It was almost on impulse that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni went into the office to ask Mma Makutsi if he could borrow the agency camera. This camera had been bought at an early stage in the existence of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, in the belief that it would be necessary for the obtaining of evidence. Clovis Andersen had advised this, saying that while one cannot say that a camera never lies, it is hard to beat photographic evidence. Many is the time that I have personally confronted a malefactor with a photograph of himself engaged in something discreditable and said, “There, who’s that then? The Man in the Moon?” It was Mma Makutsi who had read this passage, been impressed, and suggested the purchase of the camera. She had hardly ever used it, but the camera, ready and loaded with film, sat on a shelf behind Mma Ramotswe’s desk, awaiting its moment.
Armed with the camera, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had then left the garage, instructions having been given to the younger apprentice to lock up, and had driven in his truck to exactly that spot outside the office building where he had previously waited for Mr Botumile. He had been in position for ten minutes by the time that the front door opened and a man came out and headed for one of the two red cars parked to the side of the building. Although he was the first man out after five, this was not Mr Botumile but the other man, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni ignored him as he got into the car and drove away. Then, a few minutes later, Mr Botumile appeared and climbed into his car.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni followed the red car. The traffic was light, for some reason, and it was easy to keep a reasonable distance back without losing sight of his quarry. This time a new route was followed, and the red car drove back towards the Tlokweng Road. The main road was, of course, much busier, and he had to be careful not to lose sight of Mr Botumile’s car, but he was close enough, and alert enough, not to miss it as it turned sharply off to the right a short distance after the shopping centre. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was fairly familiar with the dirt road down which the red vehicle now travelled. This was not far from the garage, and he occasionally drove down here to test a car that he had repaired, especially if new suspension needed to be tried out. It was mostly a residential area, sparsely populated, although there were one or two business plots at the Tlokweng Road end. It was also a road for goats, he remembered, as a bit of land halfway down was given over to these destructive creatures. It had been stripped almost bare of vegetation, apart from a few thorn bushes which had defeated even the talents of the goats. Now, as he drove down it, following the small cloud of dust thrown up from the wheels of Mr Botumile’s car, he saw a few goats
standing by the side of the road, nibbling at a piece of sacking which had been blown against a fence. These were odd parts of the town; not quite the bush, which was just beyond the fences, but heading that way, prone to the incursions of animals.
Suddenly the rear lights of Mr Botumile’s car glowed through the dust and he swung into the driveway of a house. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, reacting quickly, slowed down and then drew in to the side of the road. He would wait a minute or so, he thought, before he drove past the house. This would give Mr Botumile time to get out of the car, if he was going to get out, or pick up his waiting girlfriend, if that was what he had in mind.
By the time he drove past, Mr Botumile was out of his car. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni saw him walking up a short path towards the door of the house. He saw the door open, and he saw a woman standing there, waiting. It was not much more than a brief glimpse, but it was etched indelibly in his mind—the man, his lover, the dispirited dust-covered vegetation in the yard of the house, the angle of the gate, which was off its hinge, the stand-pipe at the side of the house. Was this what a clandestine affair looked like?
He went further down the road until he came to a place where he could turn without being seen from the house. Then he drove back slowly, this time with the camera ready on his lap. As he drew level with the house, he slowed down slightly, and, manipulating the camera with one hand while the other hand was on the steering wheel, he took a photograph of the house. Then, his heart beating hard with the sheer excitement of it, he accelerated back in the direction of the Tlokweng Road. He felt confused. It had been an exhilarating experience in one sense, and he had felt the satisfaction of seeing what he had expected to see. But the act of taking the photograph seemed to him to have been an intrusion of a quite different degree from that of following Mr Botumile. He glanced down at the camera beside him on the seat of the truck; the sight of it, with its prying lens, made him feel dirty. This was not like being a mechanic; this was like being…well, it was like being a spy, an informant, a seeker-out of the tawdry secrets of others.
He thought that he would discuss it with Mma Ramotswe. It was impossible to imagine her ever doing anything that was wrong or shabby, and if she said that in this case the end justified the means, then he would be satisfied. But then he thought again: the whole point about this investigation was that he was doing it himself; he should not run off to Mma Ramotswe the moment anything difficult arose. No, he would have the film developed and he would show the photograph to Mma Botumile. But first he would find out who lived in that house so that he might reveal to her the chapter and verse of her husband’s infidelity. He did not envy Mr Botumile after that, but then it was really not for him, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, to pass judgement on a client’s marriage, other than to come to the conclusion, privately, that if Mma Botumile were the last woman in Botswana and he were the last man, he would stay resolutely single.
WHILE MR J.L.B. MATEKONI wrestled with his conscience, Mma Makutsi was preparing a meal for Phuti Radiphuti in her house in Extension Two. The previous evening had been one of his days to eat at his aunt’s house, and this meant that he would be looking forward to Mma Makutsi’s cooking. Mma Makutsi cooked what Phuti Radiphuti wanted, whereas his aunt cooked what she thought he should eat. That evening, she had prepared fried chicken with rice into which sultanas had been sprinkled. There was also fried banana, which always seemed to go so well with chicken, and a small jar of Mozambiquan peri-peri sauce which gave a kick to everything. Phuti Radiphuti had revealed a taste for hot food, which Mma Makutsi was trying to acquire herself. She was making some progress in that, but it was slow, and frequent glasses of water were required.
Their conversation ranged over the events of the past few days. Mma Makutsi had debated with herself whether to reveal her abortive resignation, and had eventually decided that she would do so. She did not come out of the episode very well, she thought, but she had never concealed anything from him, and she did not want to start doing so now.
“I made a fool of myself yesterday,” she said to him, as she stirred the fried chicken in the pan. “I thought I would go and get another job.” That was all she said. She had thought that she would tell him everything, but now, in the end, she did not. There was no mention of the encounter with Violet and of the humiliation that had entailed; there was no mention of the broken shoe, nor of the ignominious barefoot walk, nor the thorn.