Tea Time for the Traditionally Built

CHAPTER THREE. THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

HE IS HERE NOW,” said Mma Makutsi, peering out of the window. “That is his car.”

Mma Ramotswe made a conscious effort not to look up from her desk. “I take it that it is a Mercedes-Benz, Mma,” she muttered.

Mma Makutsi laughed. “It is a very big one, Mma. It is one of the biggest Mercedes-Benzes that I have ever seen.”

“He is a big man, I hear,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You would never find a man like that driving around in a van like mine.”

Mma Makutsi agreed. She shared Mma Ramotswe's views on cars-that they should be small, faithful, and designed to get one as simply and cheaply as possible from one place to another. When she had a car herself-and Phuti had spoken about getting her one-then she would certainly not ask for a Mercedes-Benz, but would go for one of those small cars that look as if they could as easily go backwards as forwards, so indistinguishable were their fronts and their backs. And she would prefer it to be a modest colour: she had seen a very nice lilac-coloured car the other day that would suit her very well. She had wondered about that. Somebody at the factory had clearly said: Now let us paint this car a suitable colour for a lady. No man would choose lilac, she imagined, and it would be left to a lady to give such a car a home; which she would, and readily so.

“Why is it that men are so keen on large cars, Mma?” she asked, as she watched the driver of the car step out and open the rear passenger door. “Could it be that they feel they need such cars because they do not think they are big and strong enough?”

“Maybe,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Men and boys are all the same, I think, Mma Makutsi. They need to play. As do ladies, of course. Ladies play in their own way.”

“Maybe we are all the same,” mused Mma Makutsi. “But when you look at Charlie-”

Her observations were cut short by the sound of footsteps and a knocking outside. Mma Ramotswe now glanced up and nodded in the direction of the door. “Please let him in, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I am ready for Mr. Leungo Molofololo.”

Mma Makutsi stood up, straightened her skirt, and crossed the room.

“One moment please, Rra,” she said to the man at the door. “I shall find out if Mma Ramotswe is ready to see you.”

She glanced over her shoulder, as if to seek confirmation. Mma Ramotswe nodded. She had often explained to Mma Makutsi that such pretence was unnecessary, but her assistant insisted on carrying out the charade when important visitors came and she had given up trying to stop her. For her part, Mma Ramotswe did not stand on ceremony; nor did she try to give anybody the impression that the business was larger and grander than it really was. “People will judge us by our results,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “Results are the important thing.”

Mma Makutsi contemplated this. “That is a pity, Mma,” she observed. “Because our results are sometimes not very good.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “But I think they are, Mma. Sometimes we do not find out exactly what clients want, but we find out what they need to know. There is a difference, you know.” She thought of the case of Mma Sebina, who had been adopted and had come to them with the request that they find her real family. They had succeeded in tracing a brother who turned out not to be a brother after all. At one level that appeared to be a failure, but then when Mma Sebina and the man she had thought was her brother decided that they were really rather fond of one another-fond enough to get married-then that had surely been a happy result. And then there had been the case of Happy Bapetsi, one of their very first cases, in which they had discovered that Happy's father was an impostor. Or Kremlin, the frequenter of the Go-Go Handsome Man's Bar, the philandering husband; Mma Ramotswe had proved him to be exactly that- a philanderer-and even if that was not the outcome that Kremlin's wife wanted, it was surely better for her to know. So success and failure in the private detection business were not always as clear-cut as they might seem, but again it had been difficult to persuade Mma Makutsi of this and the subject had been dropped.

Now, moving aside to let Mr. Leungo Molofololo enter the office, Mma Makutsi said, “Mma Ramotswe, this is your ten o'clock appointment.”

Mr. Leungo Molofololo looked at his watch. “And I am here at precisely four minutes past ten, you will observe, Mma. I like to be punctual, you see.”

“That is a great virtue, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe, rising from her seat and gesturing for him to sit down.

“Yes,” said Mr. Leungo Molofololo. “If only more people cultivated that virtue in Africa, then life would work more smoothly. You have heard of the Germans, Mma? I have been told that everything they do runs on time. Bang, bang. Like that. On the minute.”

