Blue Shoes and Happiness

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN WAITING FOR A VISIT

THE NEXT MORNING when Mma Ramotswe arrived at the shared premises of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, she found Mr Polopetsi with his head under a car. She was always wary of calling out to a mechanic when he was under a car, as they inevitably bumped their heads in surprise. And so she bent down and whispered to him, “Dumela, Rra. Have you anything to tell me?”

Mr Polopetsi heaved himself out from under the car and wiped his hands on a piece of cloth. “Yes, I do,” he said keenly. “I have some very interesting news for you.”

“You found Poppy?”

“Yes, I found her.”

“And you had a word with her?”

“Yes, I did.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“I asked her whether she had written a letter to anybody about what had happened. That is exactly what I asked her.”

Mma Ramotswe felt herself becoming impatient. “Come on, Mr Polopetsi. Tell me what she said.”

Mr Polopetsi raised a finger in one of his characteristic gestures of emphasis. “You’ll never believe who she wrote to, Mma Ramotswe. You’ll never guess.”

Mma Ramotswe savoured her moment. “Aunty Emang?” she said quietly.

Mr Polopetsi looked deflated. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“I had a hunch, Mr Polopetsi. I had a hunch.” She affected a careless tone. “I find that sometimes I have a hunch, and sometimes they are correct. Anyway, that’s very useful information you came up with there. It confirms my view of what is happening.”

“I do not know what is happening,” said Mr Polopetsi.

“Then I will tell you, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe, pointing to her office. “Come inside and sit down, and I will tell you exactly what is going on and what we need to do.”

BOTH MMA MAKUTSI and Mr Polopetsi listened attentively as Mma Ramotswe gave an account of where she had got to in the blackmail investigation.

“Now what do we do?” asked Mma Makutsi. “We know who it is. Do we go to the police?”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “At least, not yet.”

“Well?” pressed Mr Polopetsi. “Do we go and talk to Aunty Emang, whoever she is?”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have a better idea than that. We get Aunty Emang to come and talk to us. Here in our office. We get her to sit in that chair and tell us all about her nasty ways.”

Mr Polopetsi laughed. “She will never come, Mma! Why should she come?”

“Oh, she will come all right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Makutsi, I should like to dictate a letter. Mr Polopetsi, you stay and listen to what I have to say.”

Mma Makutsi liked to use her shorthand, which had been described by the examiners at the Botswana Secretarial College as “quite the best shorthand we have ever seen, in the whole history of the college.”

“Are you ready, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe, composing herself at her desk. She was aware of being watched closely by Mr Polopetsi, who appeared to be hanging on her every word. This was a very important moment.

“The letter goes to,” she said, “… to Aunty Emang, at the newspaper. Begin. Dear Aunty Emang, I am a lady who needs your help and I am writing to you because I know that you give very good advice. I am a private detective, and my name is Mma Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (but please do not print that bit in the paper, dear Aunty, as I would not like people to know that I am the person who has written this letter)”

She paused, as Mma Makutsi’s pencil darted across the page of her notebook.

“Ready,” said Mma Makutsi.

“A few weeks ago,” dictated Mma Ramotswe, “I met a lady who told me that she was being blackmailed about stealing food and giving it to her husband. I wondered if this lady was telling the truth, but I found out that she was when she showed me the letter and I saw that it was true. Then I found out something really shocking. I spoke to somebody who told me that the blackmailer was a lady who worked at your newspaper! Now I do not know what to do with this information. One part of me tells me that I should just forget about it and mind my own business. The other tells me that I should pass on this name they gave me to the police. I really do not know what to do, and I thought that you would be the best person to advise me. So please, Aunty Emang, will you come and see me at my office and tell me in person what I should do? You are the only one I have spoken to about this, and you are the one I trust. You can come any day before five o’clock, which is when we go home. Our office is part of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, which you cannot miss if you drive along the Tlokweng Road in the direction of Tlokweng. I am waiting for you. Your sincere friend, Precious Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe finished with a flourish. “There,” she said. “What do you think of that?”

