The Full Cupboard of Life

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE FOLLOWING morning at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, when the morning rush had abated, Mma Ramotswe decided to stretch her legs. She had been sitting at her desk, dictating a letter to a client, while Mma Makutsi’s pencil moved over the page of her notepad with a satisfactory squeak. Shorthand had been one of her strongest subjects at the Botswana Secretarial College, and she enjoyed taking dictation.

“Many secretaries these days don’t have shorthand,” Mma Makutsi had remarked to Mma Ramotswe. “Can you believe it, Mma? They call themselves secretaries, and they don’t have shorthand. What would Mr Pitman think?”

“Who is this Mr Pitman?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What is he thinking about?”

“He is a very famous man,” said Mma Makutsi. “He invented shorthand. He wrote books about it. He is one of the great heroes of the secretarial movement.”

“I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps they should put up a statue to him at the Botswana Secretarial College. In that way he would be remembered.”

“That is a very good idea,” said Mma Makutsi. “But I do not think they will do it. They would have to raise the money from the graduates, and I do not think that some of those girls-the ones who do not know anything about shorthand, and who only managed to get something like fifty per cent in the exams-I do not think they would pay.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded vaguely. She was not particularly interested in the affairs of the Botswana Secretarial College, although she always listened politely when Mma Makutsi sounded off about such matters. Most people had something in their lives that was particularly important to them, and she supposed that the Botswana Secretarial College was as good a cause as any. What was it in her own case, she wondered? Tea? Surely she had something more important than that; but what? She looked at Mma Makutsi, as if for inspiration, but none came, and she decided to return to the subject later, in an idle moment, when one had time for this sort of unsettling philosophical speculation.

Now, the morning’s dictation finished and the letters duly signed, Mma Ramotswe arose from her desk, leaving Mma Makutsi to address the envelopes and find the right postage stamps in the mail drawer. Mma Ramotswe glanced out of the window; it was precisely the sort of morning she appreciated-not too hot, and yet with an empty, open sky, flooded with sunlight. This was the sort of morning that birds liked, she thought; when they could stretch their wings and sing out; the sort of morning when you could fill your lungs with air and inhale nothing but the fragrance of acacia and the grass and the sweet, sweet smell of cattle.

She left the office by the back door and stood outside, her eyes closed, the sun on her face. It would be good to be back in Mochudi, she thought, to be sitting in front of somebody’s house peeling vegetables, or crocheting something perhaps. That’s what she had done when she was a girl, and had sat with her cousin, who was adept at crocheting and made place mat after place mat in fine white thread; so many place mats that every table in Botswana could have been covered twice over, but which somebody, somewhere, bought and sold on. These days she had no time for crocheting, and she wondered whether she would even remember how to do it. Of course, crocheting was like riding a bicycle, which people said that you never forgot how to do once you had learned it. But was that true? Surely there were things that one might forget how to do, if enough time elapsed between the occasions on which one had to do whatever it was that one had forgotten. Mma Ramotswe had once come across somebody who had forgotten his Setswana, and she had been astonished, and shocked. This person had gone to live in Mozambique as a young man and had spoken Tsonga there, and had learned Portuguese too. When he came back to Botswana, thirty years later, it seemed as if he were a foreigner, and she had seen him look puzzled when people used quite simple, everyday Setswana words. To lose your own language was like forgetting your mother, and as sad, in a way. We must not lose Setswana, she thought, even if we speak a great deal of English these days, because that would be like losing part of one’s soul.

Mma Makutsi, of course, had another language tucked away in her background. Her mother had been a speaker of Ikalanga, because she had come from Marapong, where they spoke a dialect of Ikalanga called Lilima. That made life very complicated, thought Mma Ramotswe, because that meant that she spoke a minor version of a minor language. Mma Makutsi had been brought up speaking both Setswana, her father’s language, and this strange version of Ikalanga, and then had learned English at school, because that was how one got on in life. You could never even get to the Botswana Secretarial College if you spoke no English, and you would certainly never get anywhere near ninety-seven per cent unless your English was almost faultless, like the English that schoolteachersused to speak.

Mma Ramotswe had more or less forgotten that Mma Makutsi spoke Ikalanga until one day she had used an Ikalanga word in the middle of a sentence, and it had stuck out.

“I have hurt my gumbo,” Mma Makutsi had said.

Mma Ramotswe had looked at her in surprise. “Your gumbo?”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “When I was walking to work today, I stepped into a pothole and hurt my gumbo.” She paused, noticing the look of puzzlement on Mma Ramotswe’s face. Then she realised. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Gumbois foot in Ikalanga. If you speak Ikalanga, your foot is your gumbo.”

