Tears Of The Giraffe (7 page)

She had asked Mma Tsbago about the settlement, and had been provided with some information. She remembered the project, although she had not known the people involved in it. She recalled that there had been a white man and a woman from South Africa, and one or two other foreigners. A number of the people from the village had worked there, and people had thought that great things would come of it, but it had eventually fizzled out. She had not been surprised at that. Things fizzled out; you could not hope to change Africa. People lost interest, or they went back to their traditional way of doing things, or they simply gave up because it was all too much effort. And then Africa had a way of coming back and simply covering everything up again.

“Is there somebody in the village who can take me out there?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Tsbago thought for a moment.

“There are still some people who worked out there,” she said. “There is a friend of my uncle. He had a job out there for a while. We can go to his place and you can ask him.”

THEY WENT first to Mma Tsbago’s house. It was a traditional Botswana house, made out of ochre mud bricks and surrounded by a low wall, a
lomotana,
which created a tiny yard in front of and alongside the house. Outside this wall there were two thatched grain bins, on raised legs, and a chicken house. At the back, made out of tin and leaning dangerously, was the privy, with an old plank door and a rope with which the door could be tied shut. The children ran out immediately, and embraced their mother, before waiting shyly to be introduced to the stranger. Then, from the dark interior of the house, there emerged the grandmother, wearing a threadbare white dress and grinning toothlessly.

Mma Tsbago left her bag in the house and explained that she would return within an hour. Mma Ramotswe gave sweets to the children, which they received with both palms upturned, thanking her gravely in the correct Setswana manner. These were children who would understand the old ways, thought Mma Ramotswe, approvingly—unlike some of the children in Gaborone.

They left the house and drove through the village in the white van. It was a typical Botswana village, a sprawling collection of one- or two-room houses, each in its own yard, each with a motley collection of thorn trees surrounding it. The houses were linked by paths, which wandered this way and that, skirting fields and crop patches. Cattle moved about listlessly, cropping at the occasional patch of brown, withered grass, while a pot-bellied herd-boy, dusty and be-aproned, watched them from under a tree. The cattle were unmarked, but everybody would know their owner, and their lineage. These were the signs of wealth, the embodied result of somebody’s labours in the diamond mine at Jwaneng or the beef-canning factory at Lobatse.

Mma Tsbago directed her to a house on the edge of the village. It was a well-kept place, slightly larger than its immediate neighbours, and had been painted in the style of the traditional Botswana house, in reds and browns and with a bold, diamond pattern etched out in white. The yard was well-swept, which suggested that the woman of the house, who would also have painted it, was conscientious with her reed broom. Houses, and their decoration, were the responsibility of the woman, and this woman had evidently had the old skills passed down to her.

They waited at the gate while Mma Tsbago called out for permission to enter. It was rude to go up the path without first calling, and even ruder to go into a building uninvited.

“Ko, Ko!” called out Mma Tsbago. “Mma Potsane, I am here to see you!”

There was no response, and Mma Tsbago repeated her call. Again no answer came, and then the door of the house suddenly opened and a small, rotund woman, dressed in a long skirt and high-collared white blouse, came out and peered in their direction.

“Who is that?” she called out, shading her eyes with a hand. “Who are you? I cannot see you.”

“Mma Tsbago. You know me. I am here with a stranger.”

The householder laughed. “I thought it might be somebody else, and I quickly got dressed up. But I need not have bothered!”

She gestured for them to enter and they walked across to meet her.

“I cannot see very well these days,” explained Mma Potsane. “My eyes are getting worse and worse. That is why I didn’t know who you were.”

They shook hands, exchanging formal greetings. Then Mma Potsane gestured across to a bench which stood in the shade of the large tree beside her house. They could sit there, she explained, because the house was too dark inside.

Mma Tsbago explained why they were there and Mma Potsane listened intently. Her eyes appeared to be irritating her, and from time to time she wiped at them with the sleeve of her blouse. As Mma Tsbago spoke, she nodded encouragement.

“Yes,” she said. “We lived out there. My husband worked there. We both worked there. We hoped that we would be able to make some money with our crops and for a while it worked. Then …” She broke off, shrugging despondently.

“Things went wrong?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Drought?”

