficulties of proof, of course, and the police might get tired of being called to people’s bathrooms, but it might be sufficient for the government just to pass the law in order to provide wives with a threat. If you don’t stop leaving your clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor I am going to have to call the police…
This thought occurred to her as she was waiting for Mma Potokwane to speak, and since Mma Potokwane had clearly not yet decided what to say, Mma Ramotswe asked her, “Does Rra Potokwane throw his clothes down on the bathroom floor, Mma? I do not wish to pry—as you know—but I have just been thinking about that problem.”
Mma Potokwane put down her teacup. “It’s funny you should ask, Mma, but only yesterday I had to talk to him about that. I told him
about what happened to the husband of one of the housemothers. Her husband left his clothes in a pile on the floor and then decided to put them on again. There was a scorpion hiding under the bath—you know how they like those dark places, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe winced. “I think I can see what’s coming.”
“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “But he didn’t. He got out of the bath, dried himself, and then started to put on his clothes. He had his shirt on first and then he started to put on his pants, which was where the scorpion was hiding.”
“Ow, Mma! Ow!”
“Yes, Mma—I believe that is what he said.” Mma Potokwane wagged a finger for emphasis. “A scorpion sting is very, very painful. It made him swell up, Mma—very badly.”
“That is very bad, Mma. One does not want men to swell up.”
“No.”
They were silent for a moment while they contemplated the misfortune of what had occurred. Then Mma Potokwane said, “Going back to Saint Potokwane, the brother of Saviour. You asked whether he was ill, and I said that he was not. What I have to tell you, Mma, is that he is not quite right in the head.”
“I am very sorry to hear that, Mma.”
“Thank you, Mma. You see, he was like that from the beginning. They never found out why, but he was one of these unfortunate children whose brains don’t develop normally. He was a very nice little boy, apparently, but he could not be taught anything and he would often just sit there and say nothing for hours on end. He smiled a lot, though, and he never caused any trouble, but he would never be able to be taught how to do a job or anything like that.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head in sympathy. “I have known children like that. It usually seems hard for the family, doesn’t it? But yet the child may be quite happy—and the family too.”