Chapter One
The Daddy
Mma Ramotswe had a detective agency in Africa, at the foot
of Kgale Hill. These were its assets: a tiny white van,
two desks, two chairs, a telephone, and an old typewriter.
Then there was a teapot, in which Mma Ramotswe — the only
lady private detective in Botswana — brewed redbush tea.
And three mugs — one for herself, one for her secretary,
and one for the client. What else does a detective agency
really need? Detective agencies rely on human intuition
and intelligence, both of which Mma Ramotswe had in
abundance. No inventory would ever include those, of
course.
But there was also the view, which again could appear
on no inventory. How could any such list describe what one
saw when one looked out from Mma Ramotswe's door? To the
front, an acacia tree, the thorn tree which dots the wide
edges of the Kalahari; the great white thorns, a warning;
the olive-grey leaves, by contrast, so delicate. In its
branches, in the late afternoon, or in the cool of the
early morning, one might see a Go-Away Bird, or hear it,
rather. And beyond the acacia, over the dusty road, the
roofs of the town under a cover of trees and scrub bush;
on the horizon, in a blue shimmer of heat, the hills, like
improbable, overgrown termite-mounds.
Everybody called her Mma Ramotswe, although if people
had wanted to be formal, they would have addressed her as
Mme Mma Ramotswe. This is the right thing for a person of
stature, but which she had never used of herself. So it
was always Mma Ramotswe, rather than Precious Ramotswe, a
name which veryfew people employed.
She was a good detective, and a good woman. A good
woman in a good country, one might say. She loved her
country, Botswana, which is a place of peace, and she
loved Africa, for all its trials. I am not ashamed to be
called an African patriot, said Mma Ramotswe. I love all
the people whom God made, but I especially know how to
love the people who live in this place. They are my
people, my brothers and sisters. It is my duty to help
them to solve the mysteries in their lives. That is what I
am called to do.
In idle moments, when there were no pressing matters
to be dealt with, and when everybody seemed to be sleepy
from the heat, she would sit under her acacia tree. It was
a dusty place to sit, and the chickens would occasionally
come and peck about her feet, but it was a place which
seemed to encourage thought. It was here that Mma Ramotswe
would contemplate some of the issues which, in everyday
life, may so easily be pushed to one side.
Everything, thought Mma Ramotswe, has been something
before. Here I am, the only lady private detective in the
whole of Botswana, sitting in front of my detective
agency. But only a few years ago there was no detective
agency, and before that, before there were even any
buildings here, there were just the acacia trees, and the
river-bed in the distance, and the Kalahari over there, so
close.
In those days there was no Botswana even, just the
Bechuanaland Protectorate, and before that again there was
Khama's Country, and lions with the dry wind in their
manes. But look at it now: a detective agency, right here
in Gaborone, with me, the fat lady detective, sitting
outside and thinking these thoughts about how what is one
thing today becomes quite another thing tomorrow.
Mma Ramotswe set up the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
with the proceeds of the sale of her father's cattle. He
had owned a big herd, and had no other children; so every
single beast, all one hundred and eighty of them,
including the white Brahmin bulls whose grandparents he
had bred himself, went to her. The cattle were moved from
the cattle post, back to Mochudi where they waited, in the
dust, under the eyes of the chattering herd boys, until
the livestock agent came.
They fetched a good price, as there had been heavy
rains that year, and the grass had been lush. Had it been
the year before, when most of that southern part of Africa
had been wracked by drought, it would have been a
different matter. People had dithered then, wanting to
hold on to their cattle, as without your cattle you were
naked; others, feeling more desperate, sold, because the
rains had failed year after year and they had seen the
animals become thinner and thinner. Mma Ramotswe was
pleased that her father's illness had prevented his making
any decision, as now the price had gone up and those who
had held on were well rewarded.
"I want you to have your own business," he said to her
on his death bed. "You'll get a good price for the cattle
now. Sell them and buy a business. A butchery maybe. A
bottle store. Whatever you like."