“That is the Swiss, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi from behind.

Mr. Leungo Molofololo turned and looked at Mma Makutsi, who smiled back at him. “They may be very punctual, Mma. It is possible that both the Swiss and the Germans are very punctual- and there may be others. We do not necessarily know. I was, however, talking about the Germans, but thank you, Mma, for your help there.”

“The Swiss are always making clocks,” Mma Makutsi went on. “That is perhaps why they are so punctual. If there are many clocks, then…”

“Thank you, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to make tea for all of us so that Mr. Molofololo will be able to drink tea while he speaks to me.” She emphasised the me, hoping that Mma Makutsi would take the proper inference; but she had her doubts.

Mr. Leungo Molofololo turned back to address Mma Ramotswe. “I don't know if you know anything about me,” he said. “You may have seen my name in the papers.” He paused. “Have you?”

“Not only have I seen your name there,” said Mma Ramotswe, “but I have also seen your photograph, Rra. Last week I saw you handing over a big cheque to the nurses' charity. That was very kind of you.”

“They are good people,” said Mr. Molofololo. “And I admire the nursing profession. If I had been born a woman, Mma- which I am happy to say I was not-then I would have been a nurse, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, whose eyes flashed at this. She inclined her head slightly, a sign that she hoped would be understood by Mma Makutsi, a sign that said, I shall handle this.

“You might have been quite happy to be born a woman, Rra,” she said politely.

Mr. Molofololo's answer came quickly. “No, I would not. I would have been very sad.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I think that most people are happy with what they are. Men are happy to be born men, and women are happy to be born women. It is not better to be the one or the other, although I must say that I am very relieved indeed that I was not born a man.”

Mr. Molofololo opened his mouth to say something, but Mma Ramotswe continued quickly, “And as for being a nurse, well, Rra, there are many other things that a woman can be these days. Everything, in fact. Would you not like to have been a doctor if you had been born a woman? Or a pilot with Air Botswana -how about that?”

Mr. Molofololo was silent for a moment. Then, “You're quite right, Mma. My daughter is always saying to me, Daddy, you must remember that the world is not just there for you. It is there for minorities too. No, you are right, Mma, we must remember the rights of women.”

“Who are not in a minority,” said Mma Makutsi from behind her desk. “In fact, there are more women than there are men because men die earlier than women. They die earlier because they drink too much and sit about. So we are the majority, Rra.”

Mr. Molofololo cast his eyes up towards the ceiling. “Not in the world of football, Mma,” he said. “And that is what I have come to see Mma Ramotswe about.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at him apologetically. “Mma Makutsi is an assistant detective, Rra. She is very good at investigating a wide range of matters. And she is the fiancée of Phuti Radiphuti. You will probably know the father of that man…”

Her remarks had the desired effect. Mr. Molofololo half turned in his seat and gave Mma Makutsi a nod. “I'm very happy to meet you, Mma. I did not know that it was you. Mr. Radiphuti-the older one-is a friend of many years.”

“That is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe. And it was; Mma Ramotswe liked people to know one another, and if the bond between them went back over more than one generation, then all the better. That was how it had always been in Botswana, where the links between people, those profound connections of blood and lineage, spread criss-cross over the human landscape, binding one to another in reliance, trust, and sheer familiarity. At one time there had been no strangers in Botswana; everybody fitted in somehow, even if tenuously and on the margins. Now there were strangers, and the bonds had been weakened by drift to the towns and by other things too: by the conduct that had sired the wave of children who had no idea who their father, or their father's people, might be; by the cruel ravages of the disease that made orphans in a country where the very concept of an orphan had been barely known, as there had always been aunts and grandmothers aplenty to fill the breach. Yes, all that had changed, but in spite of it, the old bonds survived, as she saw now in Mr. Molofololo's recognition of the fact that Mma Makutsi was not just a secretary given to irritating interjections, but a person with a place.

“Football,” said Mr. Molofololo. “Or you can call it soccer, if you like. The beautiful game. You know that it is called that, Mma? That is what they call football.”