“It is brilliant, Mma,” said Mr Polopetsi. “Shall I deliver it right now? To the newspaper office?”

“Yes, please,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And write ‘urgent’ on the envelope. I think that we shall have a visit from Aunty Emang before we go home from work today.”

“I think so too,” said Mma Makutsi. “Now I will type it and you can sign it. This is a very clever letter, Mma. Perhaps the cleverest letter you have ever written.”

“Thank you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

HOW SLOWLY the hours can pass, thought Mma Ramotswe. After the writing of the letter to Aunty Emang, the letter that she was confident would draw the blackmailer from her lair, she found it difficult to settle down to anything. Not that she had a great deal of work to do; there were one or two routine matters that required to be worked upon, but both of these involved going out and speaking to people and she did not wish to leave the office that day in case Aunty Emang should arrive. So she sat at her desk, idly paging through a magazine. Mma Ramotswe loved magazines, and could not resist the stand of tempting titles that were on constant display at the Pick-and-Pay supermarket. She liked magazines that combined practical advice (hints for the kitchen and the garden) with articles on the doings of famous people. She knew that these articles should not be taken seriously, but they were fun nonetheless, a sort of gossip, not at all dissimilar to the gossip exchanged in the small stores of Mochudi or with friends on the verandah of the President Hotel, or even with Mma Makutsi when they both had nothing to do. Such gossip was fascinating because it dealt with day-to-day life; the second marriage of the man who ran the new insurance agency in the shopping centre; the unsuitable boyfriend of a well-known politician’s daughter; the unexpected promotion of a senior army officer and the airs and graces of his wife, and so on.

She turned the pages of the magazine. There was Prince Charles inspecting his organic biscuit factory. That was very interesting, thought Mma Ramotswe. She had her strong likes and dislikes. She liked Bishop Tutu and that man with the untidy hair who sang to help the hungry. She liked Prince Charles, and here was a picture of a box of his special biscuits, which he sold for his charity. Mma Ramotswe looked at them and wondered what they would taste like. She thought that they would go rather well with bush tea, and she imagined having a packet of them on her desk so that she and Mma Makutsi could help themselves at will. But then she remembered her diet, and her stomach gave a lurch of disappointment and longing.

She continued to page through the magazine. There was a picture of the Pope getting into a helicopter, holding on to the round white cap that he was wearing so that it should not blow away. There were a couple of cardinals in red standing behind him, and she noted that they were both very traditionally built, which was reassuring for her. If I ever see God, she thought, I am sure that he will not be thin.

At midday, Charlie, the older apprentice, came in and asked Mma Makutsi for a loan. “Now that you have a rich husband,” he said, “you can afford to lend me some money.”

Mma Makutsi gave him a disapproving look. “Mr Phuti Radiphuti is not yet my husband,” she said. “And he is not a very rich man. He has enough money, that is all.”

“Well, he must give you some, Mma,” Charlie persisted. “And if he does, then surely you can lend me eight hundred pula.”

Mma Makutsi looked to Mma Ramotswe for support. “Eight hundred pula,” she said. “What do you want with eight hundred pula? That is a lot of money, isn’t it, Mma Ramotswe?”

“It is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What do you need it for?”

Charlie looked embarrassed. “It is for a present for my girlfriend,” he said. “I want to buy her something.”

“Your girlfriend!” shrieked Mma Makutsi. “That’s interesting news. I thought you boys didn’t stay around long enough to call anybody your girlfriend. And now here you are talking about buying her a present. This is very important news!”

Charlie glanced resentfully at Mma Makutsi and then looked away.

“And what are you thinking of buying her?” asked Mma Makutsi. “A diamond ring?”

Charlie looked down at the ground. He had his hands clasped behind his back, like a man appearing on a charge, and Mma Ramotswe felt a sudden surge of sympathy for him. Mma Makutsi could be a bit hard on the apprentices on occasion; even if they were feckless boys for much of the time, they still had their feelings and she did not like to see them humiliated.

