A Great Sadness among the Cars of Botswana
Precious Ramotswe was sitting at her desk at the No. 1
Ladies' Detective Agency in Gaborone. From where she sat
she could gaze out of the window, out beyond the acacia
trees, over the grass and the scrub bush, to the hills in
their blue haze of heat. It was such a noble country, and
so wide, stretching for mile upon mile to brown horizons
at the very edge of Africa. It was late summer, and there
had been good rains that year. This was important, as good
rains meant productive fields, and productive fields meant
large, ripened pumpkins of the sort that traditionally
built ladies like Mma Ramotswe so enjoyed eating. The
yellow flesh of a pumpkin or a squash, boiled and then
softened with a lump of butter (if one's budget stretched
to that), was one of God's greatest gifts to Botswana. And
it tasted so good, too, with a slice of fine Botswana
beef, dripping in gravy.
Oh yes, God had given a great deal to Botswana, as she had
been told all those years ago at Sunday school in
Mochudi. "Write a list of Botswana's heavenly blessings,"
the teacher had said. And the young Mma Ramotswe, chewing
on the end of her indelible pencil, and feeling the sun
bearing down on the tin roof of the Sunday school, heat so
insistent that the tin creaked in protest against its
restraining bolts, had written: (1) the land; (2) the
people who live on the land; (3) the animals, and
specially the fat cattle. She had stopped at that, but,
after a pause, had added: (4) the railway line from
Lobatse to Francistown. This list, once submitted for
approval, had come back with a large blue tick after each
item, andthe comment written in: Well done, Precious! You
are a sensible girl. You have correctly shown why Botswana
is a fortunate country.
And this was quite true. Mma Ramotswe was indeed a
sensible person and Botswana was a fortunate country. When
Botswana had become independent all those years ago, on
that heart-stilling night when the fireworks failed to be
lit on time, and when the dusty wind had seemed to augur
only ill, there had been so little. There were only three
secondary schools for the whole country, a few clinics,
and a measly eight miles of tarred road. That was all. But
was it? Surely there was a great deal more than that.
There was a country so large that the land seemed to have
no limits; there was a sky so wide and so free that the
spirit could rise and soar and not feel in the least
constrained; and there were the people, the quiet, patient
people, who had survived in this land, and who loved it.
Their tenacity was rewarded, because underneath the land
there were the diamonds, and the cattle prospered, and
brick by brick the people built a country of which anybody
could be proud. That was what Botswana had, and that is
why it was a fortunate country.
Mma Ramotswe had founded the No. 1 Ladies' Detective
Agency by selling the cattle left her by her father, Obed
Ramotswe, a good man whom everybody respected. And for
this reason she made sure that his picture was on the
office wall, alongside, but slightly lower than, the
picture of the late President of Botswana, Sir Seretse
Khama, paramount chief of the Bangwato, founding president
of Botswana, and gentleman. The last of these attributes
was perhaps the most important in Mma Ramotswe's eyes. A
man could be a hereditary ruler, or an elected president,
but not be a gentleman, and that would show in his every
deed. But if you had a leader who was a gentleman, with
all that this meant, then you were lucky indeed. And
Botswana had been very lucky in that respect, because all
three of her presidents had been good men, gentlemen, who
were modest in their bearing, as a gentleman should be.
One day, perhaps, a woman might become president, and Mma
Ramotswe thought that this would be even better, provided,
of course, that the lady in question had the right
qualities of modesty and caution. Not all ladies had those
qualities, Mma Ramotswe reflected; some of them being
quite conspicuously lacking in that respect.
Take that woman who was always on the radio-a political
woman who was always telling people what to do. She had an
irritating voice, like that of a jackal, and a habit of
flirting with men in a shameless way, provided that the
men in question could do something to advance her career.
If they could not, then they were ignored. Mma Ramotswe
had seen this happening; she had seen her ignoring the
Bishop at a public function, in order to talk to an
important government minister who might put in a good word
for her in the right place. It had been transparent.