She held her father's hand and looked into the eyes of
the man she loved beyond all others, her Daddy, her wise
Daddy, whose lungs had been filled with dust in those
mines and who had scrimped and saved to make life good for
her.
It was difficult to talk through her tears, but she
managed to say: "I'm going to set up a detective agency.
Down in Gaborone. It will be the best one in Botswana. The
No. 1 Agency."
For a moment her father's eyes opened wide and it
seemed as if he was struggling to speak.
"But ... but ..."
But he died before he could say anything more, and Mma
Ramotswe fell on his chest and wept for all the dignity,
love and suffering that died with him.
She had a sign painted in bright colours, which was then
set up just off the Lobatse Road, on the edge of town,
pointing to the small building she had purchased: THE NO.
1 LADIES' DETECTIVE AGENCY. FOR ALL CONFIDENTIAL MATTERS
AND ENQUIRIES. SATISFACTION GUARANTEED FOR ALL PARTIES.
UNDER PERSONAL MANAGEMENT.
There was considerable public interest in the setting
up of her agency. There was an interview on Radio
Botswana, in which she thought she was rather rudely
pressed to reveal her qualifications, and a rather more
satisfactory article in The Botswana News, which drew
attention to the fact that she was the only lady private
detective in the country. This article was cut out,
copied, and placed prominently on a small board beside the
front door of the agency.
After a slow start, she was rather surprised to find
that her services were in considerable demand. She was
consulted about missing husbands, about the
creditworthiness of potential business partners, and about
suspected fraud by employees. In almost every case, she
was able to come up with at least some information for the
client; when she could not, she waived her fee, which
meant that virtually nobody who consulted her was
dissatisfied. People in Botswana liked to talk, she
discovered, and the mere mention of the fact that she was
a private detective would let loose a positive outpouring
of information on all sorts of subjects. It flattered
people, she concluded, to be approached by a private
detective, and this effectively loosened their tongues.
This happened with Happy Bapetsi, one of her earlier
clients. Poor Happy! To have lost your daddy and then
found him, and then lost him again ...
"I used to have a happy life," said Happy Bapetsi. "A very
happy life. Then this thing happened, and I can't say that
any more."
Mma Ramotswe watched her client as she sipped her bush
tea. Everything you wanted to know about a person was
written in the face, she believed. It's not that she
believed that the shape of the head was what counted —
even if there were many who still clung to that belief; it
was more a question of taking care to scrutinise the lines
and the general look. And the eyes, of course; they were
very important. The eyes allowed you to see right into a
person, to penetrate their very essence, and that was why
people with something to hide wore sunglasses indoors.
They were the ones you had to watch very carefully.
Now this Happy Bapetsi was intelligent; that was
immediately apparent. She also had few worries — this was
shown by the fact that there were no lines on her face,
other than smile lines of course. So it was man trouble,
thought Mma Ramotswe. Some man has turned up and spoilt
everything, destroying her happiness with his bad
behaviour.
"Let me tell you a little about myself first," said
Happy Bapetsi. "I come from Maun, you see, right up on the
Okavango. My mother had a small shop and I lived with her
in the house at the back. We had lots of chickens and we
were very happy.
"My mother told me that my Daddy had left a long time
ago, when I was still a little baby. He had gone off to
work in Bulawayo and he had never come back. Somebody had
written to us — another Motswana living there — to say
that he thought that my Daddy was dead, but he wasn't
sure. He said that he had gone to see somebody at Mpilo
Hospital one day and as he was walking along a corridor he
saw them wheeling somebody out on a stretcher and that the
dead person on the stretcher looked remarkably like my
Daddy. But he couldn't be certain.
"So we decided that he was probably dead, but my
mother did not mind a great deal because she had never
really liked him very much. And of course I couldn't even
remember him, so it did not make much difference to me.
"I went to school in Maun at a place nm by some
Catholic missionaries. One of them discovered that I could
do arithmetic rather well and he spent a lot of time
helping me. He said that he had never met a girl who could
count so well.
"I suppose it was very odd. I could see a group of
figures and I would just remember it. Then I would find
that I had added the figures in my head, even without
thinking about it. It just came very easily — I didn't
have to work at it at all.