“Tell me about this girl, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am sure that she is a very pretty girl. What does she do?”

“She works in a dress shop,” said Charlie. “She has a very good job.”

“And have you known her long?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Three weeks,” said Charlie.

“Well,” said Mma Makutsi. “What about this present? Is it a ring?”

Her question had not been intended seriously, and she was not prepared for the answer. “Yes,” said Charlie. “It is for a ring.”

Silence descended on the room. Outside, in the heat of the day, cicadas screeched their endless mating call. The world seemed still at such a time of day, in the heat, and movement seemed pointless, an unwanted disturbance. This was a time for sitting still, doing nothing, until the shadows lengthened and the afternoon became cooler.

Mma Makutsi spoke softly. “Isn’t three weeks a bit early to get somebody a ring? Three weeks …”

Charlie looked up and fixed her with an intense gaze. “You don’t know anything about it, Mma. You don’t know what it is like to be in love. I am in love now, and I know what I’m talking about.”

Mma Makutsi reeled in the face of the outburst. “I’m sorry … ,” she began.

“You don’t think I have feelings,” said Charlie. “All the time you have just laughed at me. You think I don’t know that? You think I can’t tell?”

Mma Makutsi held up a hand in a placatory gesture. “Listen, Charlie, you cannot say …”

“Yes, I can,” said Charlie. “Boys have feelings too. I don’t want eight hundred pula from you. I do not even want two pula. If you offered to give it to me, I would not take it. Warthog.”

Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. “Charlie! You are not to call Mma Makutsi a warthog. You have done that before. I will not allow it. I shall have to speak to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.”

He moved towards the door. “I am right. She is a warthog. I do not understand why that Radiphuti wants to marry a warthog. Maybe he is a warthog too.”

BY THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon, Mma Ramotswe had taken to looking at her watch anxiously.

She wondered now whether the premise upon which she had based her letter to Aunty Emang was entirely wrong. She had no proof that Aunty Emang was the blackmailer—it was no more than surmise. The facts fitted, of course, but facts could fit many situations and still not be the full explanation. If Aunty Emang was not the blackmailer, then she would treat her letter simply as any other one which she received from her readers, and would be unlikely to put herself out by coming to the office. She looked at her watch again. The excitement of Charlie’s outburst earlier on had dissipated, and now there was nothing more to look forward to but a couple of hours of fruitless waiting.

Shortly before five, when Mma Ramotswe had reluctantly decided that she had been mistaken, Mma Makutsi, who had a better view from her desk of what was happening outside, hissed across to her, “A car, Mma Ramotswe, a car!”

Mma Ramotswe immediately tidied the magazines off her desk and carefully placed her half-finished cup of bush tea into her top drawer. “You go outside and meet her,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “But first tell Mr Polopetsi to come in.”

Mma Makutsi did as she was asked and walked out to where the car was parked under the acacia tree. It was an expensive car, she noticed, not a Mercedes-Benz, but close enough. As she approached, a remarkably small woman, tiny indeed, stepped out of the vehicle and approached her. Mma Ramotswe, craning her neck, saw this from within the office, and watched intently as Mma Makutsi bent to talk to the woman.

“She’s very small,” Mma Ramotswe whispered to Mr Polopetsi. “Look at her!”

Mr Polopetsi’s jaw had opened with surprise. “Look at her,” he echoed. “Look at her.”

Aunty Emang was ushered into the office by Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe stood up to greet her, and did so politely, with the traditional Setswana courtesies. After all, she was her guest, even if she was a blackmailer.

Aunty Emang glanced about the office casually, almost scornfully.

“So this is the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” she said. “I have heard of this place. I did not think it would be so small.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing, but indicated the client’s chair. “Please sit down,” she said. “I think you are Aunty Emang. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “I am Aunty Emang. That is me. And you are this lady, Precious Ramotswe?” Her voice was high-pitched and nasal, like the voice of a child. It was not a voice that was comforting to listen to, and the fact that it emanated from such a tiny person made it all the more disconcerting.