Mma Potsane sighed. “There was a drought, yes. But there’s always a drought, isn’t there? No, it was just that people lost faith in the idea. There were good people living there, but they went away.”

“The white man from Namibia? The German one?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes, that one. He was a good man, but he went away. Then there were other people, Batswana, who decided that they had had enough. They went too.”

“And an American?” pressed Mma Ramotswe. “There was an American boy?”

Mma Potsane rubbed at her eyes. “That boy vanished. He disappeared one night. They had the police out here and they searched and searched. His mother came too, many times. She brought a Mosarwa tracker with her, a tiny little man, like a dog with his nose to the ground. He had a very fat bottom, like all those Basarwa have.”

“He found nothing?” Mma Ramotswe knew the answer to this, but she wanted to keep the other woman talking. She had so far only heard the story from Mrs Curtin’s viewpoint; it was quite possible that there were things which other people had seen which she did not know about.

“He ran round and round like a dog,” said Mma Potsane, laughing. “He looked under stones and sniffed the air and muttered away in that peculiar language of theirs—you know how it is, all those sounds like trees in the wind and twigs breaking. But he found no sign of any wild animals which may have taken that boy.”

Mma Ramotswe passed her a handkerchief to dab her eyes. “So what do you think happened to him, Mma? How can somebody just vanish like that?”

Mma Potsane sniffed and then blew her nose on Mma Ramotswe’s handkerchief.

“I think that he was sucked up,” she said. “There are sometimes whirlwinds here in the very hot season. They come in from the Kalahari and they suck things up. I think that maybe that boy got sucked up in a whirlwind and put down somewhere far, far away. Maybe over by Ghanzi way or in the middle of the Kalahari or somewhere. No wonder they didn’t find him.”

Mma Tsbago looked sideways at Mma Ramotswe, trying to catch her eye, but Mma Ramotswe looked straight ahead at Mma Potsane.

“That is always possible, Mma,” she said. “That is an interesting idea.” She paused. “Could you take me out there and show me round? I have a van here.”

Mma Potsane thought for a moment. “I do not like to go out there,” she said. “It is a sad place for me.”

“I have twenty pula for your expenses,” said Mma Ramotswe, reaching into her pocket. “I had hoped that you would be able to accept this from me.”

“Of course,” said Mma Potsane hurriedly. “We can go there. I do not like to go there at night, but in the day it is different.”

“Now?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Could you come now?”

“I am not busy,” said Mma Potsane. “There is nothing happening here.”

Mma Ramotswe passed the money over to Mma Potsane, who thanked her, clapping both hands in a sign of gratitude. Then they walked back over her neatly swept yard and, saying goodbye to Mma Tsbago, they climbed into the van and drove off.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FURTHER PROBLEMS WITH THE ORPHAN-FARM PUMP

O
N THE day that Mma Ramotswe travelled out to Silokwolela, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni felt vaguely ill at ease. He had become accustomed to meeting Mma Ramotswe on a Saturday morning to help her with her shopping or with some task about the house. Without her, he felt at a loose end: Gaborone seemed strangely empty; the garage was closed, and he had no desire to attend to the paperwork that had been piling up on his desk. He could call on a friend, of course, and perhaps go and watch a football match, but again he was not in the mood for that. Then he thought of Mma Silvia Potokwane, Matron in Charge of the Orphan Farm. There was inevitably something happening out there, and she was always happy to sit down and have a chat over a cup of tea. He would go out there and see how everything was. Then the rest of the day could take care of itself until Mma Ramotswe returned that evening.

Mma Potokwane spotted him, as usual, as he parked his car under one of the syringa trees.

“I see you!” she shouted from her window. “I see you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni!”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni waved in her direction as he locked the car. Then he strode towards the office, where the sound of cheerful music drifted out of one of the windows. Inside, Mma Potokwane was sitting beside her desk, a telephone receiver to her ear. She motioned for him to sit down and continued with her conversation.

“If you can give me some of that cooking oil,” she said, “the orphans will be very happy. They like to have their potatoes fried in oil and it is good for them.”

The voice at the other end said something, and she frowned, glancing up at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, as if to share her irritation.