“I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a very strange word. Gumbo.”

“It is not strange,” said Mma Makutsi, slightly defensively. “There are many different words for foot. It isfoot in English. In Setswana it islonao, and in Ikalanga it isgumbo, which is what it really is.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “There is noreal word for foot. You cannot say it is really gumbo, because that is true only for Ikalanga-speaking feet. Each foot has its own name, depending on the language which the foot’s mother spoke. That is the way it works, Mma Makutsi.”

That had ended the conversation, and no more was said of gumbos.

These, and other, thoughts went through Mma Ramotswe’s head as she stood outside the office that morning, stretching, and allowing her mind to wander this way and that. After a few minutes, though, she decided that it was time to get back into the office. Mma Makutsi would have finished addressing the letters by now, and she wanted to tell her about yesterday’s visit to the House of Hope. There was a lot to be said about that, and she thought it would be useful to discuss it with her assistant. Mma Makutsi often came up with very shrewd observations, although in the case of Mr Bobologo no particular shrewdness was required to work out what his motives were. And yet, and yet… One could not say that he was an insincere man. He was patently sincere when it came to bar girls, but marriage, perhaps, was another matter. Mma Makutsi might have valuable insights into this, and this would help clarify the situation in Mma Ramotswe’s mind.

Mma Ramotswe opened her eyes and started to make her way back into the office. She was intercepted in the doorway, though, by Mma Makutsi, who looked anxious.

“There is something wrong,” Mma Makutsi whispered to her. “There is something wrong with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Back there.” She gestured towards the garage. “There is something wrong with him.”

“Has he hurt himself?” Mma Ramotswe always dreaded the possibility of an accident, particularly with those careless apprentices being allowed to raise cars on ramps and do other dangerous things. Mechanics hurt themselves, it was well-known, just as butchers often had parts of fingers missing, a sight which always made Mma Ramotswe’s blood run cold, although the enthusiasm of the butchers for their great chopping knives-the guilty blades, no doubt-seemed undiminished.

Mma Makutsi set her mind at rest. “No, there has not been an accident. But I saw him sitting in the garage with his head in his hands. He looked very miserable, and he hardly greeted me when I walked past him. I think something has happened.”

This was not good news. Even if there had been no accident, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s recovery from his depressive illness was recent enough to make any apparent drop in mood a cause for concern. Dr Moffat, who had treated Mr J.L.B. Matekoni during his illness-with the assistance of Mma Potokwane, it must be recalled, who had taken Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in hand and made him take his pills-had warned that these illnesses could recur. Mma Ramotswe remembered his very words: “You must be watchful, Mma Ramotswe,” the doctor had said, in that kind voice he used when he spoke to everybody, even to his rather ill-tempered brown spaniel. “You must be watchful because this illness is like a dark cloud in the sky. It is often there, just over the horizon, but it can blow up very quickly. Watch, and tell me if anything happens.”

So far, the recovery had seemed complete, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been as equable and as constant as he always had been. There had been no sign of the lassitude that had come with the illness; no sign of the dark, introspective brooding which had so reduced him. But perhaps this was it coming back. Perhaps the cloud had blown over and had covered his sky.

Mma Ramotswe thanked Mma Makutsi and made her way into the garage. The two apprentices were bent over the engine of a car, spanners in hand, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was sitting on his old canvas chair near the compressor, his head sunk in his hands, just as Mma Makutsi had seen him.

“Now then, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” said Mma Ramotswe breezily. “You seem to be thinking very hard about something. Can I make you a cup of tea to help you think?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up, and as he did so Mma Ramotswe realised, with relief, that the illness had not returned. He looked worried, certainly, but it was a very different look from the haunted look he had developed during the illness. This was a real worry, she thought; not a worry about shadows and imaginary wrongs and dying; all those things which had so tormented him when he was ill.

“Yes, I am thinking,” he said. “I am thinking that I have dug myself into a mess. I am like a potato in…” He stopped, unable to complete the metaphor.

“Like a potato?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Like a potato in a…” He stopped again. “I don’t know. But I have done a very foolish thing in involving myself in this business.”

Mma Ramotswe was perplexed, and asked him what business he meant.

“This whole business with that butcher’s car,” he said. “I went round to First Class Motors yesterday afternoon.”

“Ah!” said Mma Ramotswe, and thought: this is my fault. I urged him to go and now this has happened. So, rather than say Ah! again, she said, “Oh!”

“Yes,” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni miserably. “I went up there yesterday afternoon. The man who runs the place was at a funeral in Molepolole, and so I spoke to one of his assistants. And this man said that he had seen the butcher’s car round at my garage and he had mentioned it to his boss, who was very cross. He said that I was taking his clients, and that he was going to come round and see me about it this morning, when he arrived back from Molepolole. He said that his boss was going to ‘sort me out.’ That’s what he said, Mma Ramotswe. Those were his words. I didn’t even have the chance to complain, as I had intended to. I didn’t even have the chance.”

