The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon (15 page)

Sensing that her version of events was doubted, Mma Soleti issued a challenge. ‘Well, who else could it be, Mma?’

Mma Ramotswe suggested that the rumour might not have been started deliberately. ‘These stories can start in all sorts of ways,’ she said. ‘Somebody may think they’ve heard something, or may hear half a story and then decide it ends in such and such a way. They may not know that they’re spreading a rumour; they may think it is true, Mma.’

Mma Soleti gave a snort. It was only too clear to her. ‘It is the same person, Mma. It is that person who sent me the feather. I am very sure of it.’

Mma Ramotswe had to admit that it was a possibility, but when pressed to come up with a suggestion as to how to identify the author of Mma Soleti’s misfortunes, she could only think of a list of enemies. It was not a very novel idea, she had to admit, but it could throw up something useful.

Mma Soleti received the suggestion thoughtfully. ‘I am not a lady with many enemies, Mma,’ she said. ‘But I shall try to think.’

‘It is not always easy to know our enemies,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I think that is because enemies are often enemies for no real reason, and so we do not think they exist.’

‘But all the time they are there?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Soleti had already reached for a pad of paper. ‘I had an enemy at school,’ she said. ‘It was when we were very young – maybe seven or eight. There was a girl who hated me for some reason. She used to creep up behind me and pinch me. I was very upset by it.’

‘That is quite understandable,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Has she continued to be your enemy?’

Mma Soleti shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen her for many years. But she might still be —’

Mma Ramotswe cut her short. ‘No, Mma. We are not looking for an enemy from back then. Usually people forget the enemies they had as children. Sometimes they become good friends.’

Mma Soleti had thought of somebody. ‘There is a neighbour,’ she said. ‘She says that my children stole her paw-paws. That is not true, but I can see that she still thinks it.’

Mma Ramotswe was doubtful. ‘Those little arguments between neighbours are usually not enough to make somebody do something like this. Can you not think of somebody who has a really good reason to dislike you enough to want to harm you?’

Mma Soleti looked up at the ceiling. ‘Maybe,’ she said, rather distantly.

Mma Ramotswe waited.

‘There is that woman,’ she said eventually.

‘Which woman?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Soleti assumed an expression of disgust. ‘The one who says that I stole her husband.’

‘Ah,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘And where did she get that idea from, Mma?’

‘It was what happened,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘But he was ready to be stolen, Mma.’

T
hat evening Mr J. L. B. Matekoni,
garagiste
saviour of countless marginal vehicles, husband, foster father and citizen of Botswana, enrolled at a community improvement course hosted by the University of Botswana. The course was not at the forefront of the university’s offerings to the people of Gaborone; more prominent on that list were popular courses in the History of Post-Independence Botswana, in the Flora and Fauna of the Kalahari, and in the Management of the Domestic Budget. Those were in the top rank in terms of popularity and acclaim; below that were second-ranking courses in Personal Self-Presentation, Managing the Small Business, and First Aid. Finally came the course on which Mr J. L. B. Matekoni had embarked: How to Be a Modern Husband (Level 1). There was no Level 2 of that course, although it had been talked about and the organisers had promised that it would be offered if demand was there.

The Modern Husband course was held in one of the old classrooms, away from the large buildings that had sprung up in the later phases of the university’s development. The old buildings were redolent of the city in its more comfortable days, when structures tended to grow outwards rather than upwards. Low squat buildings, painted uniformly white and shaded by wide eaves, were linked to one another by walkways shielded from the sun and, more rarely, from downpours of rain by arched tin roofs. Now the students sat through their lectures in the greater comfort of new lecture theatres, leaving the old classrooms for the occasional use of less popular subjects and, as in this case, outside courses.

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni felt slightly awkward as he parked his aged green truck in the parking lot outside the classrooms. He had every right to be there – as a taxpayer, and a scrupulously conscientious one at that, he paid for at least some of all this, and as a prospective member of a university-hosted evening class he was, in a sense, a student. In spite of this, though, he felt that this was not his world. This was the world of the new Botswana, of the young people who would go on to do things that he would never have dreamed of doing – to be lawyers and accountants, and even doctors, now that the medical school had been opened. In his day, such things had seemed hopelessly remote – the preserve of those who could go off on government scholarships over the border or even overseas. They had not been for somebody like him, the young man from Molepolole who had never dreamed of being anything other than a mechanic.