“I am, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this is Mma Makutsi and Mr Polopetsi. They both work here.”

Aunty Emang looked briefly in the direction of Mma Makutsi and Mr Polopetsi, who was standing beside her. She nodded abruptly. Mma Ramotswe watched her, fascinated by the fact that she was so small. She was like a doll, she thought; a small, malignant doll.

“Now this letter you wrote to me,” said Aunty Emang. “I came to see you because I do not like the thought of anybody being worried. It is my job to help people in their difficulties.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her. Her visitor’s small face, with its darting, slightly hooded eyes, was impassive, but there was something in the eyes which disturbed her. Evil, she thought. That is what I see. Evil. She had seen it only once or twice in her life, and on each occasion she had known it. Most human failings were no more than that—failings—but evil went beyond that.

“This person who says that she knows somebody who is a blackmailer is just talking nonsense,” went on Aunty Emang. “I do not think that you should take the allegation seriously. People are always inventing stories, you know. I see it every day.”

“Are they?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Well, I hear lots of stories in my work too, and some of them are true.”

Aunty Emang sat quite still. She had not expected quite so confident a response. This woman, this fat woman, would have to be handled differently.

“Of course,” Aunty Emang said. “Of course you’re right. Some stories are true. But why would you think this one is?”

“Because I trust the person who told me,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that this person is telling the truth. She is not a person to make anything up.”

“If you thought that,” said Aunty Emang, “then why did you write to me for my advice?”

Mma Ramotswe reached for a pencil in front of her and twisted it gently through her fingers. Mma Makutsi saw this and recognised the mannerism. It was what Mma Ramotswe always did before she was about to make a revelation. She nudged Mr Polopetsi discreetly.

“I wrote to you,” said Mma Ramotswe, “because you are the blackmailer. That is why.”

Mr Polopetsi, watching intently, swayed slightly and thought for a moment that he was going to faint. This was the sort of moment that he had imagined would arise in detective work: the moment of denouement when the guilty person faced exposure, when the elaborate reasoning of detection was revealed.Oh, Mma Ramotswe , he thought,what a splendid woman you are!

Aunty Emang did not move, but sat staring impassively at her accuser. When she spoke, her voice sounded higher than before, and there was a strange clicking when she started talking, like the clicking of a valve. “You are speaking lies, fat woman,” she said.

“Oh, am I?” retorted Mma Ramotswe. “Well, here are some details. Mma Tsau. She was the one who was stealing food. You blackmailed her because she would lose her job if she was found out. Then there is Dr Lubega. You found out about him, about what happened in Uganda. And a man who was having an affair and was worried that his wife would find out.” She paused. “I have the details of many cases here in this file.”

Aunty Emang snorted. “Dr Lubega? Who is this Dr Lubega? I do not know anybody of that name.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi and smiled. “You have just shown me that I was right,” she said. “You have confirmed it.”

Aunty Emang rose from her chair. “You cannot prove anything, Mma. The police will laugh at you.”

Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. She put the pencil down. And she thought, How might I think if I were in this woman’s shoes? How do you think if you are so heartless as to blackmail those who are frightened and guilty? And the answer that came back to her was this: hate. Somewhere some wrong had been done, a wrong connected with who she was perhaps, a wrong which turned her to despair and to hate. And hate had made it possible for her to do all this.

“No, I cannot prove it. Not yet. But I want to tell you one thing, Mma, and I want you to think very carefully about what I tell you. No more Aunty Emang for you. You will have to earn your living some other way. If Aunty Emang continues, then I will make it my business—all of us here in this room, Mma Makutsi over there, who is a very hard-working detective, and Mr Polopetsi there, who is a very intelligent man—we shall all make it our business to find the proof that we don’t have at the moment. Do you understand me?”