"I did very well in my exams and at the end of the day
I went off to Gaborone and learned how to be a book-
keeper. Again it was very simple for me; I could look at a
whole sheet of figures and understand it immediately.
Then, the next day, I could remember every figure exactly
and write them all down if I needed to.
"I got a job in the bank and I was given promotion
after promotion. Now I am the No. 1 sub-accountant and I
don't think I can go any further because all the men are
worried that I'll make them look stupid. But I don't mind.
I get very good pay and I can finish all my work by three
in the afternoon, sometimes earlier. I go shopping after
that. I have a nice house with four rooms and I am very
happy. To have all that by the time you are thirty-eight
is good enough, I think."
Mma Ramotswe smiled. "That is all very interesting.
You're right. You've done well."
"I'm very lucky," said Happy Bapetsi. "But then this
thing happened. My Daddy arrived at the house."
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. She had not expected
this; she had thought it would be a boyfriend problem.
Fathers were a different matter altogether.
"He just knocked on the door," said Happy Bapetsi. "It
was a Saturday afternoon and I was taking a rest on my bed
when I heard his knocking. I got up, went to the door, and
there was this man, about sixty or so, standing there with
his hat in his hands. He told me that he was my Daddy, and
that he had been living in Bulawayo for a long time but
was now back in Botswana and had come to see me.
"You can understand how shocked I was. I had to sit
down, or I think I would have fainted. In the meantime, he
spoke. He told me my mother's name, which was correct, and
he said that he was sorry that he hadn't been in touch
before. Then he asked if he could stay in one of the spare
rooms, as he had nowhere else to go.
"I said that of course he could. In a way I was very
excited to see my Daddy and I thought that it would be
good to be able to make up for all those lost years and to
have him staying with me, particularly since my poor
mother died. So I made a bed for him in one of the rooms
and cooked him a large meal of steak and potatoes, which
he ate very quickly. Then he asked for more.
"That was about three months ago. Since then, he has
been living in that room and I have been doing all the
work for him. I make his breakfast, cook him some lunch,
which I leave in the kitchen, and then make his supper at
night. I buy him one bottle of beer a day and have also
bought him some new clothes and a pair of good shoes. All
he does is sit in his chair outside the front door and
tell me what to do for him next."
"Many men are like that," interrupted Mma Ramotswe.
Happy Bapetsi nodded. "This one is specially like
that. He has not washed a single cooking pot since he
arrived and I have been getting very tired running after
him. He also spends a lot of my money on vitamin pills and
biltong.
"I would not resent this, you know, expect for one
thing. I do not think that he is my real Daddy. I have no
way of proving this, but I think that this man is an
impostor and that he heard about our family from my real
Daddy before he died and is now just pretending. I think
he is a man who has been looking for a retirement home and
who is very pleased because he has found a good one."
Mma Ramotswe found herself staring in frank wonderment
at Happy Bapetsi. There was no doubt but that she was
telling the truth; what astonished her was the effrontery,
the sheer, naked effrontery of men. How dare this person
come and impose on this helpful, happy person! What a
piece of chicanery, of fraud! What a piece of outright
theft in fact!
"Can you help me?" asked Happy Bapetsi. "Can you find
out whether this man is really my Daddy? If he is, then I
will be a dutiful daughter and put up with him. If he is
not, then I should prefer for him to go somewhere else."
Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. "I'll find out," she
said. "It may take me a day or two, but I'll find out!"
Of course it was easier said than done. There were
blood tests these days, but she doubted very much whether
this person would agree to that. No, she would have to try
something more subtle, something that would show beyond
any argument whether he was the Daddy or not. She stopped
in her line of thought. Yes! There was something biblical
about this story. What, she thought, would Solomon have
done?
Mma Ramotswe picked up the nurse's uniform from her friend
Sister Gogwe. It was a bit tight, especially round the
arms, as Sister Gogwe, although generously-proportioned,
was slightly more slender than Mma Ramotswe. But once she
was in it, and had pinned the nurse's watch to her front,
she was a perfect picture of a staff sister at the
Princess Marina Hospital. It was a good disguise, she
thought, and she made a mental note to use it at some time
in the future.
