The teacher sighed. Spilled milk was spilled milk. “But there is still a problem of children who are half asleep in the morning.”
At least that would not be a problem for Puso and Motholeli, Mma Ramotswe thought. And despite all their protests, when it came to eight-thirty they tended to be so tired anyway that they fell fast asleep within a few minutes of their light being switched off. That meant that she could busy herself with making dinner for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who sometimes did not arrive home from the garage until just before eight.
That evening she had prepared a stew for him, served with a generous helping of pumpkin. That was his favourite meal, and she made sure that she served it at least twice a week. You could not give a man too much meat, she believed, although Mma Makutsi had recently drawn her attention to an article in the press that seemed to contradict that traditional Botswana wisdom.
“They’re saying that you should have red meat only once a week,” Mma Makutsi warned. “I have read about this, Mma. They say that you shouldn’t eat red meat more than once a week.”
Mma Ramotswe had listened carefully, but this went against everything she, and a whole generation of Botswana women, had had instilled in them by their mothers. “I don’t think they can be talking about Botswana,” she said, once Mma Makutsi had finished. “I think that advice is for Americans. Over there I think they should not eat too much meat—it’s different here, Mma. We have always liked meat.”
“The Americans like meat too,” said Mma Makutsi. “They are always eating hamburgers, Mma. All the time.”
“Well, that must be the reason for those articles, Mma. It is because the Americans are eating too many hamburgers. They are being told not to eat so many. We do not eat hamburgers—we like steak. That is different, Mma. That is well known.”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, Mma, you are wrong there. This is advice from the United Nations. It is for all people, not just Americans. They are saying: do not eat too much red meat. That is what they are saying.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “But we cannot stop feeding men meat. They will be very angry if we do that. They will say, ‘Where is our meat, then?’ ” She paused. “And there is another thing I can tell you, Mma Makutsi. If you stop giving your husband good Botswana beef, you know what happens? Men are weak, Mma. They will go to some other lady who will say, ‘I will cook you lots of meat.’ That is what will happen. Even a very mild man is capable of doing that, Mma.”
The discussion with Mma Makutsi had not changed her view that if a man liked to eat meat, then you would have to be gentle in getting him to change his views. You should not say, “No more meat!” as some people argued you should do. Rather, you should work at it slowly, showing him that there were many other delicious meals he might enjoy. There were all sorts of pasta—the supermarket where she did her shopping was full of these things, and there were any number of sauces you could add. And then, when you served meat you might cut down on the size of the servings in such a way that the man might not notice—until it was too late. Then, when only a sliver of beef appeared on his plate, you might say, “Is it worth bothering with such a thin piece of meat?” and answer your own question firmly, saying, “No, it would be simpler if we had just the vegetables,” and then change the subject quickly so that he would have no time to argue the point. And the next day would be a day for pasta, with no sign of beef in the sauce, but with plenty of tomatoes, which, being red, were of a colour that men tended to like.
That night, though, dinner was composed of beef and pumpkin, even if there was less beef than usual, and rather more pumpkin. As they sat down to the meal, Mma Ramotswe said grace, which she sometimes missed when the children were not at the table.
“We think of our brothers and sisters who have nothing,” she said. “We think of people who have lost what little they have. We think of those who go to bed hungry tonight. Let us not forget those brothers and sisters as we sit down to our meal.”
She had been looking down at her plate as she spoke the grace, and now she looked up as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni raised his eyes and muttered, “Amen.” Then he said, “Those are good words, Mma. It is good to think of those who are not as fortunate as we are.”
“It is, Rra,” she said. “We need to remind ourselves from time to time of our good fortune.”
“And think of the many men who do not get much meat,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, looking down at his plate.
Mma Ramotswe was silent at first, but then she said, “This is very good pumpkin, Rra. It was the best they had in the supermarket. The biggest, I think. There was enough for three days.”
“It’s these agricultural scientists,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “They’re developing new varieties of pumpkins all the time.”
Normally, she might have replied to that. Pumpkins were a subject of some interest to her, but that evening her own words, the words of the grace she had uttered just a few moments ago, came back to her. We think of our brothers and sisters…She thought of Calviniah, and of their conversation over lunch, under that tree, with the doves in its branches. Our brothers and sisters…There were some people who laughed at religion, who said it was all about nothing, a nonsense dreamed up by the superstitious and the fearful, but that, really, was what it was about. It was about love and friendship rather than about selfishness and suffering. Calviniah, an old friend, was her sister; just as much as her half-sister down in Lobatse, or Mma Makutsi, or the woman who sold oranges on the roadside outside Tlokweng, or the woman who read the news on Botswana television, the woman who was far too thin by traditional Botswana standards, but who had a very pretty face that made men get up close to the television to see more of it. All of these people, known and unknown, obscure and renowned, were her sisters. And their brothers were her brothers too: the man you saw outside the Princess Marina Hospital, who had pustules all over his skin, the man who stood guard in the supermarket to stop people from sampling the food as they pushed their trolleys down the aisles, the prisoner she had seen staring despondently out of the police truck as he was taken to the magistrates’ court for sentencing—all of these were her brothers, with all that brotherhood entailed.
She sighed. It was hard sometimes, because some of the people who were meant to be your brothers and sisters were difficult people, dirty in some cases, selfish and calculating in others, even smelly, but they were still your brothers and had to be treated as such. There were no exceptions; you were not told, You must love your neighbour—provided, of course, that he is presentable and not too noisy and does not drink or smell or wipe his nose on his sleeve…You were told, You must love your neighbour. And then, just as you managed that, you were given the even more difficult instruction, You must love your enemies. That was a hurdle at which many people fell, because one thing was always abundantly clear: your enemies did not love you. But you had to grit your teeth and love them, even if your enemy was somebody like Violet Sephotho, with her husband-stealing and her nakedly self-centred ambitions. If she were to go to Trevor Mwamba himself, who had been the Bishop of Botswana, and say to him, “Do I really have to love Violet Sephotho?” he would incline his head and say, “I’m afraid you must, Precious.” And she would do it for Bishop Mwamba, she would try to love even Violet, although she would not pretend it would be easy. At the same time, of course, that might be just too much of a request to make of Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe would not like to have to say to her, “Violet Sephotho is your sister, Mma,” because the reaction she should expect would not be a positive one.