The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (13 page)

Mma Ramotswe listened carefully, nodding her agreement at the solution. “That is very helpful,” she said. “I have tried to talk to her, though, and I got nowhere. She has put him in charge of a particular case and she will not listen.”

Mma Potokwane had crossed swords with Mma Makutsi before. “She can be a very stubborn lady. She is famous for that, I think.”

“The case, though, is an interesting one,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “The agency had a visit from a Mma Potokwane.”

This brought silence—and puzzlement.

“Not you, of course,” continued Mma Ramotswe. “This Mma Potokwane is the sister of the late Mr. Government Keboneng.”

“Ah,” said Mma Potokwane. “For a moment I was confused, Mma. That is another Potokwane. I do not know that lady very well, but I do know her slightly. We do not see one another very much, but there is a connection. We meet at baptisms and funerals—that sort of thing.”

“Can you tell me about that family?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“It is a complicated story. We shall need more tea.”

Their cups refilled, Mma Potokwane began. “As you said, that woman was the sister of Government Keboneng. She is quite a bit older than me. She worked as a teacher, although I do not know exactly where. I think it was small children—maybe even nursery school. She met my husband's cousin, who was also quite a bit older. He is late now. He was called Pound Potokwane.”

“Tell me about him,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Pound? He was one of three brothers. I'm not absolutely sure if I've got it right, but I think the other two were called Saint and Saviour. Yes, that's right. Saint was the youngest, I think, and then there was Pound and then Saviour. Saviour is late too. He was killed in a tractor accident. It rolled right over him, I think. That can happen, you know. He drove into a donga, they said, and the tractor toppled over.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, it was very sad. He was a popular man.”

“And Saint? Is he still alive?”

“Yes, he is. He lives off the Lobatse Road. He is looked after by a cousin on his mother's side. They have a small place there.”

“Looked after? Is he not well?”

Mma Potokwane sucked in a cheek. “He is not ill, if that's what you mean, Mma. He is not any worse than he was before. No, I would not say that he is not well.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for her to continue; she was unsure how to interpret the look that Mma Potokwane was giving her, a look that seemed to be asking,
Do I have to spell it out, Mma?
“Of course, I do not mean to pry…”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “But that is what you do, Mma. You're a private detective and I am a matron. You pry…on behalf of other people, I know, who cannot do their own prying. And I look after children…”

“…and the kitchens, and the housemothers, and the gardens, and your husband, and…”

They both laughed, and the slight tension that had built up dissipated. Not only had Mma Ramotswe paid tribute to her friend's abilities, but she had also summed up the lot of women everywhere.
There are broad shoulders,
the saying went,
even where there are no broad shoulders.
Or Mma Ramotswe thought that somebody had said that; she was not quite sure. Usually, if she thought of an apt aphorism she would attribute it to the late Sir Seretse Khama, on the grounds that he'd said many wise things and even if he had not made that particular remark, then he might well have done—had he thought about it.

Mma Potokwane sipped at her tea. Her sips were large ones, Mma Ramotswe had noted; a cup of tea would be drained in two sips, if she had things to do, whereas Mma Makutsi could make a cup of tea last for almost half an hour, and even then there would be a small amount of tea left at the bottom of the cup. She had learned to leave cups like that when she first came down to Gaborone from Bobonong; Mma Ramotswe, with great tact, had told her that one should not drain one's cup immediately and in one swig. “It is just one of these things,” she had said. “Down here we don't drink the full cup immediately. That is considered a bit rude—not that I'm saying that people are rude up in Bobonong; I am definitely not saying that, Mma. It's just that sometimes people do things differently in town, and this, I think, is one of those cases, Mma. It just is.”

The phrase “It just is” tends to bring any discussion to an end. There are some things that “just are,” and any amount of time spent questioning these will get you nowhere. If something “just is,” it needs no justification. It was, thought Mma Ramotswe, like the old Botswana morality: it was pointless to discuss the tenets of that; the ancestors knew what they were doing when they decided what that morality should be, and it was not for us to come along and disturb that settled expression of the will of so many generations. You respected those rules because they were like the sun and moon: they were always there. Of course if one really looked into what those rules said, you would find behind them the simple idea that people should be treated with respect. That was Rule Number One, if one liked to put it that way. And what was wrong with that rule? There were other rules, of course, right down to the rules about not putting one's dusty shoes up on the chairs. You might look in vain for a precise statement of that rule, but there was no doubt that the old Botswana morality would disapprove of such conduct.

And it would disapprove, too, of the habit that men had of leaving their dirty clothes lying on the bathroom floor. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni tended to do that, as did Puso. And no amount of reminding them of the existence of the washing basket seemed to make any difference—the clothes were still thrown down. An enquiry to Mma Makutsi had revealed that Phuti Radiphuti, although considered a house-trained husband in so many other respects, did the same thing; perhaps, thought Mma Ramotswe, the government of Botswana should pass a law about it. It would be a novel piece of legislation that could provide a lead to the rest of the world. She imagined the wording:
It shall be an offence for any man, either a husband or other person of the male sex, married or otherwise, being over the age of twelve years, to throw any item of clothing, having been worn by the said person for whatever length of time, upon the floor of any bathroom or any room adjacent to and connected to a bathroom, without good cause.
There would be difficulties of proof, of course, and the police might get tired of being called to people's bathrooms, but it might be sufficient for the government just to pass the law in order to provide wives with a threat.
If you don't stop leaving your clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor I am going to have to call the police…

This thought occurred to her as she was waiting for Mma Potokwane to speak, and since Mma Potokwane had clearly not yet decided what to say, Mma Ramotswe asked her, “Does Rra Potokwane throw his clothes down on the bathroom floor, Mma? I do not wish to pry—as you know—but I have just been thinking about that problem.”

