His greeting was polite, in spite of his stern expression. Following the old Botswana custom, he enquired about her health and whether she had slept well. On both of these matters, she gave a positive report.
“So, Mma, what are you doing with your van?”
He gestured to the van, which looked distinctly out of place among the opulent vehicles on either side of it.
“I am parking it, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe replied. She hesitated. She did not want a confrontation with somebody described as a security consultant, but in her experience a firm response to officialdom could set a more positive tone for any subsequent encounter. This was a parking place—there was a notice that made that clear—and she had availed herself of it. There was nothing to say that only important people, or expensive modern cars, could use this space. This was a small square of Botswana, and she was a citizen of Botswana. Her van, although old and small, was a duly licensed Botswana car that had the same rights as any vehicle.
The security consultant continued to look at her over the top of his spectacles. “I can see that you have parked, Mma. I can see that.”
Mma Ramotswe waited.
“Why have you parked here?” he asked.
“I have come to speak to somebody in the sorting office,” she said, nodding in the direction of the building’s front door.
He frowned. “Who is this person, Mma? And what is it about?”
“It is a personal matter,” she replied, and knew immediately that this, although the truthful answer, was the wrong one to have given.
The guard’s frown deepened. “It is not possible to talk to people here about personal matters,” he said. “It is not allowed. You must go away.”
Mma Ramotswe studied his uniform. The buttons, which were cast in brass, had the symbol of a diamond incised on them. The shirt, buttoned down at the collar, had been impeccably starched.
“I must say that your uniform is very smart, Captain.”
The effect of this was instantaneous, just as she thought it would be. It was her practice, developed over years of experience of dealing with people who occupied junior rungs in any hierarchy, to promote the holder with a rank above that which they held or were ever likely to have held. Thus a sergeant of police, immediately and unambiguously distinguishable by the chevrons of his office, became a sub-inspector or even a full inspector, while an inspector became a superintendent. Even those at heady levels—those who were real superintendents—were susceptible to the tactic, and could be seen to swell visibly when addressed as Deputy Commissioner. Flattery, perhaps, but there was a wrong sort of flattery and a right sort, and this was the latter because it gave somebody a boost and it was always deployed for a good reason—not to curry favour, but to help a good cause. And the good cause in this case was clear enough: a mother wanted her daughter back from a puzzling and needless estrangement that had sprung up between them; what could be more defensible than that?
Captain! A smile played about the security guard’s lips—a smile of pleasure rather than bemusement. Here was one who might be to the outside world a mere security consultant, but who, in his inner heart, was on the frontline of a worldwide battle against the forces of disorder and chaos. Those forces were ubiquitous and cunning; they took no hostages and struck in a way that was as underhand as they were ruthless. Ranged against them were men and women in a rainbow array of uniforms, each battling in his or her particular way a common enemy: people who challenged the accepted order in ways small and large. Here was one of them—a person who thought she could park in a dedicated parking place as casually as if she were by some roadside in a dusty village in the back of beyond, and who then explained that she wanted to talk to some employee about a purely personal matter. And what would that be?, he wondered. An arrangement for a wedding, perhaps, or for a church bazaar—something as petty and inconsequential as that. Really! That was the trouble with some people: they loved talking at great length about these small things, and all the while, elsewhere, people were working hard without any of these silly discussions. How could people complain if all the strides that were being taken in so many fields were being taken in places where wasting time like this was not permitted, where nobody parked where they shouldn’t?
Those were the thoughts that crossed his mind, and yet this was a traditionally minded Botswana woman of well-kept appearance and respectful demeanour. And she had called him “Captain,” which was the rank that he should really have held if the diamond authorities had given proper thought to the matter. She clearly understood how demanding his job was, and how vital. He could not be severe with her; firm, yes, but not severe. She was a sort of auntie, really, and he would treat her with the courtesy with which an auntie should be treated.
The instruction to go away was rescinded. “I’m sorry, Mma, I didn’t mean that you should go away right now—I did not mean that.”
Mma Ramotswe was gracious. “I could tell that you didn’t, Rra. I could see that you were not the sort of officer to tell a lady to go away just like that when all she wanted to do was to speak to somebody.”
Officer! He had served for four years in the Botswana Defence Force and knew that the term officer should not be used lightly. He had been promoted to corporal and had served honourably in that role in the days when that great man, General Khama, had been there, and the general had once singled him out for praise. He had said, “That NCO is doing good work,” and the reference had been to him; there was no doubt about that because the general had been pointing at him as he spoke the words. His platoon commander had heard them, and nodded in his direction—a nod of encouragement and congratulation. That was not the sort of thing one easily forgets. That NCO is doing good work.
“No, Mma, I did not mean go away right now. I meant you cannot stay there, but you need not go immediately.”
“Thank you, Rra. And can I speak to the person I want to speak to?”
That was another matter—not one in which discretion could be exercised. “That is more difficult, Mma. They…” He cast his eyes up towards the top floor of the building, where dwelt the senior management. “They don’t allow that, Mma. This building, you see, is very secure. Even now they are watching us with their cameras. All the time, there are people watching, watching.”
“They have to be careful,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If nobody was watching, then what would happen? There would be people coming around all the time hoping to pick up a few diamonds.”
He nodded his agreement. “Exactly, Mma. That is why we have these rules.” He paused. “Could you tell me who this person is? Perhaps I could leave a note for him.”
“It is a her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Her name is Nametso. She is one of the sorters. She is the daughter of an old friend of mine, Calviniah, from the old days in Mochudi.”