“But you cannot sell that oil if it is beyond its expiry date. So why should I pay you anything for it? It would be better to give it to the orphans than to pour it down the drain. I cannot give you money for it, and so I see no reason why you shouldn’t give it to us.”

Again something was said on the other end of the line, and she nodded patiently.

“I can make sure that the
Daily News
comes to photograph you handing the oil over. Everybody will know that you are a generous man. It will be there in the papers.”

There was a further brief exchange and then she replaced the receiver.

“Some people are slow to give,” she said. “It is something to do with how their mothers brought them up. I have read all about this problem in a book. There is a doctor called Dr Freud who is very famous and has written many books about such people.”

“Is he in Johannesburg?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“I do not think so,” said Mma Potokwane. “It is a book from London. But it is very interesting. He says that all boys are in love with their mother.”

“That is natural,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Of course boys love their mothers. Why should they not do so?”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “I agree with you. I cannot see what is wrong with a boy loving his mother.”

“Then why is Dr Freud worried about this?” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Surely he should be worried if they did
not
love their mothers.”

Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “Yes. But he was still very worried about these boys and I think he tried to stop them.”

“That is ridiculous,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Surely he had better things to do with his time.”

“You would have thought so,” said Mma Potokwane. “But in spite of this Dr Freud, boys still go on loving their mothers, which is how it should be.”

She paused, and then, brightening at the abandonment of this difficult subject, she smiled broadly at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am very glad that you came out today. I was going to phone you.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “Brakes? Or the pump?”

“The pump,” said Mma Potokwane. “It is making a very strange noise. The water comes all right, but the pump makes a noise as if it is in pain.”

“Engines do feel pain,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “They tell us of their pain by making a noise.”

“Then this pump needs help,” said Mma Potokwane. “Can you take a quick look at it?”

“Of course,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

IT TOOK him longer than he had expected, but at last he found the cause and was able to attend to it. The pump reassembled, he tested it, and it ran sweetly once more. It would need a total refit, of course, and that day would not be able to be put off for much longer, but at least the strange, moaning sound had stopped.

Back in Mma Potokwane’s office, he relaxed with his cup of tea and a large slab of currant cake which the cooks had baked that morning. The orphans were well fed. The Government looked after its orphans well and gave a generous grant each year. But there were also private donors—a network of people who gave in money, or kind, to the orphan farm. This meant that none of the orphans actually wanted for anything and none of them was malnourished, as happened in so many other African countries. Botswana was a well-blessed country. Nobody starved and nobody languished in prison for their political beliefs. As Mma Ramotswe had pointed out to him, the Batswana could hold their heads up anywhere—anywhere.

“This is good cake,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “The children must love it.”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “Our children love cake. If we gave them nothing but cake, they would be very happy. But of course we don’t. The orphans need onions and beans too.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “A balanced diet,” he said widely. “They say that a balanced diet is the key to health.”

There was silence for a moment as they reflected on his observation. Then Mma Potokwane spoke.

“So you will be a married man soon,” she said. “That will make your life different. You will have to behave yourself, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni!”

He laughed, scraping up the last crumbs of his cake. “Mma Ramotswe will watch me. She will make sure that I behave myself well.”

“Mmm,” said Mma Potokwane. “Will you be living in her house or in yours?”

“I think it will be her house,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is a bit nicer than mine. Her house is in Zebra Drive, you know.”

“Yes,” said the Matron. “I have seen her place. I drove past it the other day. It looks very nice.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked surprised. “You drove past specially to take a look?”

“Well,” said Mma Potokwane, grinning slightly. “I thought that I might just see what sort of place it was. It’s quite big, isn’t it?”

“It’s a comfortable house,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I think that there will be enough room for us.”

“Too much room,” said Mma Potokwane. “There will be room for children.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “We had not been thinking of that. We are maybe a bit old for children. I am forty-five. And then … Well, I do not like to talk about it, but Mma Ramotswe has told me that she cannot have children. She had a baby, you know, but it died and now the doctors have said to her that …”

Mma Potokwane shook her head. “That is very sad. I am very sad for her.”

“But we are very happy,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Even if we do not have children.”

Mma Potokwane reached over to the teapot and poured her guest another cup of tea. Then she cut a further slice of cake—a generous helping—and slid it onto his plate.