As she drove to Happy Bapetsi's house in her tiny
white van, she reflected on how the African tradition of
support for relatives could cripple people. She knew of
one man, a sergeant of police, who was supporting an
uncle, two aunts, and a second cousin. If you believed in
the old Setswana morality, you couldn't turn a relative
away, and there was a lot to be said for that. But it did
mean that charlatans and parasites had a very much easier
time of it than they did elsewhere. They were the people
who ruined the system, she thought. They're the ones who
are giving the old ways a bad name.
As she neared the house, she increased her speed. This
was an errand of mercy, after all, and if the Daddy were
sitting in his chair outside the front door he would have
to see her arrive in a cloud of dust. The Daddy was there,
of course, enjoying the morning sun, and he sat up
straight in his chair as he saw the tiny white van sweep
up to the gate. Mma Ramotswe turned off the engine and ran
out of the car up to the house.
"Dumela Rra," she greeted him rapidly. "Are you Happy
Bapetsi's Daddy?"
The Daddy rose to his feet. "Yes," he said proudly. "I
am the Daddy."
Mma Ramotswe panted, as if trying to get her breath
back.
"I'm sorry to say that there has been an accident.
Happy was run over and is very sick at the hospital. Even
now they are performing a big operation on her."
The Daddy let out a wail. "Aiee! My daughter! My
little baby Happy!"
A good actor, thought Mma Ramotswe, unless ... No, she
preferred to trust Happy Bapetsi's instinct. A girl should
know her own Daddy even if she had not seen him since she
was a baby.
"Yes," she went on. "It is very sad. She is very sick,
very sick. And they need lots of blood to make up for all
the blood she's lost."
The Daddy frowned. "They must give her that blood.
Lots of blood. I can pay."
"It's not the money," said Mma Ramotswe. "Blood is
free. We don't have the right sort. We will have to get
some from her family, and you are the only one she has. We
must ask you for some blood."
The Daddy sat down heavily.
"I am an old man," he said.
Mma Ramotswe sensed that it would work. Yes, this man
was an impostor.
"That is why we are asking you," she said. "Because
she needs so much blood, they will have to take about half
your blood. And that is very dangerous for you. In fact,
you might die."
The Daddy's mouth fell open.
"Die?"
"Yes," said Mma Ramotswe. "But then you are her father
and we know that you would do this thing for your
daughter. Now could you come quickly, or it will be too
late. Doctor Moghile is waiting."
The Daddy opened his mouth, and then closed it.
"Come on," said Mma Ramotswe, reaching down and taking
his wrist. "I'll help you to the van."
The Daddy rose to his feet, and then tried to sit down
again. Mma Ramotswe gave him a tug.
"No," he said. "I don't want to."
"You must," said Mma Ramotswe. "Now come on."
The Daddy shook his head. "No," he said faintly. "I
won't. You see, I'm not really her Daddy. There has been a
mistake."
Mma Ramotswe let go of his wrist. Then, her arms
folded, she stood before him and addressed him directly.
"So you are not the Daddy! I see! I see! Then what are
you doing sitting in that chair and eating her food? Have
you heard of the Botswana Penal Code and what it says
about people like you? Have you?"
The Daddy looked down at the ground and shook his
head.
"Well," said Mma Ramotswe. "You go inside that house
and get your things. You have five minutes. Then I am
going to take you to the bus station and you are going to
get on a bus. Where do you really live?"
"Lobatse," said the Daddy. "But I don't like it down
there."
"Well," said Mma Ramotswe. "Maybe if you started doing
something instead of just sitting in a chair you might
like it a bit more. There are lots of melons to grow down
there. How about that, for a start?'
The Daddy looked miserable.
"Inside!" she ordered. "Four minutes left now!"
When Happy Bapetsi returned home she found the Daddy gone
and his room cleared out. There was a note from Mma
Ramotswe on the kitchen table, which she read, and as she
did so, her smile returned.