The Kalahari Typing School For Men

CHAPTER FOUR

NOTHING SEEMED to be going well for Mma Ramotswe. Firstly, there was that distressing evening with the children-Motholeli being bullied and the boy behaving in that troubling way, shooting a hoopoe and then remaining mute for the rest of the evening. There were matters still to be sorted out for Motholeli, of course, but at least she had cheered up after their talk; with the boy it had been different. He had just shut them out, refusing to eat, and it seemed that nothing they could say would make any difference. They had not attempted to punish him over the hoopoe, and one might have thought that he would be grateful for that, but he was not. Did he really hate them? And, if he did, why should he do so when all they had offered him was love and support? Was this how orphan children behaved? Mma Ramotswe knew that children who were damaged in their early years could be very difficult; and this boy, when all was said and done, had actually been buried alive as a baby. Something like that could leave a mark; indeed, it would have been surprising had it not. But why should he suddenly turn on them like that when he had seemed to be quite happy before? That was puzzling. She would have to go and see Mma Potokwani at the orphan farm and seek her advice. There was nothing that Mma Potokwani did not know about children and their behaviour.

But that was not all. There had been a development which could threaten the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency itself, unless something was done; and nothing, it seemed, could be done. It was Mma Makutsi who broke the news on the morning after the disturbing events at Zebra Drive.

“I have very bad news,” said Mma Makutsi when Mma Ramotswe arrived at the office. “I have been sitting here for the last hour, wanting to cry.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant. She was not sure if she could take more trauma after last night; she felt raw from her engagement with the children’s problems, and she had been looking forward to a quiet day. It would not matter if there were no clients that day; in fact, it would be better if there were no clients at all. It was difficult enough having one’s own problems to sort out, let alone having to attend to the problems of others.

“Do you really have to tell me?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I am not in a mood for problems.”

Mma Makutsi pursed her lips. “This is very important, Mma,” she said severely, as if lecturing one who was being completely irresponsible. “I cannot pretend that I have not seen what I have seen.”

Mma Ramotswe sat down at her desk and looked across at Mma Makutsi.

“In that case,” she said, “you had better tell me. What has happened?”

Mma Makutsi took off her spectacles and polished them on the hem of her skirt.

“Well,” she said, “yesterday afternoon, as you may remember, Mma, I left a little bit early. At four o’clock.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “You said that you had to go shopping.”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I did go shopping. I went up to the Broadhurst shops. There is a shop there that sells stockings very cheaply. I wanted to go there.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “It is always best to go after bargains. I always do that.”

Mma Makutsi acknowledged the remark but pressed on. “There is a shop there-or there used to be a shop there-that sold cups and saucers. You may remember it. The owner went away and they closed it down. Do you remember?”

Mma Ramotswe did. She had bought a birthday present for somebody there, a large cup with a picture of a horse on it, and the handle had fallen off almost immediately.

“That place was empty for a while,” said Mma Makutsi. “But when I went up there yesterday afternoon and walked past it, just before half past four, I saw a new person putting up a sign outside the shop. And I saw some new furniture through the window. Brand-new office furniture.”

She glanced around at the shabby furniture with which their own office was filled: the old grey filing cabinet with one drawer that did not work properly; the desks with their uneven surfaces; the rickety chairs. Mma Ramotswe intercepted the glance and anticipated what was coming. There was going to be a request for new furniture. Mma Makutsi must have spoken to somebody up there at Broadhurst and had been told of bargains to be had. But it would be impossible. The business was losing money as it was; it was only because of the connection with Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and the paying of Mma Makutsi’s salary through that side of the business that they managed to continue trading at all. If it were not for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, they would have had to close down some months ago.

Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “I’m sorry, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “We cannot buy new equipment here. We simply don’t have the money.”

Mma Makutsi stared at her. “That was not what I was going to say,” she protested. “I was going to say something quite different.” She paused, so that Mma Ramotswe might feel suitably guilty for her unwarranted assumption.

“I’m sorry,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Tell me what you saw.”