“Of course, there is always adoption,” she said, watching him as she spoke. “Or you could always just look after a child if you didn’t want to adopt. You could take …” She paused, raising her teacup to her lips. “You could always take an orphan.” Adding hurriedly: “Or even a couple of orphans.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stared at his shoes. “I don’t know. I don’t think I would like to adopt a child. But …”

“But a child could come and live with you. There’s no need to go to all the trouble of adoption papers and magistrates,” said Mma Potokwane. “Imagine how nice that would be!”

“Maybe … I don’t know. Children are a big responsibility.”

Mma Potokwane laughed. “But you’re a man who takes responsibility easily. There you are with your garage, that’s a responsibility. And those apprentices of yours. They’re a responsibility too, aren’t they? You are well used to responsibility.” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought of his apprentices. They, too, had just appeared, sidling into the garage shortly after he had telephoned the technical trades college and offered to give two apprenticeships. He had entertained great hopes of them, but had been disappointed virtually from the beginning. When he was their age he had been full of ambition, but they seemed to take everything for granted. At first he had been unable to understand why they seemed so passive, but then all had been explained to him by a friend. “Young people these days cannot show enthusiasm,” he had been told. “It’s not considered smart to be enthusiastic.” So this is what was wrong with the apprentices. They wanted to be thought smart.

On one occasion, when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni felt particularly irritated at seeing the two young men sitting unenthusiastically on their empty oil drums staring into the air he had raised his voice at them.

“So you think you’re smart?” he shouted. “Is that what you think?”

The two apprentices had glanced at one another.

“No,” said one, after a few moments. “No, we don’t.”

He had felt deflated and had slammed the door of his office. It appeared that they lacked the enthusiasm even to respond to his challenge, which just proved what he had thought anyway.

Now, thinking of children, he wondered whether he would have the energy to deal with them. He was approaching the point in life when he wanted a quiet and orderly time. He wanted to be able to fix engines in his own garage during the day and to spend his evenings with Mma Ramotswe. That would be bliss! Would children not introduce a note of stress into their domestic life? Children needed to be taken to school and put in the bathtub and taken to the nurse for injections. Parents always seemed so worn out by their children and he wondered whether he and Mma Ramotswe would really want that.

“I can tell that you’re thinking about it,” said Mma Potokwane. “I think your mind is almost made up.”

“I don’t know …”

“What you should do is just take the plunge,” she went on. “You could give the children to Mma Ramotswe as a wedding present. Women love children. She will be very pleased. She’ll be getting a husband and some children all on the same day! Any lady would love that, believe me.”

“But …”

Mma Potokwane cut him short. “Now there are two children who would be very happy to go and live with you,” she said. “Let them come on trial. You can decide after a month or so whether they can stay.”

“Two children? There are two?” stuttered Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I thought …”

“They are a brother and sister,” Mma Potokwane went on hurriedly. “We do not like to split up brothers and sisters. The girl is twelve and the boy is just five. They are very nice children.”

“I don’t know … I would have to …”

“In fact,” said Mma Potokwane, rising to her feet. “I think that you have met one of them already. The girl who brought you water. The child who cannot walk.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. He remembered the child, who had been very polite and appreciative. But would it not be rather burdensome to look after a handicapped child? Mma Potokwane had said nothing about this when she had first raised the subject. She had slipped in an extra child—the brother—and now she was casually mentioning the wheelchair, as if it made no difference. He stopped himself. He could be in that chair himself.

Mma Potokwane was looking out of the window. Now she turned to address him.

“Would you like me to call that child?” she asked. “I am not trying to force you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but would you like to meet her again, and the little boy?”

The room was silent, apart from a sudden creak from the tin roof, expanding in the heat. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes, and remembered, for a moment, how it was to be a child, back in the village, all those years ago. And remembered how he had experienced the kindness of the local mechanic, who had let him polish trucks and help with the mending of punctures, and who by this kindness had revealed and nurtured a vocation. It was easy to make a difference to other people’s lives, so easy to change the little room in which people lived their life.

“Call them,” he said. “I would like to see them.”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “You are a good man, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “I will send word for them to come. They will have to be fetched from the fields. But while we are waiting, I’m going to tell you their story. You listen to this.”