But now, as he turned off the ignition and the truck’s engine coughed into silence, he considered how far he had come. He had his own business, a house, a wife, two foster children who gave him joy, and a reasonable balance in a savings account with the Standard Bank. Of these assets, there was no doubt in his mind that the one he valued most was his wife, Precious Ramotswe, daughter of the late Obed Ramotswe of Mochudi, and owner of her own, perhaps somewhat shakier business, the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. He was so proud of her, and he would willingly sacrifice everything – everything – if he were ever required to choose between Mma Ramotswe and all that he possessed. Although they had been married for some years now, he could hardly believe his luck in finding somebody like her; he could hardly believe that she had agreed to marry him, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, when he felt that she could have married virtually anybody else in Botswana, had she wanted to. But somehow she had said yes to him, and as a result he had found a happiness that he had never thought was attainable on this side of the great divide that separated those of us who were still alive from those who, being late, were now in a much better place, wherever that was. It was not for him, he thought, to speculate on that location, or even to talk about it. It was somewhere above Botswana, perhaps, or even in Botswana, in those places that you found were special because they somehow felt special: places where you sensed the presence of those who had gone before; some hill with granite rock smoothed by countless rainy seasons; some place of trees and shade where the cattle liked to cluster; some place where there was human silence and you imagined, for some odd reason, that you could actually hear the air.

It was because he valued Mma Ramotswe so highly that he had now taken this step, encouraged, it must be admitted, by Mma Potokwani – who had always pushed him about for various purposes. It was because he wanted to please the wife he loved and to make her life easier that he sought this advice on how to be a modern husband. And now, looking out of his dusty truck window, he saw that there were several other husbands in need of modernisation sitting in their vehicles, all sent there, no doubt, by their wives, or by friends of their wives, all waiting the ten minutes or so before the class was due to start. It was understandable embarrassment, perhaps, that kept them sitting in their cars rather than standing outside in one of the loose groups that men like to stand about in. Going to a course of this nature was in a way an admission that one needed help, and not everybody wanted to be seen in a throng of the needy.

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni glanced furtively at the man in the car parked beside his truck. This man, who looked a few years younger than he was, seemed vaguely familiar and he wondered whether he knew him. The problem with Gaborone was that there were so many people you recognised but could not name. These were people you saw going about their business in the same place and at the same time as you went about yours. After a couple of such encounters you felt that you knew them, even if you did not. Then there were the people whom you did not
quite
know, but who were known to people you did know. You almost knew these people, and indeed you might end up waving to them or greeting them in the street because you knew – and they knew too – some other person who linked you to them and them to you. These people you might subsequently meet at weddings and funerals, when they were united with you in joy or in grief, and then you might talk to them as if they were old friends.

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni got out of his truck at the same time as the man next to him emerged from his vehicle. They both looked at one another sheepishly before the other man spoke.

‘I am only here because I have been told to be here,’ he announced.

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni laughed. ‘It will be very good for us, Rra. It’ll be like going to the dentist.’

This exchange gave rise to a warm flow of fellow feeling. Misfortune, shared even with a stranger, or with somebody who was a stranger until he could remember where he met him, made things easier as they walked the short distance to the classroom. On the door in front of them, which was half-open, was a large sign saying simply:
Husband Course.
Through the door they saw a small group of earlier arrivals – twelve or so – seated behind individual desks. Nobody was speaking.

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni sat down at the back, his new friend preferring the front row. Glances were exchanged with the others present: quick glances of assessment followed by conspiracy. It was, thought Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, rather like one of those groups where people with a problem – drinking or gambling or something of that sort – came together for mutual help and support. What united these men was presumably a failure on their part to understand that marriage had changed; that women were no longer prepared to do everything for husbands who took their wives, and all the work they did, for granted.

After a few minutes the course leader came into the room. She was a tall woman with a high, prominent forehead, and she was dressed in a sombre trouser suit. On the lapel of her jacket she wore a large brooch that Mr J. L. B. Matekoni could make out as a hovering bird of some sort – an eagle, perhaps, or a buzzard.

The woman told them that her name was Keitumeste. ‘As you know, men,’ she said, ‘that name means something in Setswana. Can anyone tell me, please?’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni noticed that she addressed them, unusually, as
men
. The correct plural term, in Setswana, was
borra
, or in English,
gentlemen.
But
men
? He would never address a group of women as
women
, but then, he suddenly thought,
I am not modern
…

‘It means
I am happy
,’ said a man near the front. ‘And I am happy that you are happy, Mma.’

There was a ripple of nervous laughter. Keitumeste, though, did not join in.

‘But I am not happy,’ she said forcefully, causing the laughter to die out. ‘I am far from happy.’

