Kalahari Typing School for Men (4 page)

The idea came to Mma Makutsi one morning when she was preparing a cup of bush tea. Mma Ramotswe was out shopping rand Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had driven off to look at a car which he
had offered to sell on behalf of an old client. It was not much of a car, he had told her, but he regarded himself as responsible for his clients’ cars from birth to death, so to speak, as an old-fashioned doctor would see his patients through life’s journey. She took the freshly brewed tea into the garage workshop, where the two apprentices were sitting on a couple of upturned oil drums, watching a thin stray dog nose about the entrance to the garage.

“You look very busy,” said Mma Makutsi.

The older apprentice looked up at her resentfully. “It’s our tea break, Mma. Same as yours. We can’t work all the time.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. She was not interested in giving the apprentices one of the periodic dressings-down that had proved to be so effective while Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was away; she wanted their reaction to her idea.

“I’ve thought of a new thing for the business to do,” she announced, taking a sip of her bush tea. “I wondered what you would think.”

“You are a lady who is full of ideas,” said the younger apprentice. “Your head must hurt, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “Only hard ideas make your head hurt. My ideas are always simple.”

“I have simple ideas, too,” said the older apprentice. “I have ideas of girls. Those are my ideas. Simple. Girls, and then more girls.”

Mma Makutsi ignored this, addressing her next remark to the younger apprentice. “There are many people wanting to learn how to drive, are there not?”

The younger apprentice shrugged. “They can learn. There are lots of bush roads for them to practise on.”

“But that won’t help them drive in town,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “There are too many things happening in town. There are cars going this way and that. There are people crossing the road.”

“And lots of girls,” interjected the older apprentice. “Lots of girls walking about. All the time.”

The younger apprentice turned to look at his friend. “What is wrong with you? You are always thinking of girls.”

“So are you,” snapped the other. “Anyone who says he does not think of girls is a liar. All men think of girls. That is what men like to do.”

“Not all the time,” said the younger one. “There are other things to think about.”

“That is not true,” the older one retorted. “If you didn’t think about girls, then it is a sign that you are about to die. That is a well-known fact.”

“I am not interested in any of this,” said Mma Makutsi. “And, anyway, I’d heard that one of you has changed.” She paused, looking at the younger one for confirmation; but he merely lowered his eyes.

“So,” she continued, “I will tell you of an idea that I have had. I think that it is a good idea and I would like to hear what you think of it.”

“You can tell us,” said the older apprentice. “We are listening to what you have to say.”

Mma Makutsi dropped her voice, as if there were eavesdroppers in the darker corners of the garage. The apprentices leaned forward to catch her words. “I have decided that we should open a driving school,” she announced. “I will make some enquiries, but I do not think that there are enough driving schools. We could start a new one and give people a lesson after work. We could charge forty pula a time. Twenty pula could go to the teacher and twenty pula to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for the garage and for using his car. It would be a great success.”

The apprentices stared at her, and for a few moments nothing rwas said. Then the older one spoke.

“I do not want to have anything to do with it,” he said. “After work I like to go to see my friends. I do not have time to take people for driving lessons.”

Mma Makutsi looked at his friend. “And you?”

The younger apprentice smiled back at her. “You are a very clever lady, Mma. I think that this is a good idea.”

“There!” said Mma Makutsi, turning to the older apprentice. “You see, your friend here has a more positive way of looking at things. You are just useless. Look what all that thinking about girls has done to your brain.”

The younger apprentice smirked. “You hear that? Mma Makutsi is right. You should listen to her.” He turned to Mma Makutsi. “What will you call this driving school, Mma?”

“I have not thought about it,” she said. “I will think of something. The name you give to a business is very important. That is why the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency has been a success. The name says every thing you need to know about the business.”

The younger apprentice looked up at her hopefully. “I have a good idea for the name,” he said. “We could call it
Learn to Drive with Jesus
.”

There was a silence. The older apprentice cast a glance in the direction of his friend and then turned away.

“I am not sure about that,” said Mma Makutsi. “I will think about it, but I am not sure.”

“It is a very good name,” said the younger apprentice. “It will attract a careful class of driver, and it will mean that we have no accidents. The Lord will look after us.

“I hope so,” said Mma Makutsi. “I shall talk to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it and see what he thinks. Thank you for the suggestion.”

M
MA RAMOTSWE
completed her shopping. Before the two orphans had come to stay, shopping had been an easy task and she found that she rarely had to get supplies more than once a week. Now it seemed that every thing ran out shortly after she had replenished stocks. Only two days ago she had bought flour—a large bag, too—and now the flour was finished and the cake baked by the girl, Motholeli, had been all but consumed by her brother, Puso. That was a good sign, of course: boys should have good appetites, and it was natural for them to want to eat large amounts of cake and sweet things. As they grew older, they would move to meat, which was very important for a man. But all this food that was being consumed cost money, and had it not been for the generous contributions made by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—contributions which in fact covered the entire cost of keeping the children—Mma Ramotswe would have begun to feel the pinch.

