The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (10 page)

“What about a bridge?” she asked. “Could they not call a bridge after him? They are always building bridges, these people, even if this is meant to be a dry country. Sometimes I think they are like little boys with a toy bulldozer.”

“Or a new drain?” suggested Mr. Polopetsi, smirking at the suggestion. “Government Keboneng Drainpipe? How about that?”

“That would be a bit unkind,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We must remember that Government Keboneng was a good man.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked apologetic. “Of course,” he said. “So, anyway, all this discussion went on and on, and then the city council said that they would name a street after him. The supporters were very pleased, although some of them were concerned that the new street was on the very edge of town and was not important enough for their hero. They wanted them to change the name of one of the streets in the middle of town and give him that.”

Mma Ramotswe was not in favour of this. “You cannot change the name of a street,” she said. “People would get very confused. They become used to a name for the place they live and they do not like to find that they are living in a new place.” She imagined what would happen if Zebra Drive suddenly became Mr. Government Keboneng Drive or even The Late Mr. Government Keboneng Drive. She did not think that she would like to put “The Late” in her address. Of course they did change street names from time to time—she had seen a notice saying “formerly Wilson Road” or something like that. This happened when some of the names from the old Protectorate days were abandoned, which was understandable enough, as people wanted something that reflected themselves rather than those who had a less rooted connection with the country. But it should be done sparingly, she thought: some of the people from those very old days had a memory that should be cherished. There was more than one Moffat Road in Botswana, and rightly so, because Robert Moffat had been such a great man. He had been a friend of the Batswana people; he had been the first to put the Setswana language into writing; and he had done so much to help those in need. And then there was Livingstone himself, who had married Moffat's daughter and been attacked by a lion out by Molelopole, not far away.

“Livingstone,” she said to Mr. Polopetsi.

He looked at her blankly.

“I thought of Livingstone,” she explained, “when I was thinking of changes in names. They have not changed the name of Livingstone up in Zambia, have they? That place is still called Livingstone.”

Mr. Polopetsi prided himself on his knowledge of history. “He was a very good man,” he said. “You would not want to change anything named after a man like Livingstone.” He paused. “He was a very brave man, Mma Ramotswe. He was one of those who brought slavery to an end.” He paused, and looked at her intently. “Many terrible things have happened in Africa, Mma.”

She returned his gaze. So much had occurred, and so many of the things that had happened were bad. And yet there had been good things—acts of kindness, acts of loyalty and generosity of spirit; why did we forget these and remember only the bad? She had always preferred to remember the positive points in a person's life, but she knew that there were those who thought less of her for that. To dwell on such things was said by some to be a sign that you were not aware of how things really were; but she was, she was. She knew as well as anyone that the world could be a place of trial and sorrow, that there was injustice and suffering and heartlessness—there was enough of all that to fill the great Kalahari twice over, but what good did it do to ponder that and that alone? None, she thought.

Even Clovis Andersen, who was mostly concerned with practical matters of detection, referred to this in his great work. He wrote:
Do not allow the profession of which you are a member to induce you to take a bleak view of humanity. You will encounter all sorts of bad behavior but do not judge everybody by the standards of the lowest.
If you did that, he pointed out, you would misjudge humanity in general and that would be fatal to discerning judgement.
If everybody is a villain, then nobody is a villain,
he wrote. That simple expression had intrigued her, even if it was some time before its full meaning—and the wisdom that lay behind it—became apparent.

She returned to the subject of Mr. Government Keboneng. “So the city council said that they would have to be content with a new street?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “They said that they would not change the name of one of the streets in the middle of town because people would become confused.”

“They would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They would wonder what was happening.”

“And so Mr. Keboneng's supporters grumbled a bit, apparently, but they realised that they would have to make do with what they were offered. They felt that they had won a bit of a victory, even if not the full victory they would have liked.”

“Very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Second prize is often better than first prize.”

She was not sure why she said that, and she was not even sure that it was true. Why would second prize sometimes be preferable? Perhaps it was because being at the top brought unwelcome attention or onerous responsibilities. That must be it. It was surely better to be Deputy Chief than Chief. A disturbing thought came to her unbidden: Was it better to be Mma Makutsi rather than Mma Ramotswe? She thought that Mma Makutsi might perhaps take the view that being Head of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency was better than being Deputy Head—the position that she currently occupied. Now, of course, she was Acting Head, which had its compensations, as being “Acting” anything meant that there would come a time when you could simply hand the reins back to the permanent Head no matter how complicated and difficult the situation had become. She asked herself whether Mma Makutsi would do that. “Here is your desk back, Mma Ramotswe,” she might say. “And here is a list of all the outstanding cases that we have been unable to solve during your absence. We are very sorry about those. You can solve them now, Mma.” She could just hear that.

Mr. Polopetsi had said something that she missed. “I'm sorry, Rra,” she said. “I was thinking about Mma Makutsi. What did you say just then?”

“I said that the supporters planned a party to celebrate the naming of the street. They even bought a large amount of food, which was a pity.”

She asked him why.

“Because the council's decision was suspended.”

She knew the ways of councillors. There was even one known popularly as Mma Stop-Start, and another as Mr. Green-Light-Red-Light. “They changed their minds?”

“They told the Keboneng people that somebody had raised an issue with them confidentially. This issue, they said, was all to do with the suitability of Mr. Keboneng to have a road named after him.” He paused, as if savouring the dramatic revelation. “There was a scandal in the background, they said. And because of this they were unwilling to go ahead.”