“A new detective agency,” said Mma Makutsi. “As large as life. It calls itself the Satisfaction Guaranteed Detective Agency.”

Mma Makutsi folded her arms, watching the effect of her words upon her employer. Mma Ramotswe narrowed her eyes. This was dramatic news indeed. She had become so used to being the only private detective in town, indeed in the whole country, that it had never occurred to her there would be competition. This was the news that she least wished to hear, and for a moment she was tempted to throw her hands in the air and announce that she was giving up. But that was a passing thought, and no more than that. Mma Ramotswe was not one to give up that easily, and even if it was discouraging to have orphan problems at home and a shortage of work at the agency, this was no reason to abandon the business. So she squared her shoulders and smiled at Mma Makutsi.

“Every business must expect competition,” she said. “We are no different. We cannot expect to have it all our own way forever, can we?”

Mma Makutsi looked doubtful. “No,” she said at last. “We learned about that at the Botswana Secretarial College. It’s called the principle of competition.”

“Oh,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And what does this principle say?”

Mma Makutsi looked momentarily flustered. She had received ninety-seven percent in the final examinations at the Botswana Secretarial College -that was well-known-but she had never been examined on the principle of competition, as far as she could recall.

“It means that there is competition,” she pronounced. “You don’t just have one business. There will always be more than one business.”

“That is true,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“So that means that if one business does well, then there will be other businesses which will try to do well, too,” Mma Makutsi went on, warming to her theme. “There is nothing that can be done about it. In fact, it is healthy.”

Mma Ramotswe was not convinced. “Healthy enough to take away all our business,” she said.

Mma Makutsi nodded. “But we also learned that you have to know what the competition is. I remember them saying that.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed, and, encouraged, Mma Makutsi continued. “We need to do some detective work for ourselves,” she said. “We need to go and take a look at these new people and see what they are up to. Then we will know what the competition is.”

Mma Ramotswe reached for the key to her tiny white van.

“You are right, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “We need to go and introduce ourselves to these new detectives. Then we’ll know just how clever they are.”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “And there’s one other thing. These new detectives are not ladies, like ourselves. These are men.”

“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a good thing, and a bad thing, too.”

– -

IT WAS not hard to find the Satisfaction Guaranteed Detective Agency. A large sign, very similar to the one which had appeared outside the original premises of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, announced the name of the business and showed a picture of a smiling man behind a desk, hands folded, and clearly satisfied. Then, underneath this picture, was painted in large red letters: Experienced staff. Ex-CID. Ex- New York. Ex-cellent!

Mma Ramotswe parked the tiny white van on the opposite side of the street, under a convenient acacia tree.

“So!” she said, her voice lowered, although nobody could possibly hear them. “So that is the competition.”

Mma Makutsi, who was sitting in the passenger seat, leaned forward to be able to see past Mma Ramotswe. Her employer was a large lady-traditionally built, as she described herself-and it was not easy to get a good view of the offending sign.

“Ex-CID,” said Mma Ramotswe. “A retired policeman then. That is not good news for us. People will love the idea of taking their problems to a retired policeman.”

“And ex- New York,” said Mma Makutsi admiringly. “That will impress people a great deal. They have seen films about New York detectives and they know how good they are.”

Mma Ramotswe cast a glance at Mma Makutsi. “Do you mean Superman?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That sort of thing. Superman.”

Mma Ramotswe opened her mouth to say something to her assistant but then stopped. She was well aware of Mma Makutsi’s academic achievements at the Botswana Secretarial College -she could hardly avoid the framed certificate to that effect hanging above Mma Makutsi’s desk-but sometimes she thought her extraordinarily naive. Superman indeed! Why anybody above, well, the age of six or seven at the most should be interested in such nonsense quite escaped her. And yet they did show an interest; when films like that came to the cinema in town, the one owned by the rich man with a house near Nyerere Drive, there were always crowds of people who were prepared to pay for the seats. Of course some of these were courting couples, who would not necessarily be interested in what was happening on the screen, but others appeared to go for the films themselves.

