The Full Cupboard of Life

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AFTER SHE had finished her surprising discussion with Mma Holonga, Mma Ramotswe moved over to join Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Makutsi, who were sitting at a table under a tree near the children’s dining room. More tea had been produced and was being served by the housemothers, and Mma Ramotswe noticed that there were many people in the crowd whom she knew. Indeed, some of them were relatives of hers; her cousin and husband, for example, and some of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s people. Mma Potokwane had obviously been very active in gathering people for the parachute drop.

She walked over to join her cousin, who said that she would not be prepared to do a parachute drop, even if asked by the President himself. “I would have to say, I’m sorry Rra, but there are some things one cannot do, even for Botswana. I cannot jump from an aeroplane. I would die straightaway.”

The cousin’s husband agreed. He would be prepared to give all his money, and all his cattle, to charity rather than jump.

“You should not let Mma Potokwane hear that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It might give her ideas.”

Then there was a conversation with the Reverend Trevor Mwamba from the Anglican Cathedral. He, too, confessed that he would not like to do a parachute jump, and he felt that the same could be said for the Bishop. For a moment Mma Ramotswe entertained a mental picture of the Bishop jumping from an aeroplane, dressed in his episcopal robes and clutching his mitre as he fell.

“It is nothing, you know,” said Charlie, who had come up to join them, a glass of beer in his hand, and clearly enjoying his fame. “I wasn’t at all frightened. I just jumped and then bump! the chute opened above me and I came down. That’s all there is to it. I will do it again tomorrow if Mma Potokwane asks me. In fact, I think I might offer to join the Botswana Defence Force. I could look after their aeroplane engines and then do some jumping in my spare time.”

Mma Ramotswe saw that this made Mr J.L.B. Matekoni look anxious, but the conversation moved on to another topic and no more was said of the looking-after of aeroplane engines.

The event had now turned into something of a party. Some of the older children, who had been helping with the tea cups and with arranging chairs under the trees, now formed up as a choir and sang several songs while one of them, a talented marimba player, provided an accompaniment. Then, after the singing, Mma Potokwane came over to Mma Ramotswe’s side and invited her to join her for a moment in the office. The same invitation was extended to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and it was explained that a very special cake had been prepared for him but that it could not be produced in public as there was not enough for everybody.

They went into the office. The Reverend Trevor Mwamba was already there, a plate of cake before him. He stood up and smiled at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“Now,” said Mma Potokwane, putting a large slice of the special cake on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s plate. “Here is the special cake I have made.”

“You are very kind to us, Mma,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “This looks like a very rich cake. Very rich.” He paused, the cake half way to his mouth. He looked at Mma Potokwane. Then he looked at the Reverend Trevor Mwamba. Finally he looked at Mma Ramotswe. Nobody spoke.

Mma Potokwane broke the silence. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “We all know how proud you are of Mma Ramotswe. We all know how proud you are to be her fiance and how you wish to be her husband. I am right, am I not, in saying that you wish to be her husband?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “I do. Of course I do.”

“Well, do you not think that the moment has come?” she went on. “Do you not think that this would be the right time to marry Mma Ramotswe? Right now. Not next month or next year or whenever, but right now. Because if you do not do something about this, you may never do it. Life is perilous. At any time it could be too late. When you love another person, you must tell her, but you must also show her. You must do that thing that says to the world that you love that person. And this must never be put off, never.”

She paused, watching the effect of her words on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He was staring at her, his eyes slightly moist, as if he was about to burst into tears.

“You do wish to marry Mma Ramotswe, do you not?” Mma Potokwane urged.

Now there was a further silence. The Reverend Trevor Mwamba slipped a small piece of cake into his mouth and chewed on it. Mma Ramotswe herself looked down at the ground, at the edge of Mma Potokwane’s carpet. And then Mr J.L.B. Matekoni spoke.

“I will marry Mma Ramotswe right now,” he said. “If that is what Mma Ramotswe wishes, then I shall do that. I shall be proud to do that. There is no other lady I would ever wish to marry. Just Mma Ramotswe. That is all.”

It was a long speech for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but every word was filled with passion and a new determination.

“In that case,” said the Reverend Trevor Mwamba, wiping the crumbs from the edge of his lips. “In that case I have the prayer books in my car and I have the Bishop’s authority to perform the ceremony right here.”

“We can do it under the big tree,” said Mma Potokwane. “I will tell the children’s choir to get ready. And I will also tell the guests to prepare themselves. They will be surprised.”

THEY ASSEMBLED under the boughs of the great jacaranda tree. A table had been covered with a clean white sheet and served as an altar, and before this altar stood Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, waiting for Mma Ramotswe to be led up to him by Mma Potokwane’s husband, who had offered to give the bride away on behalf of her late father, Obed Ramotswe. Mma Potokwane had produced a suitable dress for Mma Ramotswe, in just the right size as it happened, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been put into a suit by Mma Potokwane’s husband. The Reverend Trevor Mwamba had fetched his robes from his car.

When Mma Ramotswe came out of the office and walked with Mma Potokwane’s husband up to the group of people and the waiting groom, there were enthusiastic ululations from the crowd. This was how people showed their delight and pleasure and the sound was strong that day.

“Dearly beloved,” began the Reverend Trevor Mwamba, “we are gathered here together in the sight of God and in the presence of this congregation to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate…”

The words which Mma Ramotswe had heard so many times for others, those echoing words, she now heard for herself, and she made the responses clearly, as did Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Then, taking their hands and placing them together, in accordance with the authority vested in him, the Reverend Trevor Mwamba pronounced them man and wife, and the ladies present, led by Mma Potokwane, ululated with pleasure.

The choir had been waiting, and now they sang, while Mma Ramotswe and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat down on chairs which had been placed before the altar, and signed the register which the Reverend Trevor Mwamba had also happened to have in the back of his car. The choir sang, the sweet voices of the children rising through the branches of the tree above them, and filling the still, clear air with sound. There was an old Botswana hymn, one which everybody knew, and then, because it was a favourite of Mma Ramotswe’s father, they sang that song which distils all the suffering and the hope of Africa; that song which had inspired and comforted so many, “Nkosi Sikeleli Afrika,” God Bless Africa, give her life, watch over her children.

Mma Ramotswe turned to face her friends, and smiled, and they smiled back. Then she and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood up and walked down through the crowd to the place where the children had taken more tables and where, quite miraculously, as at Cana of Galilee, the housemothers had set out large plates of food, ready for the wedding feast.