Aunty Emang turned slightly, and it seemed for a moment that she was going to storm out of the room without saying anything further. Yet she did not leave immediately, but glanced at Mma Makutsi and Mr Polopetsi and then back at Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes,” she said.

“YOU LET HER GO,” said Mma Makutsi afterwards, as they sat in the office, discussing what had happened. They had been joined by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who had finished work in the garage and who had witnessed the angry departure of Aunty Emang, or the former Aunty Emang, in her expensive car.

“I had no alternative,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She was right when she said that we had no proof. I don’t think we could have done much more.”

“But you had other cases of blackmail,” said Mr Polopetsi. “You had that doctor and that man who was having an affair.”

“I made up the one about the man having an affair,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I thought it likely that she would be blackmailing such a person. It’s very common. And I think I was right. She didn’t contradict me, which confirmed that she was the one. But I don’t think that she was blackmailing Dr Lubega. I think that he is a man who needed money because he liked it.”

“I am very confused about all this,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I do not know who this doctor is.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. It was time to go home, as she had to cook the evening meal, and that would take time. So they left the office, and after saying goodbye to Mr Polopetsi, she and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gave Mma Makutsi a ride home in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck. The tiny white van could stay at the garage overnight, said Mma Ramotswe. Nobody would steal such a vehicle, she thought. She was the only one who could love it.

On the way she remarked to Mma Makutsi that she was not wearing her new blue shoes that day. Was she giving them a rest? “One should rotate one’s shoes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is well known.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. She was embarrassed, but in the warm intimacy of the truck, at such a moment, after the emotionally cathartic showdown they had all just witnessed, she felt that she could speak freely of shoes.

“They are a bit small for me, Mma,” she confessed. “I think you were right. But I felt great happiness when I wore them, and I shall always remember that. They are such beautiful shoes.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Well, that’s the important thing, isn’t it, Mma? To feel happiness, and then to remember it.”

“I think that you’re right,” said Mma Makutsi. Happiness was an elusive thing. It had something to do with having beautiful shoes, sometimes; but it was about so much else. About a country. About a people. About having friends like this.

THE FOLLOWING DAY was a Saturday, which was Mma

Ramotswe’s favourite day, a day on which she could sit and reflect on the week’s events. There was much to think about, and there was good reason, too, to be pleased that the week was over. Mma Ramotswe did not enjoy confrontation—that was not the Botswana way—and yet there were times when finding oneself head-to-head with somebody was inevitable. That had been so when her first husband, the selfish and violent Note Mokoti, had returned unannounced and tried to extort money from her. That moment had tested her badly, but she had stood up to him, and he had gone away, back into his private world of bitterness and distrust. But the encounter had left her feeling weak and raw, as arguments with another so often do. How much better to avoid occasions of conflict altogether, provided that one did not end up running away from things; and that, of course, was the rub. Had she not faced up to Aunty Emang, then the blackmail would have continued because nobody else would have stood up to her. And so it was left to Mma Ramotswe to do so, and Aunty Emang had folded up in the same way that an old hut made of elephant grass and eaten by the ants would collapse the moment one touched its fragile walls.

Now she sat on her verandah and looked out over her garden. She was the only one in the house. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had taken Puso and Motholeli to visit one of his aunts, and they would not be back until late afternoon, or, more likely, the evening. That particular aunt was known for her loquaciousness and had long stories to tell. It did not matter if the stories had been heard before—as they all had—they would be repeated that day, in great detail, until the sun was slanting down over the Kalahari and the evening sky was red. But it was important, she thought, that the children should get to know that aunt, as there was much she could teach them. In particular, she knew how to renew the pressed mud floor of a good traditional home, a skill that was dying out. The children sometimes helped her with this, although they would never themselves live in a house with a mud-floored yard, for those houses were going and were not being replaced. And all that was linked to them, the stories, the love and concern for others, the sense of doing what one’s people had done for so many years, could go too, thought Mma Ramotswe.

