Kalahari Typing School for Men (12 page)

The meeting took place the following Sunday, in a small church near the diamond-sorting building. Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni arrived in good time and had been sitting
there, contemplating the ceiling, for at least twenty minutes before Mma Makutsi arrived.

“Now we are all here,” whispered Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Only his brother, Charlie, is not coming.”

“He’ll be with some girl,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is where he is.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She was watching the congregation coming in, waving discreetly to one or two, and smiling at the children. At last the platform party entered—the minister, dressed in a flowing blue gown, and the choir, also in blue, in whose ranks the apprentice was to be seen, smiling encouragingly at his guests.

There were hymns and prayers, and then the minister rose to speak.

“There are sinners all about us,” he warned. “They are wearing ordinary clothes, and they walk and talk like any other person. But their hearts are full of sin, and they are plotting more sin as we sit here.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni glanced at Mma Ramotswe. Was his heart full of sin? Was hers?

“Fortunately we can be saved,” continued the minister. “All we have to do is to look into our hearts and see what sins are there. Then we can do something about it.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the congregation. One man groaned softly, as if in pain, but it was only sin, thought Mma Ramotswe. Sin makes one groan. The weight of sin. Its mark. Its stain.

“And those who come into this church,” said the minister. “They bring their sins in, too. They bring sins into the midst of God’s people. They come straight from Babylon.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who had been looking at his folded
hands as the minister spoke, now looked up and saw that people were staring at him, as well as at Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi. He nudged Mma Ramotswe discreetly.

“Yes,” said the minister. “There are strangers here. You are very welcome, but you must declare your sins before God’s people. We shall help you. We shall make you strong.”

There was now complete silence. Mma Makutsi looked around anxiously. Surely this was no way to welcome visitors. Usually congregations greeted strangers warmly and clapped when you stood up. This must be a strange religion to which the apprentice had subscribed.

The minister now pointed at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Speak, my brother,” he said. “We are listening.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked frantically at Mma Ramotswe.

“I …” he began. “I am a sinner. Yes—I suppose …”

Suddenly Mma Ramotswe stood up. “Oh my!” she called out. “I am the sinner here. I am the one! I have committed so many sins that I cannot count them. They are weighty. They are making me sink. Oh! Oh!”

The minister raised his right arm. “The power of the Lord be upon you, my sister! He will release you from these sins! Tell the sins! Speak their awful name!”

“Oh, they are so numerous,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Oh! I cannot bear these sins. They are making me hot. I am feeling the fire of hell! Oh, the fire of hell is consuming me! I am so hot! Oh!”

She sank back on the pew, fanning herself with the hymn sheet.

“The fires!” she shouted. “The fires are all about me. Take me out!”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni felt the dig in his ribs.

“I must take her outside,” he said to the congregation at large.

“The fire—”

Mma Makutsi rose to her feet. “I will help you. The poor lady. All those sins. Oh! Oh!”

Once outside, they walked as quickly as they could to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s car, which was parked alongside a row of believers’ cars, outwardly no different from any of them.

“You are a very good actress,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as they drove away. “I was very embarrassed there. I was having to think of sins.”

“Maybe I wasn’t acting,” said Mma Ramotswe dryly.

M
R. MOLEFELO
had given Mma Ramotswe very little information. All she knew about the people for whom she was to look was that Mr. Tsolamosese had been a senior officer at the prison; that the Tsolamosese family had lived in a government house near the old airfield; and that the girlfriend, whose name was Tebogo Bathopi, came from Molepolole and was hoping to train as a nurse. This was not a great deal to go on: much would have happened in the course of twenty years; Tebogo would probably have married and changed her name; Mr. Tsolamosese would surely have retired and the family would have left the house. But it was hard to disappear completely in Botswana, where there were fewer than two million people and where people had a healthy curiosity as to who was who and where people had come from. It was very difficult to be anonymous, even in Gaborone, as there would always be neighbours who would want to know
exactly what one was doing and who one’s people had been. If you wanted anonymity, you had to leave the country altogether and go somewhere like Johannesburg, where nobody knew, nor cared very much, it would seem.

Tracking down the Tsolamosese family would be relatively easy, thought Mma Ramotswe. Even if Mr. Tsolamosese had retired from the prison service, there was bound to be somebody at the prison who would know where he had gone. Prison officials were a close-knit community; they lived cheek by jowl with one another in the prison lines, and their families often intermarried. They had to be protective of one another, as there was always the danger that a released prisoner might try to settle a score, which had happened on one or two occasions, as Mma Ramotswe had read. In one case, a prisoner who succeeded in escaping hid in the house of a warder, under his bed, and waited for him to go off to sleep before he crawled out and stabbed him through his blankets. It had been a chilling incident, although the warder had survived the attack relatively unscathed, and the prisoner had been rearrested and beaten. Such evil was difficult to contemplate, thought Mma Ramotswe. How could anybody do that sort of thing to a fellow human being? The answer, of course, was that such people were cold inside. They had no feelings, and it was easy for them to do things like that and worse. God would judge them, she knew, but in the meantime they could do a great deal of damage. Worst of all, these people destroyed trust. You used to be able to trust people, but now you had to be so careful, even in a good country like Botswana. It was unimaginably worse in other places, of course, but even in Botswana you had to hold on to your handbag if you walked out at night, in case a young man with a knife came and took it from you. What could be further from the old Botswana ways of courtesy and respect? What, she wondered, would Obed Ramotswe make of it if he were to come back
and see what had happened; her father, who, if he found so much as a one-pula note on the roadway, would hand it over to the police, oblivious to their surprise at his honesty.