Mma Ramotswe folded her arms. “Who is this man?” she snapped angrily. “What is his name, and who does he think he is? Where is he from?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “He is called Molefi. He is a horrible man from Tlokweng. People are scared of him. He gives mechanics a bad name.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment. She felt sorry for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was a very peaceful man and who did not like conflict. He was not one to start an argument, and yet she rather wished that he would stand up to this Molefi man a bit more. Such people were bullies and the only thing to do was to stand up to them. If only Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were a bit braver… Did she really want him to fight, though? It was quite out of character, and that was just as well. She could not abide men who threw their weight around, and that was one of the reasons why she so admired Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Although he was physically strong from all that lifting of engines, he was gentle. And she loved him for that, as did so many others.

She unfolded her arms and walked over to stand beside Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “When is this man coming?” she asked.

“Any time now. They said this morning. That is all they said.”

“I see.” She turned away, intending to go over to the apprentices and have a word with them. They would have to rally round to deal with this Molefi person. They were young men… She stopped. Tlokweng. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said that Molefi was from Tlokweng, and Tlokweng was where the orphan farm was, and the orphan farm made her think of Mma Potokwane.

She turned back again, ignoring the apprentices, and walked briskly back into her office. Mma Makutsi looked up at her expectantly as she came in.

“Is he all right? I was worried.”

“He is fine,” she said. “He is worried about something. That man at First Class Motors has been threatening him. That’s what’s going on.”

Mma Makutsi whistled softly, as she sometimes did in moments of crisis. “That is very bad, Mma. That is very bad.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I am going out to Tlokweng right now. This very minute. Please telephone Mma Potokwane and tell her that I am coming to fetch her in my van and that we need her help. Please do that right now. I am going.”

WHEN MMA RAMOTSWE arrived at the orphan farm, Mma Potokwane was not in her office. The door was open, but the large, rather shabby chair in which Mma Potokwane was often to be found-when she was not bustling round the kitchens or the houses-was empty. Mma Ramotswe rushed outside again and looked about anxiously. It had not occurred to her that Mma Potokwane might not be found; she was always on duty, it seemed. And yet she could be in town, doing some shopping, or she could even be far away, down in Lobatse, perhaps, picking up some new orphan.

“Mma Ramotswe?”

She gave a start, looking about her. It was Mma Potokwane’s voice, but where was she?

“Here!” came the voice. “Under this tree! Here I am, Mma Ramotswe.”

The matron of the orphan farm was in the shade of a large mango tree, merging with the shadows. Mma Ramotswe had looked right past her, but now Mma Potokwane stepped out from under the drooping branches of the tree.

“I have been watching a special mango,” she said. “It is almost ready and I have told the children that they are not to pick it. I am keeping it for my husband, who likes to eat a good mango.” She dusted her hands on her skirts as she walked towards Mma Ramotswe. “Would you like to see this mango, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked. “It is very fine. Very yellow now.”

“You are very kind, Mma,” called out Mma Ramotswe. “I will come and see it some other time, I think. Right now there is something urgent to talk to you about. Something very urgent.”

Mma Potokwane joined her friend outside the office, and Mma Ramotswe quickly explained that she needed her to come to the garage, “to help with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” Mma Potokwane listened gravely and nodded her agreement. They could go straight away, she said. No, she would not need to fetch anything from her office. “All I need is my voice,” she said, pointing to her chest. “And it is all there. Ready to be used.”

They travelled back to the garage in the tiny white van, now heavily laden and riding low on its shock absorbers. Mma Ramotswe drove more quickly than she normally did, sounding the horn impatiently at indolent donkeys and children on wobbling cycles. There was only one hold-up-a small herd of rickety cattle, badly looked after by all appearances, which blocked the road until Mma Potokwane opened her window and shouted at them in a stentorian voice. The cattle looked surprised, and indignant, but they moved, and the tiny white van continued its journey.

They drew up at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors a few minutes after the arrival of Molefi. A large red truck was parked outside the garage, blocking the entrance, and on this was written FIRST CLASS MOTORS in ostentatious lettering. Mma Potokwane, to whom the situation had been explained by Mma Ramotswe on the way back, saw this and snorted.

“Big letters,” she murmured. “Big nothing.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. She was sure that the summoning of Mma Potokwane was the right thing to do and this remark made her even more certain. Now, as they negotiated their way round the aggressively parked truck and she saw Molefi standing in front of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was looking down at the ground as his visitor remonstrated with him, she realised that they had not arrived a minute too early.

