Kalahari Typing School for Men

Acclaim for Alexander McCall Smith and

THE KALAHARI TYPING SCHOOL FOR MEN

“The Kalahari Typing School for Men [is] simply charming in the extreme. … an oasis in a genre that too often seems a desert of violence and inhumanity.”

—
Chicago Sun-Times

“Beguiling. … Alexander McCall Smith’s prose is deceptively simple, with a gift for evoking the earth and sky of Africa.”

—
The Seattle Times

“Get our hands on one of the mysteries from The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series. … Each book is a thinly disguised love letter. … to the people and culture of Southern Africa. A great escape.”

—
Elle

“What a treat to discover. … utterly charming. … [
Kalahari
] brims with good humor and compassion.”

—
Entertainment Weekly

“A side of Africa too rarely see on the news, and Smith’s old-fashioned story telling gifts make Precious a treasure.”

—
People

“Charming.”

—
Newsday

“[Precious Ramotswe’s] heart and moxie have captivated readers worldwide.”

—
Associated Press

“What with the touching flashbacks to Mma Ramotswe’s younger days and the rich supporting cast of friends, associates and unexpectedly acquired foster children, Mr. McCall Smith’s saga is evolving into a tapestry of extraordinary nuance and richness.”

—
The Wall Street Journal

“As always in Alexander McCall Smith’s gentle celebrations of life in this arid patch of Southern Africa, the best moments are the smallest.”

—
The New York Times

“Characters who are as adept as they are appealing—people who are as familiar as neighbors and as welcome as the best of friends— and who, though steady in their beliefs and devotions, will still constantly surprise and amaze.”

—
Chicago Tribune

“As refreshing as a cup of bush tea under the wide African skies.”

—
Boston Herald

“Engaging.”

—
The Washington Post

“McCall Smith’s books are closer to being moral fables, fascinating explorations of guilt and conscience and reparation and atonement. … [Mme Ramotswe’s] cleaverness lies in her way of resolving the situations that arise to the satisfaction of all parties. I can’t even begin to say how profoundly satsifying this makes the books.”

—
The Vancouver Sun

Alexander McCall Smith

THE KALAHARI TYPING SCHOOL FOR MEN

Alexander McCall Smith is a professor of medical law at Edinburgh University. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He is the author of more than fifty books: novels, stories, children’s books, and specialized titles such as
Forensic Aspects of Sleep
. He lives in Scotland.

IN THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY SERIES
BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH

The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men

I
MUST REMEMBER
, thought Mma Ramotswe, how fortunate I am in this life; at every moment, but especially now, sitting on the verandah of my house in Zebra Drive, and looking up at the high sky of Botswana, so empty that the blue is almost white. Here she was then, Precious Ramotswe, owner of Botswana’s only detective agency, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency—an agency which by and large had lived up to its initial promise to provide satisfaction for its clients, although some of them, it must be said, could never be satisfied. And here she was too, somewhere in her late thirties, which as far as she was concerned was the very finest age to be; here she was with the house in Zebra Drive and two orphan children, a boy and a girl, bringing life and chatter into the home. These were blessings with which anybody should be content. With these things in one’s life, one might well say that nothing more was needed.

But there was more. Some time ago, Mma Ramotswe had become engaged to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and by all accounts the finest mechanic in Botswana, a kind man, and a gentle one. Mma Ramotswe had been married once before, and the experience had been disastrous. Note Mokoti, the smartly dressed jazz trumpeter, might have been a young girl’s dream, but he soon turned out to be a wife’s nightmare. There had been a daily diet of cruelty, of hurt given out like a ration, and when, after her fretful pregnancy, their tiny, premature baby had died in her arms, so few hours after it had struggled into life, Note had been off drinking in a shebeen somewhere. He had not even come to say good-bye to the little scrap of humanity that had meant so much to her and so little to him. When at last she left Note, Mma Ramotswe would never forget how her father, Obed Ramotswe, whom even today she called the Daddy, had welcomed her back and had said nothing about her husband, not once saying
I knew this would happen
. And from that time she had decided that she would never again marry unless—and this was surely impossible—she met a man who could live up to the memory of the late Daddy, that fine man whom everybody respected for his knowledge of cattle and for his understanding of the old Botswana ways.

Naturally there had been offers. Her old friend Hector Mapon dise had regularly asked her to marry him, and although she had just as regularly declined, he had always taken her refusals in good spirit, as befitted a man of his status (he was a cousin of a prominent chief). He would have made a perfectly good husband, but the problem was that he was rather dull and, try as she might, Mma Ramotswe could scarcely prevent herself from nodding off in his company. It would be very difficult being married to him; a somnolent experience, in fact, and Mma Ramotswe renjoyed life too much to want to sleep through it. Whenever she
saw Hector Mapondise driving past in his large green car, or walking to the post office to collect his mail, she remembered the occasion on which he had taken her to lunch at the President Hotel and she had fallen asleep at the table, halfway through the meal. It had given a new meaning, she reflected, to the expression
sleeping with a man
. She had woken, slumped back in her chair, to see him staring at her with his slightly rheumy eyes, still talking in his low voice about some difficulty he was having with one of the machines at his factory.

“Corrugated iron is not easy to handle,” he was saying. “You need very special machines to push the iron into that shape. Do you know that, Mma Ramotswe? Do you know why corrugated iron is the shape it is?”

Mma Ramotswe had not thought about this. Corrugated iron was widely used for roofing: was it, then, something to do with providing ridges for the rain to run off? But why would that be necessary in a dry country like Botswana? There must be some other reason, she imagined, although it was not immediately apparent to her. The thought of it, however, made her feel drowsy again, and she struggled to keep her eyes open.

No, Hector Mapondise was a worthy man, but far too dull. He should seek out a dull woman, of whom there were legions throughout the country, women who were slow-moving and not very exciting, and he should marry one of these bovine ladies. But the problem was that dull men often had no interest in such women and fell for people like Mma Ramotswe. That was the trouble with people in general: they were surprisingly unrealistic in their expectations. Mma Ramotswe smiled at the thought, remembering how, as a young woman, she had had a very tall friend who had been loved by an extremely short man. The short man looked up at the face of his beloved, from almost below her waist, and she looked down at him, almost squinting over the distance
that separated them. That distance could have been one thousand miles or more—the breadth of the Kalahari and back; but the short man was not to realise that, and was to desist, heart-sore, only when the tall girl’s equally tall brother stooped down to look into his eyes and told him that he was no longer to look at his sister, even from a distance, or he would face some dire, unexpressed consequence. Mma Ramotswe felt sorry for the short man, of course, as she could never find it in herself to dismiss the feelings of others; he should have realised how impossible were his ambitions, but people never did.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was a very good man, but, unlike Hector Mapondise, he could not be described as dull. That was not to say that he was exciting, in the way in which Note had seemed exciting; he was just easy company. You could sit with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for hours, during which he might say nothing very important, but what he said was never tedious. Certainly he talked about cars a great deal, as most men did, but what he had to say about them was very much more interesting than what other men had to say on the subject. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni regarded cars as having personalities, and he could tell just by looking at a car what sort of owner it had.