There was complete silence.

‘You see,’ she went on, glaring at the man who had spoken, ‘the reason why I am so unhappy is because I do not think I can be happy as long as there are so many men who are causing unhappiness among the women of Botswana.’ She paused. ‘At all levels. Up in Francistown. Over in Maun. In Lobatse. In Gaborone. Everywhere.’

The silence continued. One or two of the men shifted uncomfortably in their seats; others remained quite still, as one stays still in the presence of great danger, hoping that the source of the danger will not notice one.

‘And who are these men?’ Keitumeste asked.

Very tentatively a hand was raised at the front. Keitumeste’s gaze fixed on a man slouched in his chair.

‘People like us?’ he said, with a snigger.

The sheer effrontery of this remark – a risky attempt to defuse the tension – brought a sharp intake of breath from the rest of those present. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s mouth opened in horror.

For a few moments Keitumeste said nothing. Then she said, ‘I see.’ Her tone was icy.

The man who had made the suggestion looked over his shoulder for support. When he saw it was not forthcoming, he changed his posture slightly. The slouch became less pronounced.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

Fixed with an even more intense gaze, he corrected his posture even further.

‘And you weren’t funny, Rra,’ she said, her tone still icy. ‘You’ll see that I am not laughing. And neither is anybody else in the class laughing.’ She scanned the rows of faces. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni looked down at the floor, wondering whether he could slip out unnoticed. Being at the back of the class, he was close to the door, but Keitumeste had closed it when she entered and he thought it would be impossible to leave without being spotted and challenged.

The course began. There was a short introductory lecture from Keitumeste on how she had been brought up in a patriarchal household but had freed herself from all that and made a marriage in which everything was shared equally with her husband. He, however, was an unusual man and she realised shortly after she married him that there were very few men like him in Botswana. At this, she looked sternly at the class members once again. Several nodded their heads in enthusiastic assent.

‘My mission,’ she went on, ‘is to help the men of Botswana to change. That is what God has called me to do, and that is what I shall do.’

The mention of God made Mr J. L. B. Matekoni frown. In his experience, people were always claiming that God agreed with them even when there was little or no evidence that this was the case. And anybody could say that God had called him to do what he did – even burglars. ‘God has called me to break into houses,’ such a man might say. ‘That is the work He planned for me.’ Of course, if he said that to a judge, then the judge might say, ‘And He has called me to send you to prison.’

No, thought Mr J. L. B. Matekoni – people should be careful about claiming authority that they did not have. It was the same with Mma Ramotswe and Seretse Khama, he reflected – not disloyally, of course. She was always claiming that Seretse Khama believed this, that and the next thing, whether or not there was any indication that he had ever even considered the matter on which she was pronouncing. But that was such a small fault, and rather an endearing one at that…

‘Now, before we go any further,’ continued Keitumeste, ‘I should like to carry out a little test. May I have a show of hands, please, on the following: firstly, how many of you consider yourselves to be modern men?’

She looked about her. A hand went up in the front – very tentatively – and then another one in the second row, and a few more in the third. Men looked around and, seeing hands go up, followed suit. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni did not consider himself to be a modern man – not yet – and so he felt he simply could not make the claim.

Keitumeste was smirking. ‘Hands down!’ she commanded. ‘You are all wrong – all except that man at the back. You, Rra, you did not put your hand up.’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni shook his head. He wished he had not drawn attention to himself in this way, but he could not make an untrue claim. It would be as bad as describing a car as being in good condition when it patently was not; he had never done that sort of thing before, and he had no intention of doing it now.

‘Well, then,’ said Keitumeste, ‘this shows us a very important thing: a really modern man does not pretend to be something that he is not. All of you – all, except our friend at the back – are therefore old-fashioned.’

The other men turned to stare at Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. Their expressions were reproachful – as if he stood accused of trying to curry favour with the teacher. He looked away in embarrassment.

‘There are more questions,’ announced Keitumeste. ‘The first of these is this: when did you last vacuum-clean the house?’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni bit his lip as he tried to decide on the answer he would give if attention were suddenly to be focused on him. At one level the answer was simple – he had never vacuumed the house – but there was an even more profound issue to be resolved: did they even have a vacuum cleaner? If there was no vacuum cleaner, then it would look less bad for him that he had never used one in the house. Mind you, he had never swept the house either – and they did have a broom.

A forest of hands went up, but it did not include his.

Keitumeste pointed at a man in the middle. ‘Yes, Rra? When did you do that?’