There was no point in arguing about Superman with Mma Makutsi. Whoever had opened this agency, even if they were really ex- New York, would hardly be Superman.

“We’ll go in and introduce ourselves,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I can see somebody inside. They are already at work.”

“On some big important case,” observed Mma Makutsi ruefully.

“Perhaps,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But then again, perhaps not. When people drive past the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and see us inside, they may think that we’re working on a big important case. Yet most of the time, as you know, we are only sitting there drinking bush tea and reading the Botswana Daily News. So you see that appearances can be deceptive.”

Mma Makutsi thought that this was rather too self-effacing. It was true that they were not particularly busy at present, and it was also true that a fair amount of bush tea was consumed in the office, but it was not always like that. There were times when they were very busy and the passerby would have been quite correct in making the assumption that the office was a hive of activity. So Mma Ramotswe was wrong; but there was no point in arguing with Mma Ramotswe, who seemed to be in a rather defeatist mood. Something was happening at home, thought Mma Makutsi, because it was so unlike her to be anything but optimistic.

They crossed the road and approached the door of the small shop which now housed the Satisfaction Guaranteed Detective Agency. The front was largely taken up by a glass display window, behind which a screen prevented the passerby from seeing more than the heads of the people working within. In the window was a framed picture of a group of men standing together outside a rather impressive-looking official building. The men were all wearing wide-brimmed hats which shaded their faces and made it impossible to distinguish their features.

“Not a good photograph,” muttered Mma Ramotswe to Mma Makutsi. “Worse than useless.”

The door itself, which was half glass-fronted, bore a hand-written sign: Please Enter. No Need to Knock. But Mma Ramotswe, who believed in the traditional values-one of which was always to knock and call out Ko Ko! before one entered-knocked at the door before pushing it open.

“No need to knock, Mma,” said a man sitting behind a desk. “Just come in.”

“I always knock, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is the right thing to do.”

The man smiled. “In my business,” he said, “it’s not always a good idea to knock. It warns people to stop whatever they’re doing.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed at the joke. “And one would not want that!”

“No, indeed,” said the man. “But as you see, I am doing nothing bad. What a pity! I am just sitting here waiting for two beautiful ladies like you to come in and see me.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced very quickly at Mma Makutsi before she replied. “You are a very kind man, Rra,” she said. “I am not called beautiful every day. It is nice when that happens.”

The man behind the desk made a self-deprecating gesture. “When you are a detective, Mma, you get used to observing things. I saw you coming in, and the first thing I said to myself was: Two very, very beautiful ladies coming in the door. This is your lucky day…” He stopped, and then, rising to his feet and sitting down again almost immediately, he put the palm of a hand to his forehead.

“But, Mma, what am I saying! You are Mma Ramotswe, aren’t you? The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency? I have seen your picture in the newspaper, and here I am telling you all about being a detective! And all the time it is you and Mma… Mma…”

“Makutsi,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am an assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. I was at the Botswana Secretarial College before-”

The man nodded, cutting her short. “Oh, that place. Yes.”

Mma Ramotswe noticed the effect which this had on Mma Makutsi. It was as if somebody had applied an electric wire to her skin.

“It is a fine college,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly, and then, to change the subject, “But what is your name, Rra?”

“I am Mr. Buthelezi,” said the man, reaching out to shake hands. “Cephas Buthelezi. Ex-CID.”

Mma Ramotswe took his hand and shook it, as did Mma Makutsi, reluctantly in her case. Then, invited to sit down by Mr. Buthelezi, they lowered themselves gingerly onto the shiny new chairs in front of his desk.

“Buthelezi is a famous name,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Are you of the same family as he is?”

Mr. Buthelezi laughed. “Or might one say, is he of the same family as I am? Ha, ha!”

Mma Ramotswe waited a moment. “Well, is he?” she asked.

Mr. Buthelezi reached for a packet of cigarettes on his desk and extracted one.