Mma Ramotswe did not know that. She had never been to a football match, although she had seen boys, including Puso, playing it and had watched for a few minutes here and there. Was it beautiful? She supposed that it was-in a manner of speaking. They were always very skilful, those soccer players, as the nicknames they often bore revealed. She had seen these mentioned recently in the newspaper, when a football player called Fast-Dancer Galeboe had been pictured at a function talking to another player called High-Jump Boseja. Those nicknames at least gave some indication of the talents of the player in question; others seemed less obvious. She had read about Joel “Twelve Volts” Koko of the Township Rollers, and Sekhana “Fried Chicken” Molwantwa of the Extension Gunners. She could not imagine why Mr. Koko should be called Twelve Volts, although she could presume that Mr. Molwantwa had a taste for fried chicken. Perhaps the whole thing was to do with the way men got on with one another; they often laughed and slapped each other on the back or pretended to kick one another. Perhaps it was to do with all that.

“I am afraid that I do not know much about football, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe said. “But I can understand why it should be called the beautiful game-with all that running around and dodging in and out. That might be called beautiful, I suppose.”

“I have never understood the attraction myself,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “Why make such a fuss about kicking a ball up and down a field?”

Mr. Molofololo appeared to take this in good humour. “It is because you ladies are women,” he said. “It is not something that women understand.” He paused, and then added hurriedly, “Of course there are many things that men do not understand. They do not understand some of the things that women understand. Such as…” He trailed off.

“Yes, Rra?” prompted Mma Ramotswe.

Mr. Molofololo waved a hand in the air. “There are many things. Women's business. Shoes maybe. That sort of thing.”

Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances. He is right, thought Mma Ramotswe; men do not understand shoes- not completely, not in the deep way in which women understand them. For men, shoes were simply things you put on your feet; for women, shoes were… well, there was no time to go into that.

Mr. Molofololo moved on. “Perhaps it would be best, Mma, if I told you a little bit about myself. Then you will understand why this problem that I have come to see you about is such a big one.” He paused, and put a hand over his heart. Mma Ramotswe noticed the starched cuff of his shirt and the heavy gold cuff-links. It was a strange thing about rich men, she reflected. If they have made the money themselves, then they are usually keen to let you know just how much money they have; if they had got it from their father, or even their grandfather, then they often never mentioned it. Mr. Molofololo had obviously made his money himself.

“This problem,” he went on, “hurts me here. Right here-in my heart.”

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head gravely. Everybody who consulted her was, in their way, hurting-even this rich man with his big Mercedes-Benz and his expensive cuff-links. Human hurt was like lightning; it did not choose its targets, but struck, with rough equality and little regard to position, achievement, or moral desert.

“I have worked very hard, Mma Ramotswe,” Mr. Molofololo went on. “Ever since I was a small boy I have worked. I herded cattle, you know, the same as all small boys from the villages. We were poor people, you understand. And then I went to school and I worked harder than any of the other boys. When the other boys were playing football, I studied and studied. Then when the school principal asked me what I wanted to be, I said that I would be an accountant. I had read somewhere about CAs, and I said, I will be a CA one day. And that is what I now am. I am a chartered accountant, but I am also a businessman. I have many shops. Here. There. Many shops.”

Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Makutsi was listening intently to this, and she knew why. Her assistant had worked her way out of poverty, and had achieved ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College by dint of sheer, unremitting hard work. If Mma Makutsi identified with Mr. Molofololo's story, it was because it was her story too, except for the herding, and the football, the chartered accountancy, and the shops-except for all the details, in fact.

“But you know how it is, Mma,” Mr. Molofololo continued. “When you are a success in business, you begin to think of the things that you've missed while you were working so hard. That is why you hear people say: I have been working, working, working, and now my children are grown up and I did not see that happen. Have you heard people say that, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe had not, but she could imagine that people might indeed say it, so she nodded.