Bishop Theophilus had opened his mouth to say something
about the rain and she had said, "Yes, Bishop, yes. Rain
is very important." But even as she spoke, she was looking
in the direction of the minister, and smiling at him.
After a few minutes, she had slipped away, leaving the
Bishop behind, and sidled up to the minister to whisper
something to him. Mma Ramotswe, who had watched the whole
thing, was in no doubt about what that something had been,
for she knew women of this sort and there were many of
them. So they would have to be careful before choosing a
woman as president. It would have to be the right sort of
woman; a woman who knew what hard work was and what it was
like to bear half the world upon your shoulders.
On that day, sitting at her desk, Mma Ramotswe allowed her
thoughts to wander. There was nothing in particular to do.
There were no outstanding matters to investigate, as she
had just completed a major enquiry on behalf of a large
store that suspected, but could not prove, that one of its
senior staff was embezzling money. Its accountants had
looked at the books and had found discrepancies, but had
been unable to find how and where the money had
disappeared. In his frustration at the continuing losses,
the managing director had called in Mma Ramotswe, who had
compiled a list of all the senior staff and had decided to
look into their circumstances. If money was disappearing,
then there was every likelihood that somebody at the other
end would be spending it. And this elementary conclusion-
so obvious really-had led her straight to the culprit. It
was not that he had advertised his ill-gotten wealth; Mma
Ramotswe had been obliged to elicit this information by
placing temptation before each suspect. At length, one had
succumbed to the prospect of an expensive bargain and had
been able to offer payment in cash-a sum beyond the means
of a person in such a position. It was not the sort of
investigation which she enjoyed, because it involved
recrimination and shame, and Mma Ramotswe preferred to
forgive, if at all possible. "I am a forgiving lady," she
said, which was true. She did forgive, even to the extent
of bearing no grudge against Note Mokoti, her cruel former
husband, who had caused her such suffering during their
brief, ill-starred marriage. She had forgiven Note, even
though she did not see him any more, and she would tell
him that he was forgiven if he came to her now. Why, she
asked herself, why keep a wound open when forgiveness can
close it?
Her unhappiness with Note had convinced her that she would
never marry again. But then, on that extraordinary evening
some time ago, when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had proposed to her
after he had spent all afternoon fixing the dispirited
engine of her tiny white van, she had accepted him. And
that was the right decision, for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was
not only the best mechanic in Botswana, but he was one of
the kindest and most gracious of men. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
would do anything for one who needed help, and, in a world
of increasing dishonesty, he still practised the old
Botswana morality. He was a good man, which, when all is
said and done, is the finest thing that you can say about
any man. He was a good man.
It was strange at first to be an engaged lady; a status
somewhere between spinsterhood and marriage; committed to
another, but not yet another's spouse. Mma Ramotswe had
imagined that they would marry within six months of the
engagement, but that time had passed, and more, and still
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said nothing about a wedding.
Certainly he had bought her a ring and had spoken freely,
and proudly, of her as his fiancée, but nothing had been
said about the date of the wedding. She still kept her
house in Zebra Drive, and he lived in his house in the
Village, near the old Botswana Defence Force Club and the
clinic, and not far from the old graveyard. Some people,
of course, did not like to live too close to a graveyard,
but modern people, like Mma Ramotswe, said that this was
nonsense. Indeed, there were many differences of opinion
here. The people who lived around Tlokweng, the Batlokwa,
had a custom of burying their ancestors in a small, mud-
walled round house, a rondavel, in the yard. This meant
that those members of the family who died were always
there with you, which was a good practice, thought Mma
Ramotswe. If a mother died, then she might be buried under
the hut of the children, so that her spirit could watch
over them. That must have been comforting for children,
thought Mma Ramotswe, to have the mother under the stamped
cattle-dung floor.