“Many people are called Buthelezi,” he said. “And many people are not. People are also called Nkomo or Ramaphosa or whatever. That does not make them a real Nkomo or a real Ramaphosa, does it? There are many names, are there not?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded her agreement. “That is true, Rra. There are many names.”

Mr. Buthelezi lit his cigarette. He had not offered his guests one-not that they smoked-but the lack of consideration had been noted, at least by Mma Makutsi, who, after the slighting reference to the Botswana Secretarial College, was looking for reasons to damn their newly discovered competitor.

Mma Ramotswe had been waiting for an answer to her question but now realised that one would not be forthcoming. “Of course,” she said, “that is a Zulu name, is it not? You are from that part of the world, Rra?”

Mr. Buthelezi picked a fragment of tobacco from his front teeth.

“My late father was a Zulu from Natal,” he said. “But my late mother was from here, a Motswana. She met my father when she was working over the border, in South Africa. She sent me to school in Botswana, and then, when I had finished school, I went back to live with them in South Africa. That is when I joined the CID in Johannesburg. Now I am back in my mother’s country.”

“And I see on your sign that you have lived in New York, too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have had a busy life, Rra!”

Mr. Buthelezi looked away, as if remembering a rich and varied life. “Yes, New York. I have been in New York.”

“Did you like living there, Rra?” asked Mma Makutsi. “I have always wanted to go to New York.”

“ New York is a very large city,” said Mr. Buthelezi. “My God! Wow! There are many buildings there.”

“But how long did you live there?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Were you there for many years?”

“Not many years,” said Mr. Buthelezi.

“How long?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“You are very interested in New York, Mma,” said Mr. Buthelezi. “You should go there yourself. Don’t just get my view of it. See the place with your own eyes. Wow!”

For a few moments there was a silence, with Mma Makutsi’s unanswered question hanging in the air: how long? Mr. Buthelezi drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. He seemed comfortable enough with the silence, but after a while he reached forward and passed a small leaflet to Mma Ramotswe.

“This is my brochure, Mma,” he said. “I am happy for you to see it. I do not mind that there is more than one detective agency in this town. It’s growing so quickly, isn’t it? There is work for two of us.” And what about me? thought Mma Makutsi. What about me? Are there not three of us, or am I just a nothing in your eyes?

Mma Ramotswe took the cheaply printed brochure. There was a picture of Mr. Buthelezi on the front, sitting at a different desk and looking rather formal. She turned the page. Again there was a picture of Mr. Buthelezi, this time standing beside a black car, with indistinct tall buildings in the background. The middle ground, which was oddly hazy, appeared to be waste ground of some sort, and there were no other figures in the photograph, which was labelled underneath, New York.

She looked at the text opposite the picture. Is something troubling you? it read. Is your husband coming home late and smelling of ladies’ perfume? Is one of your employees stealing your business secrets? Don’t take any chances! Entrust your enquiries to a MAN!

The effect of this on Mma Ramotswe was similar to the effect which the earlier remark about the Botswana Secretarial College had produced on Mma Makutsi. Silently she passed the brochure to her assistant, who adjusted her glasses to read it.

“It has been very good to meet you, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe, struggling with the words. Insincerity had never come easily to her, but good manners required it on occasion, even if a superhuman effort was needed. “We must meet again soon so that we can discuss our cases together.”

Mr. Buthelezi beamed with pleasure. “That would be very good, Mma,” he said. “You and me talking about professional matters…”

“And Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Of course,” said Mr. Buthelezi, glancing quickly, and dismissively, at his other visitor.

Mma Makutsi had handed the brochure back to Mr. Buthelezi, who insisted that they keep it. Then the two women stood up, took their leave politely, if rather coldly, and left the shop, closing the door perhaps rather too firmly behind them. Once outside, they crossed the road in complete silence, and it was not until Mma Ramotswe had turned the tiny white van round and started to head for home that anything was said.

“So!” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi searched for something to say but could think of nothing that fitted the occasion; nothing that summed up her outrage at the way in which the Botswana Secretarial College had been referred to as that place. So she said, “So,” too, and left it at that.