Mr. Molofololo leaned back in his chair. “And do you know what I thought, Mma Ramotswe? I will tell you. I thought: I never played football, and now it is too late. That is what I thought. You can't have a man in his fifties running round the football field, can you? His heart will say no. So it was too late.”

He paused, and then, with the air of one making an important announcement, he said, “But if it was too late to play football myself, it was not too late to buy a football team, Mma. Hah! So I bought a team that had not been doing very well-a nothing, useless team-and I got rid of all those lazy players and put in new ones who wanted to score lots of goals. And that's how the Kalahari Swoopers were born. Now you see us right up there, up at the top of the league most of the time, or number two at least. Until recently, that is. I did that. I did all that myself.”

Mma Makutsi had been silent. But now she asked, “You did that yourself, Rra? You played after all?”

Mr. Molofololo ignored the question at first, but then gave an answer. “No, not me, Mma. I am the owner. The football is played by the football players. And we have a coach, a very good one. He tells the men what tactics will work best.”

“You must be very proud of your team, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Even I have heard of it. And I am just a woman.”

Mr. Molofololo did not notice the irony. “Well, there you are,” he said. “That goes to show, doesn't it?”

Mma Ramotswe knew that if she did not say something, Mma Makutsi would say, “Goes to show what?” So she asked him how his team was doing. Why were they no longer at the top of the league?

It was the right question to ask, as it was this, he explained, that had brought him to see her. “Something has gone badly wrong,” he said. “A few months ago we started to lose a lot of games. At first I thought that it was just a little spell of bad luck; one cannot win every time, I suppose. But then it continued, and we are now going further and further down the league table. People are laughing at us. They say, Look at the Swoopers. They cannot swoop. No more swooping there. It is very painful, Mma, and I feel very ashamed of my team.”

“That is very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “To build something up and then see it be destroyed is not a very nice experience, I think.”

He was grateful for the sympathy. “Thank you, Mma. I'm sure that you can imagine what it would be like to see your own business suddenly go downhill. Imagine it. You solve all those cases and then suddenly there are no more solutions. It would not feel good, would it?”

Mma Ramotswe was tactful. “There are always reversals in business. It is not the fault of the people running the businesses- or, at least, it's not always their fault.”

This comment seemed to engage Mr. Molofololo, who suddenly became animated. “It is definitely not their fault, Mma! And in this case it is not the fault of my players-or most of them. I have the same young men playing for me, and they are as good as ever. But whatever they do, something seems to go badly wrong. Penalties are given away unnecessarily or the defence doesn't quite work out. There are many reasons.”

Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. “If it's a game, Rra, then surely anything can happen. Maybe things will improve.”

Mr. Molofololo shook his head disconsolately. “I would like to think that,” he said. “But I'm afraid that we're doomed. I do not think that things will get any better until…”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him expectantly. “Until what, Rra?”

“Until we find out who the traitor is.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for him to expand on this, but he simply looked at her angrily, as if blaming her in some way for his team's misfortunes. Was he one of those people, she wondered, who see enemies at every turn? She had known somebody like that once; he had suspected everybody of plotting against him. Perhaps Mr. Molofololo saw traitors everywhere, all of them intent on letting him down.

“Perhaps you should tell me about this traitor,” she said gently. “Is it a business rival of yours, maybe?”

This suggestion seemed to make Mr. Molofololo even crosser. “I don't know, Mma,” he said, somewhat peevishly. “It may be somebody like that behind the traitor. Who knows? The real problem is that there is a traitor in the team.”

“Somebody who wants you to lose?” Mma Ramotswe had heard of people who fixed games-there had been some row about this happening in cricket in South Africa and it had got into the local papers. But would the same thing happen in football in Gaborone? She wondered whether the stakes would be high enough; perhaps they were. Perhaps it was a matter of Mercedes-Benzes; they seemed to come into these things a great deal.

Mr. Molofololo folded his hands in his lap. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe, I'm afraid that may be true. In fact, I'm sure that it's true. There is somebody in the team who wants us to lose and is making very sure that we do.”

Mr. Molofololo stopped speaking, and there was silence. Outside, in the acacia tree behind the office, a dove cooed-the small Cape dove that had taken up residence in the tree and cooed for a mate who never came.