She looked up at the sky, which was empty, as it usually was. In a few days, though, perhaps even earlier, there would be rain. Heavy clouds would build up and make the sky purple, and then there would be lightning and that brief, wonderful smell would fill the air, the smell of the longed-for rain, a smell that lifted the heart. She dropped her gaze to her garden, to the withered plants that she had worked so hard to see through the dry season and which had lived only because she had given them each a small tinful of water each morning and each evening, around the roots; so little water, and so quickly absorbed, that it seemed unlikely that it would make a difference under that relentless sun. But it had, and the plants had kept in their leaves some green against the brown. When the rains came, of course, then everything would be different, and the brown which covered the land, the trees, the stunted grass, would be replaced by green, by growth, by tendrils stretching out, by leaves unfolding. It would happen so quickly that one might go to bed in a drought and wake up in a landscape of shimmering patches of water and cattle with skin washed sleek by the rain.

Mma Ramotswe leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She knew that there were places where the world was always green and lush, where water meant nothing because it was always there, where the cattle were never thin and listless; she knew that. But she did not want to live in such a place because it would not be Botswana, or at least not her part of Botswana. Up north they had that, near Maun, in the Delta, where the river ran the wrong way, back into the heart of the country. She had been there several times, and the clear streams and the wide sweeps of Mopani forest and high grass had filled her with wonder. She had been happy for those people, because they had water all about them, but she had not felt that it was her place, which was in the south, in the dry south.

No, she would never exchange what she had for something else. She would never want to be anything but Mma Ramotswe, of Gaborone, wife of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and daughter of the late Obed Ramotswe, retired miner and fine judge of cattle, the man of whom she thought every day, but every day, and whose voice she heard so often when she had cause to remember how things had been in those times. God had given her gifts, she thought. He had made her a Motswana, a citizen of this fine country which had lived up so well to the memory of Sir Seretse Khama, that great statesman, who had stood with such dignity on that night when the new flag had been unfurled and Botswana had come into existence. When as a young girl she had been told of that event and had been shown pictures of it, she had imagined that the world had been watching Botswana on that night and had shared the feelings of her people. Now she knew that this was never true, that nobody had been at all interested, except a few perhaps, and that the world had never paid much attention to places like Botswana, where everything went so well and where people did not squabble and fight. But slowly they had seen, slowly they had come to hear of the secret, and had come to understand.

She opened her eyes. The old van driven by Mma Potokwane had arrived at the gate, and the matron had manoeuvred herself out of the driver’s seat and was fiddling with the latch. Mma Potokwane had been known to come to see Mma Ramotswe on a Saturday morning, usually to ask her to get Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to do something for the orphan farm, but such visits were rare. Now, the gate unlatched and pushed back, Mma Potokwane got back into the van and drove up the short driveway to the house. Mma Ramotswe smiled to herself as her visitor nosed her van into the shady place used by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to park his truck. Mma Potokwane would always find the best place to park, just as she could always be counted upon to find the best deal for the children whom she looked after.

“So, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe to her visitor after they had greeted one another. “So, you have come to see me. This is very good, because I was sitting here with nobody to talk to. Now that has changed.”

Mma Potokwane laughed. “But you are a great lady for thinking,” she said. “It does not matter to you if there is nobody around, you can just think.”

“And so can you,” replied Mma Ramotswe. “You have a head too.”

Mma Potokwane rolled her eyes upwards. “My poor head is not as good as yours, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “Everybody knows that. You are a very clever lady.”

Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of disagreement. She knew that Mma Potokwane was astute, but, like all astute people, the matron was discreet about her talents. “Come and sit with me on the verandah,” she said. “I shall make some tea for us.”

Once her guest was seated, Mma Ramotswe made her way into the kitchen. She was still smiling to herself as she put on the kettle. Some people never surprised one, thought Mma Ramotswe. They always behave in exactly the way one expects them to behave. Mma Potokwane would talk about general matters for ten minutes or so, and then would come the request. Something would need fixing at the orphan farm. Was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni by any chance free—she was not expecting him to do anything immediately—just to take a look? She thought about this as the kettle boiled, and then she thought: And I’m just as predictable as Mma Potokwane. Mma Makutsi can no doubt anticipate exactly what I’m going to do or say even before I open my mouth. It was a sobering thought. Had she not said something about how I liked to quote Seretse Khama on everything? Do I really do that? Well, Seretse Khama, Mma Ramotswe told herself, said a lot of things in his time, and it’s only right that I should quote a great man like that.

