“Yes,” she said. “You are doing very well, Charlie.”
His smile broadened. “You are like my mother, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. And then, becoming aware of Mma Makutsi’s gaze upon him, he added, “And you, Mma Makutsi, you are like my auntie.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi—a bit primly, thought Mma Ramotswe, but then he had described her as his aunt, and aunts, of all people, could be allowed to be prim.
But Mma Ramotswe thought: this young man is not yet there. She was not quite sure where there was, but it was the place that he wanted to get to, a place where he would not be poor, where he would be able to feel proud of himself, a place where he would be something. He might get there, but it would be something of a miracle if he did, given the odds stacked against him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MMA BOKO DISAPPROVES
MMA BOKO LOOKED at Mma Ramotswe over a pair of tortoiseshell half-moon glasses.
“I like your glasses, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Boko removed them self-consciously. She giggled. “They are just for reading, Mma. You know how it is? They are printing everything much smaller these days. All the time they are making it smaller.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Or our eyes are changing, Mma. They are becoming tired and they think, This is much smaller now.”
Mma Boko replaced her glasses. “There are many things I am happy not to see,” she said. “When I look around town these days, I see many things that I think should not be there—many things that I do not like.”
Mma Ramotswe knew what she meant. “Oh, you are right, Mma—you are very right. There are things that you would never have seen in the past.” And there were things that you would have seen in the past that you would never see today—and thank heavens for that. There had been cruelties and injustices that would never be tolerated today.
But that was not what interested Mma Boko; disapproval is less effort than approval, and, for those who disapprove, twice as satisfying.
“I’ll give you an example, Mma,” said Mma Boko. “I’ll give you an example of something that will shock you.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She wanted to tell Mma Boko that nothing would shock her, as in her profession she had seen just about everything. But then she realised that she had not; the bad behaviour with which the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was concerned was not really all that bad. They saw selfishness and greed; they saw infidelity and other forms of disloyalty; they saw vanity, and its cousin, insecurity. They did not see the major cruelties, nor the great frauds and dishonesties.
“Tell me, Mma,” she said.
Mma Boko drew in her breath. “You know that place?” she began.
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “What place, Mma? There are many places.”
Mma Boko waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the Tlokweng Road. “That place they call River-something. That place where there are shops.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I know the shops. I go there for groceries. That supermarket—”
Mma Boko raised a finger. “That supermarket, Mma—yes, right there. I was there with my friend Mma Magadi—you’ll know her, I think.”
Again, Mma Ramotswe frowned. Mma Magadi? Somewhere in the back of her memory, the name chimed with something. But that was the problem: so many names chimed with something, and yet it was impossible to establish what that something was. “I’m not sure, Mma,” she replied. “The name is a bit familiar, but…but, I’m not sure.”
* * *
—
HER HESITATION was in part occasioned by a concern that denying knowledge of somebody might give offence. Mma Ramotswe was reasonably well known in Gaborone—not because she had courted prominence in any way, but because people drove past her business sign on the Tlokweng Road (one could hardly miss it) and they were naturally curious as to who these No. 1 detective ladies might be. And then there had been the occasional article in the paper, including one entitled THE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MOST INFLUENTIAL WOMEN IN BOTSWANA (PART ONE). When Mma Makutsi had spotted that one morning as they were drinking tea in the office, she had let out a whoop of delight. “Look, Mma!” she exclaimed. “Look! We are in the list of…” She consulted the article. “The one hundred and fifty most influential women in the world.”
Mma Ramotswe had peered over Mma Makutsi’s shoulder. “In Botswana, Mma,” she had corrected her.
“Yes, that’s what I said, Mma. The one hundred and fifty most influential women in Botswana.”
Mma Ramotswe had not pressed the point, but as her eye ran down the columns in the double-page spread, she realised that there were several reasons why Mma Makutsi’s delight might soon turn sour.
Mma Makutsi pointed to a line in the article. “There it is, Mma. Number ninety-seven. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency…” She trailed off.
“They always get these things wrong, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said hurriedly. “I’m sure that they meant to mention you too.”
“Ninety-seven,” muttered Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe swallowed hard. That was doubly unfortunate. If anybody had the right to the number ninety-seven, then it was Mma Makutsi, with her unassailable claim to have climbed to the heights of ninety-seven in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College. And yet here it was on the printed page: Number Ninety-Seven, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is the creation of Precious Ramotswe, Mochudi-born private investigator and solver of those oh-so-difficult mysteries! Move over, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and let the lady from the Tlokweng Road get to the bottom of things!
Mma Ramotswe was immediately apologetic. “These journalists,” she expostulated. “They are always getting things wrong! Making things up! Writing such nonsense about things they know nothing about.” She paused, dismayed at the only-too-apparent failure of her words to pour the necessary oil on these troubled waters. “And here they are—forgetting to write about you, when they must have meant to include you.”
No, Mma Makutsi was not to be that easily pacified. “There is no mention of me,” she said. “I am clearly a person with no influence.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that, Mma. This is a ridiculous piece of nonsense. They make these things up to fill the pages when there is no news—when the politicians have all gone back to their villages and nobody is saying anything for the newspapers to write about.” She watched Mma Makutsi, who remained unconvinced.
“Look,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “This list is no use at all, Mma. Who is one of the most influential ladies we know? It is Mma Potokwane, without any doubt at all. But is she in this list? Do we see her name here? No, we do not.”