Mma Potokwane put down her teacup. “It's funny you should ask, Mma, but only yesterday I had to talk to him about that. I told him about what happened to the husband of one of the housemothers. Her husband left his clothes in a pile on the floor and then decided to put them on again. There was a scorpion hiding under the bath—you know how they like those dark places, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe winced. “I think I can see what's coming.”

“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “But he didn't. He got out of the bath, dried himself, and then started to put on his clothes. He had his shirt on first and then he started to put on his pants, which was where the scorpion was hiding.”

“Ow, Mma! Ow!”

“Yes, Mma—I believe that is what he said.” Mma Potokwane wagged a finger for emphasis. “A scorpion sting is very, very painful. It made him swell up, Mma—very badly.”

“That is very bad, Mma. One does not want men to swell up.”

“No.”

They were silent for a moment while they contemplated the misfortune of what had occurred. Then Mma Potokwane said, “Going back to Saint Potokwane, the brother of Saviour. You asked whether he was ill, and I said that he was not. What I have to tell you, Mma, is that he is not quite right in the head.”

“I am very sorry to hear that, Mma.”

“Thank you, Mma. You see, he was like that from the beginning. They never found out why, but he was one of these unfortunate children whose brains don't develop normally. He was a very nice little boy, apparently, but he could not be taught anything and he would often just sit there and say nothing for hours on end. He smiled a lot, though, and he never caused any trouble, but he would never be able to be taught how to do a job or anything like that.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head in sympathy. “I have known children like that. It usually seems hard for the family, doesn't it? But yet the child may be quite happy—and the family too.”

Mma Potokwane agreed. “In most cases,” she said, “there is enough love to go round. There is enough love for everybody.”

Mma Ramotswe thought about what her friend had said.
In most cases there is enough love to go round.
Yes, it was true, as many unexpected things were true. It was easy to imagine the worst about people; it was easy to imagine that they would be selfish or unfeeling, or that they would abandon those who needed their love and their help. But that was not the way that people really were. Time and time again people showed better qualities than we might dare to hope for, sometimes against all expectation.

“What age is Saint now?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “I have not seen him for many years. I think that he must be about fifty. Maybe a bit more.”

“And the other brother—the one who died—was he married, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane looked at her fingers. “Now, Mma, let me remind myself of who's who. We have Mma Potokwane, the one who came to see you—no, who came to see Mma Makutsi.” She held up her thumb. “That is her. And she was married to my husband's cousin”—the thumb touched the forefinger—“who was called Pound and he had two brothers, Saint and then Saviour, who is late”—the middle and the ring finger were raised—“but was married to a lady called…called…” Memory was wracked until it came up with the answer. “Naledi. Yes, that is her name. Star, in English, of course.”

“And where is she, Mma? Where is this Naledi?”

“Oh, she lives in Gaborone. She remarried after Saviour became late. I forget the name of her second husband, but I know where he works. He has a suitcase shop.”

“I know that place,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“It's called Big Suitcases.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I have been there. I bought a suitcase from them a few years ago, but I have never used it.”

Mma Potokwane looked concerned. “Is something wrong with it?”

“No, the suitcase is all right. I have just not been anywhere.”

Mma Potokwane understood. “We are too busy, Mma. That is why we cannot go anywhere. At least you have had a holiday…even if you have not gone anywhere. That is a start, Mma. Maybe next time you have a holiday you will go somewhere.”

“You wouldn't know where she lives, would you, Mma?”

“No, Mma. But I could find out, if you like.”

Mma Ramotswe declined the offer. “It isn't important, Mma. I was just wondering.” She paused. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Not really. I never see her, even at family funerals. She is no longer a Potokwane, I suppose. She does not have to come.”

“No, but…” It was a difficult subject; the obligation to be present at a funeral was a strong one in Botswana, with even the remotest relatives attending, but modern life sometimes made it more difficult for people to be there.

Mma Potokwane seemed to be weighing something up; it was as if she was about to say something else, but then thought better of it. Mma Ramotswe knew that look; it was the look of one who knew something that could harm another, so refrained from revealing it because they knew what hurt it might cause.

There was a final question. “And that place down on the Lobatse Road where Saint lives—where exactly is that, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane explained. Saint was looked after by a relative who owned a small farm. It was past the Mokolodi turnoff, on the right as one drove down. There was a sign that said
Eggs,
and it was along that track. “There are no eggs any more,” said Mma Potokwane. “I suppose that there must have been a chicken farm there some time ago, but not now.”

“There are so many old notices,” said Mma Ramotswe. She rather liked these abandoned signs, even if they made promises that could no longer be kept; they were a reminder of the Botswana that had been there before, linking people to a past that, although recent, might otherwise so easily be lost. Those bonds were important—however much we proclaimed our present self-sufficiency, however much we professed to believe only in those things that could still be seen and touched.

But now it was Mma Potokwane's turn to ask a question. “I know it is no business of mine, Mma,” she said, “but why did this Mma Potokwane come to the agency?”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She never talked about the private affairs of clients, and yet Mma Potokwane was a matron, and she fully understood the importance of keeping confidences. And you had to be able to talk to someone, after all, or you would find the job impossibly stressful. It was therefore in the interests of the client to sound out somebody like Mma Potokwane; indeed, it was probably her
duty
to speak to her.

She told her about the council's plans to name a road in honour of Government Keboneng and about the suspension of these plans after the unspecified allegations. Mma Potokwane listened carefully and then held up her hands in a distancing gesture. “I don't want to get involved in any of that,” she said. “That man is late. His memory should be left undisturbed.”