Mma Makutsi, in fact, cropped up in the conversation after Mma Ramotswe had returned to the verandah with a freshly brewed pot of red bush tea.

“That secretary of yours,” said Mma Potokwane. “The one with the big glasses …”

“That is Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. There had been a number of minor clashes between Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi—she knows her name, thought Mma Ramotswe; she knows it.

“Yes, of course, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Potokwane. “That is the lady.” There was a pause before she continued, “And I hear that she is now engaged. That must be sad for you, Mma, as she will probably not want to work after she is married. So I thought that perhaps you would like to take on a girl who comes from the orphan farm but who has now finished her training at the Botswana Secretarial College. I can send her to you next week …”

Mma Ramotswe interrupted her. “But Mma Makutsi has no intention of giving up her job, Mma,” she said. “And she is an assistant detective, you know. She is not just any secretary.”

Mma Potokwane digested this information in silence. Then she nodded. “I see. So there is no job?”

“There is no job, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m sorry.”

Mma Potokwane took a sip of her tea. “Oh well, Mma,” she said. “I shall ask some other people. I am sure that this girl will find a job somewhere. She is very good. She is not one of those girls who think about boys all the time.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That is good, Mma.” She looked at her visitor. One of the attractive things about Mma Potokwane was her cheerfulness. The fact that she had failed in her request did not seem to upset her unduly; there would be plenty of other such chances.

The conversation moved on to other things. Mma Potokwane had a niece who was doing very well with her music—she played the piano—and she was hoping to get her a place in David Slater’s music camp. Mma Ramotswe heard all about this and then she heard about the troubles that Mma Potokwane’s brother was having with his cattle, which had not done well in the dry season. Two of them had also been stolen, and had appeared in somebody’s herd with a new brand on them. That was a terrible thing, did Mma Ramotswe not agree, and you would have thought that the local police would have found it easy to deal with such a matter. But they had not, said Mma Potokwane, and they had believed the story offered up by the man in whose herd they had been found. The police were easy to fool, Mma Potokwane suggested; she herself would not have been taken in by a story like that.

Their conversation might have continued for some time along these lines had it not been for the sudden arrival of another van, this time a large green one, which drove smartly through the open gate and drew to a halt in front of the verandah. Mma Ramotswe, puzzled by this further set of visitors, rose to her feet to investigate as a man got out of the front of the van and saluted her cheerfully.

“I am delivering a chair,” he announced. “Where do you want me to put it?”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I have not bought a chair,” she said. “I think that this must be the wrong house.”

“Oh?” said the man, consulting a piece of paper which he had extracted from his pocket. “Is this not Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house?”

“It is his house,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But …”

“Then this is the right place after all,” said the man. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni bought a chair the other day. Now it is ready. Mr Radiphuti told me to bring it.”

So, thought Mma Ramotswe, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been shopping, and she could hardly send the chair back. She nodded to the man and gestured to the door behind her. “Please put it through there, Rra,” she said. “That is where it will go.”

As the chair was carried past them, Mma Potokwane let out a whistle. “That is a very fine chair, Mma,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has made a very good choice.”

Mma Ramotswe did not reply. She could only imagine the price of such a chair, and she wondered what had possessed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to buy it. Well, they could talk about it later, when he came back. He could explain himself then.

She turned to Mma Potokwane and noticed that her friend was studying her, watching her reaction. “I’m sorry,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that he did not consult me. He does that sort of thing from time to time. It is a very expensive chair.”

“Don’t be hard on him,” said Mma Potokwane. “He is a very good man. And doesn’t he deserve a comfortable chair? Doesn’t he deserve a comfortable chair after all that hard work?”

