"We must look after other people," she had said. "Other people are our brothers and sisters. If they are unhappy, then we are unhappy. If they are hungry, then we are hungry. You see."
The girl had accepted this. It would be her duty, too, to look after other people. Even if she could never have a child herself, she would look after other children. And she could try to look after this kind man, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and make sure that everything in his house was clean and tidy. That would be her job.
There were some people who had mothers to look after them. She was not one of those people, she knew. But why had her mother died? She remembered her only vaguely now. She remembered her death, and the wailing from the other women. She remembered the baby being taken from her arms and put in the ground. She had dug him out, she believed, but was not sure. Perhaps somebody else had done that and had passed the boy on to her. And then she remembered going away and finding herself in a strange place.
Perhaps one day she would find a place where she would stay. That would be good. To know that the place you were in was your own place-where you should be.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A PROBLEM IN MORAL PHILOSOPHY
THERE WERE some clients who engaged Mma Ramotswe's sympathies on the first telling of their tale. Others one could not sympathise with because they were motivated by selfishness, or greed, or sometimes self-evident paranoia. But the genuine cases-the cases which made the trade of private detective into a real calling-could break the heart. Mma Ramotswe knew that Mr Letsenyane Badule was one of these.
He came without an appointment, arriving the day after Mma Ramotswe had returned from her trip to Molepolole. It was the first day of Mma Makutsi's promotion to assistant detective, and Mma Ramotswe had just explained to her that although she was now a private detective she still had secretarial duties.
She had realised that she would have to broach the subject early, to avoid misunderstandings.
"I can't employ both a secretary and an assistant," she said.
"This is a small agency. I do not make a big profit. You know that. You send out the bills."
Mma Makutsi's face had fallen. She was dressed in her smartest dress, and she had done something to her hair, which was standing on end in little pointed bunches. It had not worked.
"Am I still a secretary, then?" she said. "Do I still just do the typing?"
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. "I have not changed my mind," she said. "You are an assistant private detective. But somebody has to do the typing, don't they? That is a job for an assistant private detective. That, and other things."
Mma Makutsi's face brightened. "That is all right. I can do all the things I used to do, but I will do more as well. I shall have clients."
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. She had not envisaged giving Mma Makutsi her own clients. Her idea had been to assign her tasks to be performed under supervision. The actual management of cases was to be her own responsibility. But then she remembered. She remembered how, as girl she had worked in the Small Upright General Dealer Store in Mochudi and how thrilled she had been when she had first been allowed to do a stock-taking on her own. It was selfishness to keep the clients to herself. How could anybody be started on a career if those who were at the top kept all the interesting work for themselves?
"Yes," she said quietly. "You can have your own clients. But I will decide which ones you get. You may not get the very big clients... to begin with. You can start with small matters and work up."
"That is quite fair," said Mma Makutsi. "Thank you, Mma. I
do not want to run before I can walk. They told us that at the Botswana Secretarial College. Learn the easy things first and then learn the difficult things. Not the other way round."
"That's a good philosophy," said Mma Ramotswe. "Many young people these days have not been taught that. They want the big jobs right away. They want to start at the top, with lots of money and a big Mercedes-Benz."
"That is not wise," said Mma Makutsi. "Do the little things when you are young and then work up to doing the big things later."
"Mmm," mused Mma Ramotswe. "These Mercedes-Benz cars have not been a good thing for Africa. They are very fine cars, I believe, but all the ambitious people in Africa want one before they have earned it. That has made for big problems."
"The more Mercedes-Benzes there are in a country," offered Mma Makutsi, "the worse that country is. If there is a country without any Mercedes-Benzes, then that will be a good place. You can count on that."
Mma Ramotswe stared at her assistant. It was an interesting theory, which could be discussed at greater length later on. For the meantime, there were one or two matters which still needed to be resolved.
"You will still make the tea," she said firmly. "You have always done that very well."
"I am very happy to do that," said Mma Makutsi, smiling. "There is no reason why an assistant private detective cannot make tea when there is nobody more junior to do it."
IT HAD been an awkward discussion and Mma Ramotswe was pleased that it was over. She thought that it would be best if
she gave her new assistant a case as soon as possible, to avoid the buildup of tension, and when, later that morning, Mr Let-senyane Badule arrived she decided that this would be a case for Mma Makutsi.
He drove up in a Mercedes-Benz, but it was an old one, and therefore morally insignificant, with signs of rust around the rear sills and with a deep dent on the driver's door.
"I am not one who usually comes to private detectives," he said, sitting nervously on the edge of the comfortable chair reserved for clients. Opposite him, the two women smiled reassuringly. The fat woman-she was the boss, he knew, as he had seen her photograph in the newspaper-and that other one with the odd hair and the fancy dress, her assistant perhaps.
"You need not feel embarrassed," said Mma Ramotswe. "We have all sorts of people coming through this door. There is no shame in asking for help."
"In fact," interjected Mma Makutsi. "It is the strong ones who ask for help. It is the weak ones who are too ashamed to come.
Mma Ramotswe nodded. The client seemed to be reassured by what Mma Makutsi had said. This was a good sign. Not everyone knows how to set a client at ease, and it boded well that Mma Makutsi had shown herself able to choose her words well.
The tightness of Mr Badule's grip on the brim of his hat loosened, and he sat back in his chair.
"I have been very worried," he said. "Every night I have been waking up in the quiet hours and have been unable to get back to sleep. I lie in my bed and I turn this way and that and cannot get this one thought out of my head. All the time it is there,
going round and round. Just one question, which I ask myself time after time after time."
"And you never find an answer?" said Mma Makutsi. "The night is a very bad time for questions to which there are no answers."
Mr Badule looked at her. 'You are very right, my sister. There is nothing worse than a nighttime question."
He stopped, and for a moment or two nobody spoke. Then Mma Ramotswe broke the silence.
"Why don't you tell us about yourself, Rra? Then a little bit later on, we can get to this question that is troubling you so badly. My assistant will make us a cup of tea first, and then we can drink it together."
Mr Badule nodded eagerly. He seemed close to tears for some reason, and Mma Ramotswe knew that the ritual of tea, with the mugs hot against the hand, would somehow make the story flow and would ease the mind of this troubled man.
I AM not a big, important man, began Mr Badule. I come from Lobatse originally. My father was an orderly at the High Court there and he served many years. He worked for the British, and they gave him two medals, with the picture of the Queen's head on them. He wore these every day, even after he retired. When he left the service, one of the judges gave him a hoe to use on his lands. The judge had ordered the hoe to be made in the prison workshop and the prisoners, on the judge's instructions, had burned an inscription into the wooden handle with a hot nail. It said: First Class Orderly Badule, served Her Majesty and then the Republic of Botswana loyally for fifty years.