Mma Ramotswe decided to divide her task into two. First she would find the Tsolamosese family and propose the reparation which she had discussed with Mr. Molefelo. Then, that piece of the past set to rest, she would set about the more difficult task of tracing Tebogo. The first step, though, was a telephone call to the prison, and an enquiry as to whether Mr. Tsolamosese still worked there. As she had anticipated, the official who answered the telephone had not heard the name. Mma Ramotswe asked then to speak to the oldest person in the office.

“Why do you want to speak to an old person, Mma?” she had been asked politely.

“Because they know more, Rra,” she had replied.

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then, after a few moments of hesitation, the oldest official was fetched.

“I am fifty-eight, Mma,” he said, introducing himself over the line. “Is that old enough for you, or do you want somebody who is eighty or ninety?”

“Fifty-eight is very good, Rra,” she said. “A person who is fifty-eight will know what he is talking about.”

This remark was well received. “I shall try to help you, if I can. What is it you wish to know?”

“I would like to know if you remember Mr. Tsolamosese,” she said. “He worked in the prison some years ago. Perhaps he is no longer working.”

“Ah,” said the voice. “I was here when he was working here. He was a very quiet man. He did not say very much, but he did well in the service and was very senior.”

“He is no longer working, then?” Mma Ramotswe pressed.

“No, he is not working. In fact, I am sorry to tell you he is late.”

Mma Ramotswe’s heart sank. But perhaps Mma Tsolamosese was still alive, and Mr. Molefelo would be able to make it up to her.

“He had a heart attack, I think,” said the voice. “About eight years ago. He was still here then, but he was very ill and he became late.”

“And the widow?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“She went away. I don’t think anybody here knows anything about her. She must have gone back to her village. You could ask the pensions people, of course. She will be getting her widow’s pension if she is still alive. That will mean that they will have her address somewhere. You could try them.”

“You have been very kind, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have something to give that lady, and you have helped me to find her. You are very kind.”

“It is my job to help,” said the voice.

“That is very good.”

“Yes,” said the voice.

“I hope that you are very happy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have been very helpful.”

“I am very happy,” said the voice. “I shall be retiring next year and I shall be growing sorghum.”

“I hope it grows well,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“You are very kind, Mma. Thank you.”

They said farewell, and Mma Ramotswe put down the telephone with a smile. In spite of every thing, in spite of all the change, with all the confusion and uncertainty which it brought; in spite of the casual disregard with which people were increasingly treating one another these days, there were still people who
spoke to others with the proper courtesy, who treated others, whom they did not know, in the way which was proper according to the standards of the old Botswana morality. And whenever that happened, whenever one encountered such behaviour, one was reminded that all was by no means lost.

Her next task was not a telephone call but a visit. She knew the office which dealt with pensions, and she would call there to find out whether Mma Tsolamosese was still receiving her pension. If she was, then she would have to try to get the address from them. That might be difficult, but not impossible. There was a tendency in government offices to treat every thing as confidential, even if it clearly was not, but Mma Ramotswe had found that there were usually ways round this.

The government pensions office, when she arrived there shortly after lunchtime, was still shut, but Mma Ramotswe was happy to wait under the shade of a nearby tree until a tired-looking clerk opened the door and peered outside.

The public office to which she was admitted had that typical look and smell of government offices. The furniture, such as it was, was completely functional—straight-backed chairs and simple two-drawer desks. On the wall at the back there was a picture of His Excellency, the president of the Republic of Botswana, and on the other walls there was a map of Botswana, broken down into administrative districts, a calendar supplied by the
Botswana Gazette
, and a fly-spotted framed picture of cattle gathered round a borehole-fed watering tank.

The clerk behind the desk looked at Mma Ramotswe in a sleepy way.

“I am looking for the widow of a government pensioner,” she said, noting the spoiled collar of the clerk’s shirt. He would not go far in the civil service, she thought; civil servants were usually rproud of their appearance, and this man was not.

“Name?” he said.

“Mine?”

“Pensioner.”

Mma Ramotswe had written the name on a piece of paper, and she passed it to the clerk. Underneath the name she had written:
Prisons Department
, and after that the date of Mr. Tsolamosese’s death.

The clerk looked at the piece of paper and made his way out of the room into a corridor which Mma Ramotswe could see was lined with lever-arch files. She watched him walk down the shelves until he stopped, extracted a file, and ruffled through some papers. Then he returned to the desk.

“Yes,” he said. “There is a widow of that name. She receives a pension from the Prisons Department.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Thank you, Rra. Could you give me her address? I have something to deliver to her.”

The clerk shook his head. “No, I cannot do that. The details of the pensioners are confidential. We could not have the whole world coming in here and finding out where these people live. That is not possible.”

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. This was precisely what she had feared would happen, and she knew that she would have to be extremely careful. This clerk was not bright, and people like that could show a remarkable tenacity when it came to rules. Because they could not distinguish between meritorious and unmeritorious requests, they could refuse to budge from the letter of the regulations. And there would be no point in trying to reason with them. The best tactic was to undermine their certainty as to the rule. If they could be persuaded that the rule was otherwise, then it might be possible to get somewhere. But it would be a delicate task.