“But still with us,” said Mma Ramotswe, softly, thinking of her father, that great man, that fine judge of cattle. He was still with her, and no matter how many years passed, he would still be there.
“Yes,” agreed Calviniah. “They are.”
Neither said anything for a few moments. Their table was shaded by the spreading branches of a tree, a large umbrella thorn. In the foliage above them, a fluttering of wings gave away the presence of a pair of Cape doves, lovers of course, engaged in the flattery of courting birds, the puffed-up feathers, the soft cooing, the turning away of the female in the face of the male’s wanted-but-unwanted advances. A feather drifted down, dancing through the air, and Mma Ramotswe smiled. “They’re very happy up there,” she said.
“They don’t have our problems,” said Calviniah. “They don’t need to worry.”
“Do we?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
They took their time to finish their lunch. There was still much to talk about, and much to laugh over too. The waitress returned, casting a disapproving eye over the empty plate on which Mma Ramotswe’s chips had been.
Noticing the direction of the waitress’s gaze, Mma Ramotswe said, “They were very good, Mma. Thank you.”
Calviniah smiled. “I ate some of them,” she said to the waitress. “I wouldn’t want you to think that Mma Ramotswe ate them all herself.”
The waitress looked pained. “It is not my business to tell people what to eat,” she said. “If they wish to eat things that are not good for them, then that is their business, Mma, not mine.”
She took the plates away. Calviniah looked at Mma Ramotswe. “There are many people around telling us what is good for us,” she said. “Don’t do this, don’t do that. Who do they think they are, Mma? The government?”
“They mean well,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Calviniah snorted. “But what about them? Who tells them what to do?”
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “I don’t know, Mma. But isn’t it a good sign, don’t you think? Isn’t it a good sign that people worry about other people? That they want other people to be careful?”
Calviniah agreed, but only reluctantly. “We are not children, Mma. We don’t like to be told: Don’t do this thing, don’t do that thing. Not all the time.”
“Perhaps not.”
“It would be better,” Calviniah continued, “if they said to us: here is some advice, but it is your life and you must decide yourself. They could even not tell us directly, but leave the advice lying about on tables, perhaps, Mma. Booklets and so on. With Good Advice for You from the Government printed on the front—so that we know. That might be better, I think, Mma Ramotswe.”
“Perhaps,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Calviniah looked thoughtful. “Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to do, isn’t it? How can we tell what is right? That’s the question, I think, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe looked up into the branches of the tree. How could we tell? How could we?
The sun filtered down through the canopy of acacia. Above its delicate, spreading branches was the sky, which went on forever, it seemed, into a thin, singing blue. Nothingness, just air. How could we tell what we had to do, because we were very small, really, and our feet were stuck on the ground, and we could not see very far? And then the answer came. It had been there all along, of course, and she had always known it: we knew what we had to do because there were all those people, our ancestors, who had faced exactly the same problems as confronted us, and who had worked out what was the right thing to do. We only had to listen. We only had to close our eyes and wait for their voices to come to us on the wind, perhaps, or in the stillness of the night. That was all we had to do.
“Oh,” Calviniah said suddenly. “There’s somebody else I’ve remembered.”
Mma Ramotswe waited.
“Poppy,” she said. “Remember her? She was in our class too. The one who went off to Francistown and became rich because she had that big store? Remember her?”
Mma Ramotswe did. She had forgotten about Poppy, but now she came back to her. They had all liked Poppy, and when they heard of her good fortune, people had been pleased rather than envious.
“Well,” said Calviniah. “She has no money any more. Gone.”
“Oh?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Where?”
“Who knows?” replied Calviniah. “I don’t, I’m afraid.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Well, I have my suspicions. I don’t think she will be very happy.”
Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. She hated hearing about the unhappiness of others. There was so little time in life, so little, and yet there were so many who were obliged to spend those precious few years we had on this earth in unhappiness.
“Not that she has to be unhappy,” Calviniah continued. “You can lose all your money and still be happy.”
“And you might not have any in the first place,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “There are many people who do not have any money at all, Mma, and yet are happy with the world.”
Calviniah agreed. “That’s true enough, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe looked up. “You have your suspicions? You said you have your suspicions? Tell me about them, Mma.”
CHAPTER FIVE
AT THE HAPPY CHICKEN CAF
THAT EVENING, Charlie met Queenie-Queenie at the Happy Chicken Caf. This was a small restaurant in a cluster of shops not far from the old Standard Bank; its sign had suffered the loss of a final e, and the accidentally shortened name had stuck. It had been a favourite haunt of Charlie’s for some months, although its prices were, he thought, a bit on the steep side. In fact, Charlie was rarely in a position to buy a piece of chicken, restricting himself to the occasional free meal, given to him by Pearly, the restaurant’s owner, a woman who was vaguely related to his mother. Pearly had a soft spot for Charlie, and recognised that according to the rules of the old Botswana morality, as an older relative she had at least some responsibility for him. That was how it was: nobody was left alone, unrelated, and uncared for—somewhere, in the vast tangle of human relationships, everybody could say to at least someone: I am one of your people.
Of course, the operation of this system of solidarity was not always simple. While there might be one person who recognised your claim, there might equally be another—sometimes in a position of authority—for whom the claim meant little or nothing. In this case, the doubter was Mr. Potso, the chef who fried the chicken, a thick-set man with only one eye, who was Pearly’s lover, and who resented Charlie’s claims on her.