Mma Ramotswe spread her hands. “I don't know, Rra, if I am the best person to find out what is going on here,” she said.

“But you're a detective,” protested Mr. Molofololo. “And I have asked around, Mma. Everybody has said to me: you go to that Mma Ramotswe-she is the one who can find things out. That is what they said.”

It was flattering to Mma Ramotswe to hear that her reputation had spread, but she knew nothing at all about football, and it seemed to her that it would be impossible to detect something as subtle and devious as match-fixing. It would be difficult enough for her to work out which direction the team was playing in, let alone to discover who was deliberately not doing his best.

“I may be a detective, Rra,” she explained, “but this is a very special thing you are asking me to do. How can I find out who this… this traitor is if I know nothing about football? I cannot sit there and say, See that? See what is going on over there-that is very suspicious. I cannot do that.”

“And I cannot either,” said Mma Makutsi. “I know nothing about football either.”

Mr. Molofololo sighed. “I'm not asking you to do that, Mma,” he said. “I'm asking you to look into the private lives of the players. Find out who is being paid money to do this-because money will be changing hands, I'm sure of it.”

This changed everything. “I can certainly do that, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Indeed, that is what we do rather well, isn't it, Mma Makutsi?”

Mma Makutsi nodded emphatically. “We often find out where men are hiding their money when it comes to divorce,” she said. “Men are very cunning, Rra. But we find out where the money is.”

Mr. Molofololo raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure you do,” he said.

“So we shall be happy to act for you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We will need details of all the players. We shall need to know exactly where they live, and I need to be able to have some contact with the team. Can you think of any suitable cover for me?”

Mr. Molofololo thought for a moment. “We have a lady who gives massages to the players,” he said. “She helps them if they pull a muscle or something like that. But she also helps to keep their limbs in good working order. You could be her assistant, perhaps. She has worked for me for many years and is very discreet.”

“That is important,” said Mma Makutsi from behind her desk. “One does not want a lady who talks too much.”

AT THE END OF THAT DAY, at five o'clock, when the whole of Gaborone streamed out of its shops and offices and other places of work, when the sun began to sink low over the Kalahari to the west, Mma Ramotswe locked the office behind her and walked, with Mma Makutsi, on to the Tlokweng Road. Mma Makutsi would catch a minibus there, one of those swaying, overloaded vehicles that plied their trade along the roads that led into the city, and she said to Mma Ramotswe, “Why walk all the way, Mma? Come with me on the minibus and then you can get off when we get to the crossroads and walk from there.”

She was tempted. It had been a busy day, what with Mr. Molofololo and several other clients who had slipped in without an appointment, and all she wanted now was to get home. But she had said that she would walk, and walk she would.

“No thank you, Mma. It is good exercise, you see. It's important that people in Botswana should get exercise. We talked about that already.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “But it's also important,” she said, “that people in Botswana get back home in good time. It's important that they have time to cook themselves a good dinner. It's important that they do not get covered in dust from too much walking. All of these things are important.”

Mma Ramotswe just smiled. “I hope that you sleep well tonight, Mma. I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

And with that they bade their farewells, and Mma Makutsi watched Mma Ramotswe begin to walk along the road back towards town. She admired her employer, who was far stronger, she thought, than she was herself. I would never walk if I had the chance of getting into a car or a minibus. No, I would not, and that is because Mma Ramotswe is a strong and determined lady and I am just one of these ladies who blow with the wind. She paused; she was not sure that this was the right metaphor. For a moment she imagined Mma Ramotswe being buffeted by a strong wind, one of the hot, dry winds that come from far off in the bush, far over on the other side of the border, from hills that she could not name and had never seen. She saw the wind ruffle Mma Ramotswe's skirt and blouse, inflating them briefly; but Mma Ramotswe stood firm, while all about her acacia trees were bending and leaves whirling in mad vortices. Mma Ramotswe stood firm, even when lesser people, thin, insubstantial people, were being toppled and bowled over by the wind. That was Mma Ramotswe, her rock.