It was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s idea to foster the children in the first place, and although she never regretted taking them in, she wished that he had consulted her first. It was not that she resented the fact that Motholeli was confined to a wheelchair and that she was now responsible for a handicapped child, it was just that she had imagined that something quite as important as this would have been the subject of some discussion. But it was not in Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s heart to say no—that was the problem. And she loved him all the more for that. Mma Silvia Potokwane, matron of the orphan farm, had understood that very well and, as usual, had been able to ensure the best possible arrangements for her orphans. She must have been planning for months to place the orphans with him, and of course she must have realised that they would end up living in Mma Ramotswe’s house in Zebra Drive rather than in Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s house near the old Botswana Defence Club. Of course, after the marriage (whenever that would be), they would all live together under one roof. The children had already been asking about that, and she had told them that she was waiting for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to decide on a date.

“He does not rush things,” she had explained. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is a very careful man. He likes to do things slowly.”

Puso had seemed impatient, and she had realised that his need was for a father. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would be that in due course, but in the meantime the boy, who had never had a parent, would be wondering whether he ever would. At the age of six, a week was a long time; a month would be interminable.

Motholeli, who had suffered so much and who had been so brave, understood. She had been used to waiting and of course it took her much longer to do anything, manoeuvring her wheelchair with difficulty through doorways that always seemed too small or along corridors that ended in awkward steps. Only now and then did she seem to register disappointment, and that was
never for more than a few moments. So when Mma Ramotswe returned from her shopping and struggled into the kitchen, laden with brown paper bags, she was surprised to find that there was no cheerful greeting from Motholeli, only a downcast look.

She lowered her parcels onto the table. “So much shopping,” she said. “Lots of meat. A sort of chicken.” She paused. She knew that Motholeli liked pumpkins. “And a pumpkin,” she said, adding: “A big one. Very yellow.”

At first the girl said nothing. Then, when she replied, her voice was flat: “That is good.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her. Motholeli had left that morning in good spirits, and so it must have been something which had happened at school. She remembered her own school days and the ups and downs which she had experienced. They had been such little dramas—at least when looked at from her current perspective—but they had seemed so grave and frightening at the time. She remembered the occasion when the head teacher of her school at Mochudi had tried to flush out a thief. One of the children had been stealing, and the teacher had summoned every child into his office and had insisted that he or she place a hand on the large Setswana Bible which he kept on his table. Then each child had been asked to say, beneath the head teacher’s piercing gaze:
I swear that I am not a thief
.

“Nobody who is innocent has anything to fear,” the teacher had announced before the whole school, assembled on the dusty playing field. “But the person who lies with his hand on the Bible will be struck down. That is one thing that is sure. Maybe not straightaway, but later, when you are not expecting it. That is when the Lord will strike you down.”

The silence had been complete. She had looked up into the sky but had seen only utter emptiness. It was undoubtedly true, rof course; people were struck by lightning, and it must have been
because they deserved it: thieves, perhaps, or even worse. She had no doubt but that the thief, whoever it was, would know this just as she did and would falter before he uttered the fateful words. But when the last pupil had filed out of the office and the head teacher had come out looking angry, she realised that she had been wrong and that one of their number was now in mortal danger. Who could it be? She had her suspicions, of course; everybody knew that Elijah Sebekedi could not be trusted, and although nobody had actually seen him stealing anything, how could he afford to buy those tins of condensed milk which he drank so conspicuously on his way home from school? His father, as was well known, was a drunkard and spent all his money on traditional beer, leaving nothing for his family. The children survived on handouts; the shoes they wore, the clothes, were recognised by the other children as those which they had abandoned, thinking that no more wear could be extracted from them. So there was only one explanation for Elijah’s tins of condensed milk.

She thought about him that night as she lay on her sleeping mat, watching the square of moonlight move slowly across the wall opposite her bedroom window. The rainy season was not far away, and there would be storms. Elijah Sebekedi should be worried about that; there would be lightning about. She closed her eyes, and then, her heart pounding, she opened them again. She herself had lied! Only a week ago she had helped herself to a doughnut which she had found in the kitchen. She had been unable to resist it and had felt immediately guilty after she had finished licking the last of the sugar off her fingers. She had said
I swear that I am not a thief
, blatantly, falsely, and had repeated it as the head teacher had not heard her the first time that she had uttered those fateful, damning words. And now she would be struck by lightning; there was no escape.

——

SHE DID
not sleep well, and the next morning she was silent as she ate her breakfast in the kitchen. Mma Ramotswe had lost her mother when she was still young and was looked after by her father and several of his female relatives who took it in turns to keep house for them. There was a seemingly endless supply of these relatives—competent, cheerful women who appeared to look forward to their turn to come to Mochudi and to rearrange and reverse every thing which their predecessor had done in the house. These were house-proud women, who kept the yard spotless, the sand brushed and raked every day, the chicken manure cleared away and deposited on the melon patch; women who understood the importance of scouring your pans until the black was scraped away and the metal below was shining. These were not small things. These were the things which showed children growing up in the house how they should live their lives as clean, upright people.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table with her father and his aunt from Palapye, watching the soft rays of the early morning sun streaming in through the door, Precious Ramotswe was aware that if it clouded over—as it might—and if there were lightning—as there might be—then she might not be sitting here the next morning. Of course there was only one thing to do, which was to confess, which she did, there and then to her father and the aunt, and Obed Ramotswe, after listening to her with astonishment, had turned to his aunt, and she had laughed and said: “But that was meant for you, that doughnut. You did not steal it.” And at this, overcome with relief, Precious had burst into tears and told the adults of the fate that awaited Elijah. Obed Ramotswe exchanged glances with his aunt.