Mma Potokwane bustled forward. “So,” she said. “Who do we find here in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s garage? Molefi? It’s you, isn’t it? You’ve come to discuss some difficult mechanical problem with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, have you? Come for his advice?”

Molefi looked round and glowered. “I am here on business, Mma. It’s business between me and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” His tone was rude and he compounded the offence by turning his back on Mma Potokwane and facing Mr J.L.B. Matekoni again. Mma Potokwane glanced at Mma Ramotswe, who shook her head in disapproval of Molefi’s rudeness.

“Excuse me, Rra,” said Mma Potokwane, stepping forward. “I think that perhaps you might have forgotten who I am, but I certainly know exactly who you are.”

Molefi turned around in irritation. “Listen, Mma…”

“No, you listen to me, Rra,” Mma Potokwane said, her voice rising sharply. “I know you, Herbert Molefi. I know your mother. She is my friend. And I have often felt sorry for her, with a son like you.”

Molefi opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came.

“Oh yes,” went on Mma Potokwane, shaking a finger at him. “You were a bad little boy, and now you are a bad man. You are just a bully, that’s what you are. And I have heard this thing about the butcher’s car. Oh, yes, I have heard it. And I wonder whether your mother knows it, or your uncles? Do they know it?”

Molefi’s collapse was sudden and complete. Mma Ramotswe watched the effect of these words and saw the burly figure shrink visibly in the face of Mma Potokwane’s tongue-lashing.

“No? They have not heard about it?” she pressed on. “Well, I think I might just let them know. And you, you, Herbert Molefi, who thinks that he can go round bullying people like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni here, had better think again. Your mother can still tell you a thing or two, can’t she? And your uncles. They will not be pleased and they might just give their cattle to somebody else when they die, might they not? I think so, Rra. I think so.”

“Now, Mma,” said Molefi. “I am just talking to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, that is all I am doing.”

“Pah!” retorted Mma Potokwane. “Don’t you try to tell me your lies. You just shut that useless mouth of yours for a little while and let Mr J.L.B. Matekoni tell you what to do about that poor man you’ve cheated. And I’ll just stand here and listen, just in case. Then we’ll think about whether your people out at Tlokweng need to be told about this.”

Molefi was silent, and he remained silent while Mr J.L.B. Matekoni quietly and reasonably told him that he would have to make a refund to the butcher and that he should be careful in the future, as other garages in the town would be watching what he did. “You let us all down, you see,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “If one mechanic cheats, then all mechanics are blamed. That is what happens, and that is why you should change your ways.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, making her first contribution. “You just be careful in future, or Mma Potokwane will hear of it. Do you understand?”

Molefi nodded silently.

“Has a goat eaten your tongue?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“No,” said Molefi quietly. “I understand what you have said, Mma.”

“Good,” said Mma Potokwane. “Now the best thing you can do is to move that truck of yours and get back to your garage. I think that you will have an envelope in your office. That will do for the letter you are going to write to that man in Lobatse.” She paused before adding, “And send me a copy, if you don’t mind.”

There was not much more to be said after that. Molefi reversed his truck and drove angrily away. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thanked Mma Potokwane, rather sheepishly, thought Mma Ramotswe, and the two women went into the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, where Mma Makutsi had boiled the kettle for tea. Mma Makutsi had listened to the encounter from the doorway. She was somewhat in awe of Mma Potokwane, but now she asked her a question.

“Is his mother that fierce?”

“I have no idea,” said Mma Potokwane. “I’ve only seen his mother; I’ve never met her, and I took a bit of a risk with that. But usually bullies have severe mothers and bad fathers, and they are usually frightened of them. That is why they are bullies, I think. There is something wrong at home. I have found that with children in general and this applies to men as well. I think that I shall have to write about that if I ever write a book about how to run an orphan farm.”

“You must write that book, Mma,” urged Mma Ramotswe. “I would read it, even if I was not planning to run an orphan farm.”

“Thank you,” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe I shall do that one day. But at the moment I am so busy looking after all those orphans and making tea and baking fruit cake and all those things. There seems very little time for writing books.”

“That is a pity,” said Mma Makutsi. It had just occurred to her that she might write a book herself, if Mma Potokwane, of all people, was considering doing so.The Principles of Typing, perhaps, although that was not perhaps the most exciting title one might imagine.How to Get Ninety-Seven Per Cent. Now that was much, much better, and would be bought by all those people, those many, many people who would love to get ninety-seven per cent in whatever it was that they were doing and who knew that perhaps they never would. At least they could hope, which was an important thing. We must be able to hope. We simply must.