“Here, Mma,” said the waitress. “This one is a strong chair.”
Mma Ramotswe thanked her, but gave her a sideways look at the same time. It was not polite, she thought, for a waitress to suggest to a customer that she might need a chair that was stronger than normal, just because she was traditionally built. That was rude, she began to say to herself, but then stopped. Was it really rude, or was it no more than caution? It was the duty, surely, of a waitress to warn of the weakness of the furniture and fittings when a generously sized person was about to put them under an excessive load. A failure to warn, in such cases, might even be culpable, particularly these days, when it seemed that we were all responsible for the safety of those around us. It was better to warn than to remain silent, although there were discreet and not-so-discreet ways of issuing a warning.
There had been several occasions when Mma Ramotswe’s traditional build had led to difficulty. Perhaps the most embarrassing of these had occurred when she had been visiting Mma Potokwane at the Orphan Farm and had found it necessary to use the small bathroom off the matron’s office. Mma Potokwane was inordinately proud of this bathroom, which had recently been completely refitted and redecorated, and which now boasted a modern toilet in avocado green. Mma Ramotswe had broken the seat of this, although she could not see how it had happened. She had just sat down when the seat had given a loud report, as of cracking plastic, and she had jumped up, frightened and then appalled to see what damage she had done.
Mma Potokwane had been as understanding as one would expect of an experienced matron who had, in her job, seen all the indignities to which humanity was subject. “That is nothing, Mma,” she had reassured her. “The important thing is that you are not hurt.” But then she had added, “I thought they made those things stronger than that. If they still used wood, as they used to, then people would be able to sit down in confidence. Even an elephant wouldn’t break some of those old wooden seats, Mma—even an elephant!”
Mma Ramotswe had taken this well, but had remembered the embarrassment she felt, compounded when, weeks later, on a subsequent visit to her friend, she had seen an Out of Order sign still displayed on the bathroom door.
Now she was seated on a strong chair and the waitress was showing her the menu of that day’s specials. Three main courses were on offer—the Bombay Curry, listed as such but then with Bombay scored out and Mumbai substituted, only to be scored out again by another hand and restored to Bombay. Then there was a vegetable lasagne, offered with green salad, and battered fish accompanied by French fries. Once again, an anonymous hand had amended the menu, the word French being struck through and Botswana written in neatly above.
Mma Ramotswe pointed to the fish. “Botswana fries come with that one, Mma?” she said to the waitress.
The waitress smiled. “All chips are the same, Mma. It does not matter what you call them—they are just potato. Potato, potato, potato—that is all they are.”
“You are right, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Although I think maybe you’d be better having salad,” said the waitress. “I don’t want to tell you what to eat, but maybe salad would be best, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Is there something wrong with the chips, Mma?”
“No,” said the waitress. “There is nothing wrong with them. They are very fresh. We fry them every day, and then we dry them on paper towels so that there is not too much fat. They are very delicious—but they are not for everybody, Mma. That is all I am saying.”
Calviniah intervened. She appeared to know the waitress, and told her that she thought Mma Ramotswe would like fish and chips and that should be what was fetched for her. “I do not think we need to discuss it any further,” she said. “And I will have the same thing—to keep my friend company.”
The two old friends settled down to lunch. There was much ground to cover and they were obliged to compress the years into a few sentences, skating over the details of family events, of work, of home, of parents and siblings and husbands, to give each other a broad picture of what had happened to them since those early years of girlhood in Mochudi. Calviniah had heard about Mma Ramotswe’s marriage to Note Mokoti, although she had never met him. She remembered what people had said about his cruelty. “Men like that, Mma,” she sighed, “are not made for being husbands.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed. “That is very true, Mma. They are not.”
“And yet,” Calviniah continued, “we still marry them because we think we are going to be the one who will change them. We think that other women may have failed, but we will succeed because…well, because we do not think straight at such times—we do not think straight, Mma, when it comes to the heart.” She put a hand on her chest, above her heart, and said, “The heart thinks differently, Mma. That is the problem.”
The waitress arrived with their order. “Here are your chips, Mma,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “Do not feel that you have to finish them. If you would like to leave some, that will be all right.”
Calviniah gave the waitress a discouraging look. “You are very kind, Mma. We shall see about that.” And then to Mma Ramotswe she said, “As you were saying, Mma, after that man, Note…”
“I learned my lesson,” Mma Ramotswe supplied. “I learned to tell the difference between a good man and a…not-so-good man. I met a man called Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, a mechanic.”
Calviniah brightened. “A mechanic, Mma? They make very fine husbands. They are famous for that. If a lady can find a mechanic, then she should not hesitate.”
“I did not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I must tell you, Mma, I had to wait some time before he asked me to marry him. I thought he’d never get around to it, but then eventually he did. And then, after we had become engaged, he took a long, long time to talk about a wedding.”
Calviniah nodded at the familiar story. “We are going to have to change everything,” she said. “In future, it is the women who are going to ask the men to marry them. It is the women who will decide the date and make all the arrangements. In that way, valuable time will not be lost.”
They began their meal. The chips were perfectly cooked, as was the fish.
“And you?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What about your husband, Mma?”
“He is a very good man,” said Calviniah. “He is called Ernest. Sometimes people call him by the nickname Shiny, but I do not like that. He doesn’t seem to mind, but I do.”
“Why have a nickname when you have a perfectly good name already?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“Those are my thoughts too,” said Calviniah. “It is a male thing, I think. Men are always giving one another these names. Ernest has a friend who is called Trousers. I don’t know why they use that name, but that is what they call him. His real name is Thomas, but they call him Trousers. None of them knows why.”