“They said he was not quite the hero people thought he was? Was that it?”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. Nobody was perfect—every one of us, she thought, has done something of which we are ashamed. If that were not so, then we would hardly be human. And even if we had not done it, then we had at least thought of how we
might
do it if given half the chance. The important thing was that such things were few and far between in our lives, and kept that way. We could be weak, of course, but one would not want to be weak all the time.

Mma Ramotswe now guessed why it was that Mma Potokwane had sought the agency's help. “They want us to refute this allegation? Is that it?”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Mma Potokwane had come on her own behalf, as his sister, but she was also representing his supporters. They all want to find out what this allegation is and prove that it is false. That is what they want, Mma.”

That was reasonable enough, she felt: a reputation, even a posthumous one, was a precious thing and people could go to some lengths to protect it.

“Do they know anything about what is being said against him?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. The council will not tell them. They said that it is confidential and that they cannot reveal what the issue is.”

She understood why this should be so. Yet it would be extremely frustrating for the relatives and the friends of the late Mr. Government Keboneng to know that there was something besmirching his memory but not to be able to get to grips with it. It would be like wrestling with smoke.

“I can see that this must be a rather difficult case for Mma Makutsi,” she said. “There's not much to go on, is there?”

Mr. Polopetsi suddenly looked morose. “That's why she's passed it over to me,” he said. “She started to look into it and then she stopped—just like that, Mma—she stopped and said, ‘You must take this case, Mr. Polopetsi. I am far too busy, I'm afraid. You must sort this out.' That is what she said to me, Mma. She said, ‘You must sort this out.' ”

Mma Ramotswe found herself at a loss. Why on earth should Mma Makutsi wash her hands of an important case like this? Surely this was exactly the sort of case that she would want to solve herself in a glare of publicity, incurring in the process the gratitude of the client. And yet here she was, passing it over to Mr. Polopetsi, who, although undoubtedly a good man, was only part-time—and a volunteer at that. It did not make sense.

“I can see how it must be very difficult for you, Rra.”

He seemed relieved to know that his plight was understood. “It is very difficult, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “And that is why I've come to hand it over to you.”

She had not expected this. “But Mma Makutsi is running the agency,” she said. “I am on holiday. You know what she's like, Rra. She does not want me to interfere while she is running things. I must respect that.”

“But she need not know,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I will do all the investigations. All I need is for you to tell me what to do.” He hesitated, his morose expression now replaced by something much brighter.

“Oh, Rra, I don't know…”

“But you must help me, Mma. I do not want to look stupid in Mma Makutsi's eyes, and that is how I'll look if I go to her and say that I cannot do this thing. She will laugh at me, Mma—you know what she's like. You have yourself just said that, I think. Those were your very words, Mma.”

SHE TALKED TO MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI
about it because she felt that when one is faced with a problem quite so delicate there is nothing better than a heart-to-heart conversation with one's spouse, particularly if one's spouse knows the other parties involved.

She raised the subject that evening, when they were sitting opposite one another at the kitchen table, the evening meal ready on the plates before them.

“So,” concluded Mma Ramotswe as she finished, “that is where matters stand at present. I have this request from Mr. Polopetsi—actually, it is more of a plea than a request—and frankly, Rra, I am torn. I do not know what to do.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate. “I am worried that my food will get cold,” he said. “This is such a big problem that my food will get cold if I try to deal with it straightaway.”

“But of course,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “You must eat your food, Rra. First things first.”

He picked up his fork. “While I am eating, I shall think. I find that it is sometimes easier to think when one is eating. Eating and thinking go together.”

She reached for her own fork. “That is certainly true, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.” She was not sure if that was really so; she felt that she did not do her best thinking while eating—that came, in her case, at least, when she was drinking a cup of tea. Had Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said that drinking tea and thinking went hand in hand, then she would have been the first to agree; but he had not said that—he had said something quite different, as husbands and wives often will do: they say the opposite of what they should say.

But this was not the time for such reflections and so she waited—perhaps a little anxiously—until he had finished his beef and vegetables.

“So you have thought about it, Rra?” she asked.

He inclined his head gravely—as a judge might do before passing sentence. “I have thought about it very hard, Mma Ramotswe.”

“And?”

“And it is very clear to me that you must go and see Mma Makutsi,” he said. “You must go and put your cards on the table.” He looked at her for a moment or two before his gaze slipped back to his plate. “There wouldn't be any more, would there, Mma?”

She fetched a pot from the top of the stove. “There is definitely more, Rra,” she said. “But before you eat, you must tell me why I should go to see Mma Makutsi.”

He repeated himself. “You must go and see your friend.”

“Yes, but why? Is there no other way of handling this?”

“No. You must go and see her and tell her that it is unfair to put Mr. Polopetsi under such strain. He is a thin man, that one, and he will not be able to bear much strain. That is why you must do it. He cannot deal with this—you can.”

Mma Ramotswe was not sure that weight and emotional robustness were that closely linked, but she knew what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni meant: Mr. Polopetsi was a vulnerable man who did not look as if he could tolerate a great deal of strain.

As she pondered, she found herself agreeing with him. “I think you are right, Rra. Although I must say that I'm a bit worried about her reaction: she will not be pleased. She does not want me to interfere while she is in charge.”

“But you're not questioning her authority,” he parried. “All you are saying is that one of the agency staff appears to need help. That is quite different from saying that she is in any way rubbish. You are not saying that, Mma.”

She began to falter; perhaps it was not all that clear. “I hope that she will not be awkward, but I cannot be sure of that. She is famous for being difficult. If she thinks that I am trying to take over this case, then…” She left the sentence unfinished. She knew that there would be a reaction from Mma Makutsi, but she could not be sure of what it would be.