Kalahari Typing School for Men (11 page)

“I felt very embarrassed over what had happened, and so I lied. I told them that this girl was trying to get me to help her cheat in her examinations and that I was refusing to do this. They were astonished to hear this, and they said that they were sorry
they had misjudged me. ‘It is a good thing for Botswana that we have honest people like you,’ said the father. ‘If everybody were like you, then I would be out of a job. There would be no more need for the Botswana Prisons Department.’

“I sat there and said nothing. I was thinking of how I had stolen from these people, and how I had lied to them. I was thinking of how sad I had made my girlfriend and how I had forced her to get rid of our baby. I was thinking of the baby itself. But I just sat there and said nothing while I ate the food of the people whose kindness I had abused. Only the boy who shared my room seemed to know how I was feeling. He looked at me carefully and then he turned away. I realised then that he knew I had done some very bad things.

“There is not much more to say, Mma. After a few weeks, I forgot all about it. I still thought of the radio from time to time, and felt cold inside when I did so, but I never thought of the girl. Then, when I had finished at the college and I had found a job, I began to be too busy to think much about my past. I was lucky. I did very well in business, and I was able to buy the hotel at a very good price. I found a good wife to marry me, and I had the two fine sons I told you about. There are also three daughters. I have every thing I need, but after what happened to me when those men came to my farm, I want to clear up my bad conscience. I want to make good the bad deeds that I did.”

Mr. Molefelo stopped talking and looked at Mma Ramotswe, who had been twisting a long blade of grass around her finger as she listened to him speaking.

“Is that every thing, Rra?” she asked after a while. “Have you told me every thing?”

Mr. Molefelo nodded. “I have not hidden anything. That is what happened. I remember it very clearly, and I have told you reverything.”

Mma Ramotswe stared at him. He was telling the truth, she knew, because the truth was in his eyes.

“That cannot have been easy to say,” she said. “You have been very brave. Most people never tell these stories about themselves. Most people make themselves sound better than they really are.”

“There would have been no point doing that,” said Mr. Molefelo. “The whole point of talking to you was to tell somebody the truth.”

“And now?” she asked. “What do you want to do now?”

Mr. Molefelo frowned. “I want you to help me. That is why I have come to see you.”

“But what can I do?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I cannot change the past. I cannot take you back all those years.”

“Of course not. I did not expect you to be able to do that. I just want you to sort this thing out for me.”

“How can I do that? I can’t bring back that baby. I can’t find that radio. I can’t prevent the sadness which that girl felt. All these are things which are long dead and buried. How many years is it? Nearly twenty years? That is a long time.”

“I know it is a long time. But it might be possible to do something. I would like to pay the Tsolamosese family back. I would like to give some money to the girl. I would like to sort these things out.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Do you think that money can change things? Do you think that just by giving somebody money, you can undo what you did?”

“No,” said Mr. Molefelo. “I do not think that. I am not stupid. I would also like to give them an apology. I would like to apologise and also to give them money.”

For a few moments there was silence as Mma Ramotswe pondered this. What would she do herself, she wondered, in these circumstances? If she had the courage, she would go to the
people involved and confess what had happened. Then she would try to make amends. This was what he was doing, except for the fact that he was expecting her to do it for him. An indirect apology of that sort was no apology at all, she thought.

“Don’t you think,” she began, “don’t you think that you are just asking me to do your dirty work—or should I call it your hard work—for you? Don’t you think that this means you are not really ready to apologise?”

Mr. Molefelo stared at her. He seemed upset, and she wondered whether she was being too direct. It had been difficult enough for him to talk about this without her now making it worse by effectively accusing him of cowardice. And who was she to accuse anybody of cowardice? How did anybody know how brave he would be?

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. “I did not mean to be unkind. I understand how hard this is for you.”

There was anguish in his expression as he replied. “All I want you to do, Mma, is to find these people. I do not know where they are. Then, when you have found them, I promise you that I shall be brave. I will go to them and I will speak to them directly.”

“That is good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Nobody could ask more of you.”

“But will you help?” asked Mr. Molefelo. “Will you help me by coming with me when I go to see them? I do not know whether I will fail at the last moment if you do not come with me.”

“Of course I’ll come with you,” she said. “I will come with you, and I will be saying to myself:
This a brave man. Only a brave man can look at his past wrongs and then face up to them like this
.”

Mr. Molefelo smiled, his relief quite apparent. “You are a very kind lady, Mma Ramotswe.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mma Ramotswe, rising to her
feet and dusting off her dress. “But now it is time for us to walk back. And on the walk back, I shall tell you about a little problem I have. It is all about a boy who killed a hoopoe, and I want to hear from you what you think. You are a man with two boys, and maybe you can give me some advice.”

W
HENEVER SHE
walked past the Botswana Secretarial College, Mma Makutsi felt a surge of pride. She had spent six months of her life at the college, during which time she had scraped an existence, working part-time as a night waitress in a hotel (a job which she hated) and struggling to stay awake during the day. Her resolve and her persistence had paid off, and she would never forget the strength of the applause at the graduation ceremony when, before the proud eyes of her parents, who had sold a sheep to pay for the journey down to Gaborone, she had crossed the stage to receive her secretarial diploma as the leading graduate of the year. Her life, she suspected, would involve no greater triumph than that.