Mma Ramotswe sat down. It was true. If Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wanted a comfortable chair, then surely he was entitled to one. She looked at her friend. Perhaps she had been too hard in her judgement of Mma Potokwane; here she was selflessly supporting Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, praising his hard work. She was a considerate woman.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are right, Mma Potokwane. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been using an old chair for a long time. He deserves a new chair. You are quite right.”

There was a brief silence. Then Mma Potokwane spoke. “In that case,” she said, “do you think that you could give his old chair to the orphan farm? We would be able to use a chair like that. It would be very kind of you to do that, Mma, now that you no longer need it.”

There was very little that Mma Ramotswe could do but agree, although she reflected, ruefully, that once again the matron had managed to get something out of her. Well, it was for the orphans’ sake, and that, she felt, was the best cause of all. So she sighed, just very slightly, but enough for Mma Potokwane to hear, and agreed. Then she offered to pour Mma Potokwane a further cup of tea, and the offer was quickly accepted.

“I have some cake here,” said Mma Potokwane, reaching for the bag she had placed at her feet. “I thought that you might like a piece.”

She opened the bag and took out a large parcel of cake, carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper. Mma Ramotswe watched intently as her visitor sliced the slab into two generous portions and laid them on the table, two pieces of paper acting as plates.

“That’s very kind of you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think that I’m going to have to say no thank you. You see, I am on a diet now.”

It was said without conviction, and her words faded away at the end of the sentence. But Mma Potokwane had heard, and looked up sharply. “Mma Ramotswe!” she exclaimed. “If you go on a diet, then what are the rest of us to do? What will all the other traditionally built ladies think if they hear about this? How can you be so unkind?”

“Unkind?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I do not see how this is unkind.”

“But it is,” protested Mma Potokwane. “Traditionally built people are always being told by other people to eat less. Their lives are often a misery. You are a well-known traditionally built person. If you go on a diet, then everybody else will feel guilty. They will feel that they have to go on a diet too, and that will spoil their lives.”

Mma Potokwane pushed one of the pieces of cake over to Mma Ramotswe. “You must take this, Mma,” she said. “I shall be eating my piece. I am traditionally built too, and we traditionally built people must stick together. We really must.”

Mma Potokwane picked up her piece of cake and took a large bite out of it. “It is very good, Mma,” she mumbled through a mouth full of fruit cake. “It is very good cake.”

For a moment Mma Ramotswe was undecided.Do I really want to change the way I am? she asked herself. Or should I just be myself, which is a traditionally built lady who likes bush tea and who likes to sit on her verandah and think?

She sighed. There were many good intentions which would never be seen to their implementation. This, she decided, was one of them.

“I think my diet is over now,” she said to Mma Potokwane.

They sat there for some time, talking in the way of old friends, licking the crumbs of cake off their fingers. Mma Ramotswe told Mma Potokwane about her stressful week, and Mma Potokwane sympathised with her. “You must take more care of yourself,” she said. “We are not born to work, work, work all the time.”

“You’re right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is important just to be able to sit and think.”

Mma Potokwane agreed with that. “I often tell the orphans not to spend all their time working,” she said. “It is quite unnatural to work like that. There should be some time for work and some for play.”

“And some for sitting and watching the sun go up and down,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And some time for listening to the cattle bells in the bush.”

Mma Potokwane thought that this was a fine sentiment. She too, she said, would like to retire one day and go and live out in her village, where people knew one another and cared for one another.

“Will you go back to your village one day?” she asked Mma Ramotswe. And Mma Ramotswe replied, “I shall go back. Yes, one of these days I shall go back.”

And in her mind’s eye she saw the winding paths of Mochudi, and the cattle pens, and the small walled-off plot of ground where a modest stone bore the inscriptionObed Ramotswe. And beside the stone there were wild flowers growing, small flowers of such beauty and perfection that they broke the heart. They broke the heart.