Unaware of Mma Makutsi's fantasy, Mma Ramotswe made her way slowly along the edge of the road. The traffic was light in that direction, as most of the cars were coming out of town, heading back to the sprawling village of Tlokweng. She was now passing the eucalyptus trees that stretched out towards the dam to the south; she drove past these trees every day, and she thought that she knew them well. But now, on foot, it was as if she saw them for the first time. She loved their scent, that slightly prickly scent that reminded her of the handkerchiefs that her father's cousin used. She would put a few drops of eucalyptus oil onto the cloth and let the young Precious smell them. “That keeps away colds,” the cousin said. “If you put eucalyptus oil on your handkerchief, your nose is safe. Always.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at the memory. She did not think that eucalyptus oil made a difference; she had read somewhere that nothing made a difference to colds other than washing your hands after you had touched a person suffering from one. People believed all manner of things, in the face of all the evidence, but if they did not, well, what then? What if we stopped believing in things that we could not prove? We had to believe in something, she thought. We had to believe in kindness and courtesy and telling the truth; we had to believe in the old Botswana values- all of these things could not be proved in the way in which one could prove that nothing made a difference to colds, and yet we had to believe them.

Such thoughts to be thinking while walking along the side of the Tlokweng Road; but at least they distracted her, even if only temporarily, from a growing feeling of discomfort in her right foot. Now, as Mma Ramotswe turned off into the area known as the village, to walk along Odi Drive, she realised that what she was developing was a blister, and a painful one at that. She stopped, crouched down, and took off her shoe, feeling gingerly for that place where she thought the pain came from. Yes, the skin was raised there; it was a blister.

She wondered whether she should remove her right shoe, or possibly both shoes. There was a time when she would have thought nothing of that; as a child and then as a young woman she would happily walk about unshod, particularly in the sand, which gave such a fine feeling to the soles of the feet. But now her feet had become softer and the very earth seemed to have become thornier and less hospitable.

She replaced her shoe and began to walk down Odi Drive. The blister was quite painful now, and she was having to put less weight on that leg, resulting in a hobbling motion. Zebra Drive was still a long way away-at least twenty minutes, she thought, and she could imagine what her foot would be like at the end of that.

She was now only a few yards-even if painful yards-from the Moffat house on the corner. She would go and see the Moffats, she decided; if the doctor was in, then he might even take a look at the blister and give her some cream for it. And if she asked, she was sure Mma Moffat would drive her home and save her continuing agony.

Dr. Moffat was at home, and while Mma Moffat made tea for Mma Ramotswe, he examined her foot.

“A very bad blister,” he said. “But I think we can save the foot.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up in alarm and saw that Dr. Moffat was smiling. “You worried me, Rra.”

“Just a little joke, Mma Ramotswe,” he said, peeling the covering off a small square of sticking plaster. “Your foot's fine. But tell me: Why are you walking? What's wrong with your tiny white van?”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. “Oh, Dr. Moffat, I am very sad. I am very, very sad. My van…”

“Have you had an accident?”

“No, not an accident. My van is an old one. It has been my friend for many years-right from the time I came to Gaborone. And now it is like an old cow standing under a tree waiting for the end to come. I don't know…”

She faltered. She did not know what to do, and now she wept for the van that she loved so much. It was ridiculous, she thought, a grown woman weeping for a van. But Dr. Moffat did not think it ridiculous; he had seen so much of human suffering in all its shapes and sizes, and he knew how easy it was for people to cry. So he and Mma Moffat, who had come in with a cup of tea for their visitor, comforted her and talked to her about the little white van.

“One thing's very certain,” said Dr. Moffat. “It's the same for humans as it is for vans. When something needs to be fixed, don't just deny it. Go and see somebody-a doctor for a person, a mechanic for a van.”

“Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will just tell me it has to go. I know he will.”

“Then speak to one of those young men-his apprentices. Get him to fix it for you.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent as she contemplated this suggestion. She would never lie to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, but that did not mean that she had to tell him everything.