There were many good things about the old ways, and it
made Mma Ramotswe sad to think that some of these ways
were dying out. Botswana had been a special country, and
still was, but it had been more special in the days when
everybody-or almost everybody-observed the old Botswana
ways. The modern world was selfish, and full of cold and
rude people. Botswana had never been like that, and Mma
Ramotswe was determined that her small corner of Botswana,
which was the house on Zebra Drive, and the office that
the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency and Tlokweng Road
Speedy Motors shared, would always remain part of the old
Botswana, where people greeted one another politely and
listened to what others had to say, and did not shout or
think just of themselves. That would never happen in that
little part of Botswana, ever.
That morning, sitting at her desk, a steaming mug of bush
tea before her, Mma Ramotswe was alone with her thoughts.
It was nine o'clock, which was well into the working
morning (which started at seven-thirty), but Mma Makutsi,
her assistant, had been instructed to go to the post
office on her way to work and would not arrive for a
little while yet. Mma Makutsi had been hired as a
secretary, but had quickly proved her value and had been
promoted to assistant detective. In addition to this, she
was Assistant Manager of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, a
role which she had taken on with conspicuous success when
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been ill. Mma Ramotswe was lucky to
have such an assistant; there were many lazy secretaries
in Gaborone, who sat in the security of their jobs tapping
at a keyboard from time to time or occasionally picking up
the telephone. Most of these lazy secretaries answered the
telephone in the same tone of voice, as if the cares of
being a secretary were overwhelming and there was nothing
that they could possibly do for the caller. Mma Makutsi
was quite unlike these; indeed she answered the telephone
rather too enthusiastically, and had sometimes scared
callers away altogether. But this was a minor fault in one
who brought with her the distinction of being the most
accomplished graduate of her year from the Botswana
Secretarial College, where she had scored ninety-seven per
cent in the final examinations.
As Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk, she heard sounds of
activity from the garage on the other side of the
building. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was at work with his two
apprentices, young men who seemed entirely obsessed with
girls and who were always leaving grease marks about the
building. Around each light switch, in spite of many
exhortations and warnings, there was an area of black
discolouration, where the apprentices had placed their
dirty fingers. And Mma Ramotswe had even found greasy
fingerprints on her telephone receiver and, more
irritatingly still, on the door of the stationery cupboard.
"Mr J.L.B. Matekoni provides towels and all that lint for
wiping off grease," she had said to the older
apprentice. "They are always there in the washroom. When
you have finished working on a car, wash your hands before
you touch other things. What is so hard about that?"
"I always do that," said the apprentice. "It is not fair
to talk to me like that, Mma. I am a very clean mechanic."
"Then is it you?" asked Mma Ramotswe, turning to the
younger apprentice.
"I am very clean too, Mma," he said. "I am always washing
my hands. Always. Always."
"Then it must be me," said Mma Ramotswe. "I must be the
one with greasy hands. It must be me or Mma Makutsi. Maybe
we get greasy from opening letters."
The older apprentice appeared to think about this for a
moment. "Maybe," he said.
"There's very little point in trying to talk to them," Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni had observed when Mma Ramotswe
subsequently told him of this conversation. "There is
something missing in their brains. Sometimes I think it is
a large part, as big as a carburettor maybe."
Now Mma Ramotswe heard the sound of voices coming from the
garage. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was saying something to the
apprentices, and then there came a mumbling sound as one
of the young men answered. Another voice; this time
raised; it was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
Mma Ramotswe listened. They had done something again, and
he was reprimanding them, which was unusual. Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni was a mild man, who did not like conflict, and
always spoke politely. If he felt it necessary to raise
his voice, then it must have been something very annoying
indeed.
"Diesel fuel in an ordinary engine," he said, as he
entered her office, wiping his hands on a large piece of
lint. "Would you believe it, Mma Ramotswe? That . . . that
silly boy, the younger one, put diesel fuel into the tank
of a non-diesel vehicle. Now we have to drain everything
out and try to clean the thing up."