“Do you see that?” she said to the elder apprentice, whom Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had instructed to help her in the task of
fetching the typewriters. “That motto on the notice board up there?
Be accurate
. That’s the motto of the college.”

“Yes,” said the apprentice. “That’s a good motto. You don’t want to be inaccurate if you are a typist. Otherwise you have to do every thing twice. That would not be good.”

Mma Makutsi looked at him sideways. “A good motto for every walk of life, would you not think?”

The apprentice said nothing, and they continued to walk down the corridor that led to the office.

“All the students here are girls, are they not, Mma?” asked the apprentice.

“Yes,” she said. “There is no reason why that should be. But that is how it was in my day.”

“I would like to study here, then,” said the apprentice. “That would suit me. I should like to sit in a classroom with all those girls.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “Some of them would like that, too, I think. The wrong sort of girl.”

“There are no wrong sort of girls,” countered the apprentice. “All girls have their uses. All girls are welcome.”

They had arrived at the office, and Mma Makutsi was announcing herself to the assistant principal’s receptionist.

“Mma Manapotsi will be pleased to see you, Mma,” said the receptionist, glancing appreciatively at the apprentice, who was smiling at her. “She remembers you well.”

Mma Makutsi was shown into Mma Manapotsi’s office while the apprentice remained outside, perched on the edge of the receptionist’s desk. He was amusing her by pressing a finger on a blank sheet of paper and leaving a fingerprint of black grease outlined on the surface.

“My trademark,” he said. “If I hold hands with a pretty girl—like you—I leave a trademark! It says: My property! Keep off!”

Inside, Mma Manapotsi greeted Mma Makutsi warmly. There were enquiries about her current job, and a delicate question as to the salary she was commanding.

“It sounds very important being an assistant detective and assistant manager,” said Mma Manapotsi. “I hope that they are paying you what you deserve. We like our graduates to be properly rewarded.”

“They are paying me as much as they can,” said Mma Makutsi. “Very few people get paid what they really deserve, though, do they? Even the president does not get the salary he deserves, I think. We should pay him more, I think.”

“That may be so,” said Mma Manapotsi. “I have always thought that the assistant principals of colleges should get more, too. But we must not complain, must we, Mma? If everybody complained all the time, then there would be no time for anything else but complaints. We do not complain here at the Botswana Secretarial College. We get on with the job.”

“That is what I think, too,” said Mma Makutsi.

The conversation continued in this way for a few minutes. From beyond the door that led into the receptionist’s room, there was a murmur of voices and an occasional giggle. At length, they reached the subject of the old typewriters, and Mma Manapotsi confirmed her offer.

“We can fetch them now,” she said. “Your young man out there can carry them for you, if he is not too busy with that girl of mine.”

“He is always like that with girls,” said Mma Makutsi. “Every girl he meets. It is a sad thing, but that is the way he is.”

“We would not want men to ignore us altogether,” said Mma Manapotsi. “But sometimes it would be better if they ignored us a bit.”

They made their way to the storeroom where, amid piles of papers and books, the disused typewriters were stacked.

“They are very old,” said Mma Manapotsi, “but most of them could probably be made to work, or almost work. They will need oiling.”

“Plenty of that in the garage,” remarked the apprentice, turning a roller experimentally.

“Perhaps,” said Mma Manapotsi. “But remember, these machines are not like cars. They are much more delicate.”

They returned to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, where Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had agreed the typewriters could be stored and worked upon until Mma Makutsi had found a place for the classes to be held. Mma Ramotswe, who had endorsed the plan in spite of some misgivings about whether there would be enough pupils, offered to pay for the placing of a press advertisement drawing attention to the classes, and also expressed an interest in helping with the restoration of the typewriters.

“Motholeli would like to help, too,” she said. “She is very keen on machines, that girl, and she has very nimble fingers.”

“This business will be a great success,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have a feeling for businesses. I think that this one will do well.”

Mma Makutsi was buoyed by his prediction. She was awed by the thought that she was about to embark on a venture of her own, and the warm words of her employers encouraged her greatly. “Do you really think so, Rra?”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

IT WAS
, it transpired, a time of mutual support. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency supported Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors,
providing secretarial and bookkeeping services in the shape of Mma Makutsi, who still occasionally helped with the servicing of cars as well. In return, Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors paid most of Mma Makutsi’s salary, thus making it possible for her to serve as assistant detective. For her part, Mma Ramotswe supported Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, making his evening meal for him and laundering his overalls and those of the apprentices as well. The apprentices, nurtured and trained by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was tolerant of their foibles as most employers would not be, repaid in their own way. When it came to the restoration of the typewriters, it was they who did most of the work, giving up a great deal of their spare time over the next two weeks in an effort to coax the old machines into service ability.

It was in this spirit of mutual assistance that everybody agreed to attend a religious meeting at which the younger apprentice was speaking. He had asked them whether they would care to come and hear him speak, as it would be the first time that he had addressed the entire brotherhood of his church, and it was, he said, a very important occasion for him.

“We shall have to go,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I don’t think we can refuse.”

“You are right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is very important to him. It is a bit like a prize-giving. If he were getting a prize, we would have to go.”

“These things can go on for many hours,” warned Mma Makutsi. “Don’t expect to get away in less than three hours. You must eat a big piece of meat before you go, otherwise you will feel weak.”