Tea Time for the Traditionally Built Read online

  Mma Ramotswe had not, but she could imagine that people might indeed say it, so she nodded.

  Mr. Molofololo leaned back in his chair. “And do you know what I thought, Mma Ramotswe? I will tell you. I thought: I never played football, and now it is too late. That is what I thought. You can't have a man in his fifties running round the football field, can you? His heart will say no. So it was too late.”

  He paused, and then, with the air of one making an important announcement, he said, “But if it was too late to play football myself, it was not too late to buy a football team, Mma. Hah! So I bought a team that had not been doing very well—a nothing, useless team—and I got rid of all those lazy players and put in new ones who wanted to score lots of goals. And that's how the Kalahari Swoopers were born. Now you see us right up there, up at the top of the league most of the time, or number two at least. Until recently, that is. I did that. I did all that myself.”

  Mma Makutsi had been silent. But now she asked, “You did that yourself, Rra? You played after all?”

  Mr. Molofololo ignored the question at first, but then gave an answer. “No, not me, Mma. I am the owner. The football is played by the football players. And we have a coach, a very good one. He tells the men what tactics will work best.”

  “You must be very proud of your team, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Even I have heard of it. And I am just a woman.”

  Mr. Molofololo did not notice the irony. “Well, there you are,” he said. “That goes to show, doesn't it?”

  Mma Ramotswe knew that if she did not say something, Mma Makutsi would say, “Goes to show what?” So she asked him how his team was doing. Why were they no longer at the top of the league?

  It was the right question to ask, as it was this, he explained, that had brought him to see her. “Something has gone badly wrong,” he said. “A few months ago we started to lose a lot of games. At first I thought that it was just a little spell of bad luck; one cannot win every time, I suppose. But then it continued, and we are now going further and further down the league table. People are laughing at us. They say, Look at the Swoopers. They cannot swoop. No more swooping there. It is very painful, Mma, and I feel very ashamed of my team.”

  “That is very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “To build something up and then see it be destroyed is not a very nice experience, I think.”

  He was grateful for the sympathy. “Thank you, Mma. I'm sure that you can imagine what it would be like to see your own business suddenly go downhill. Imagine it. You solve all those cases and then suddenly there are no more solutions. It would not feel good, would it?”

  Mma Ramotswe was tactful. “There are always reversals in business. It is not the fault of the people running the businesses— or, at least, it's not always their fault.”

  This comment seemed to engage Mr. Molofololo, who suddenly became animated. “It is definitely not their fault, Mma! And in this case it is not the fault of my players—or most of them. I have the same young men playing for me, and they are as good as ever. But whatever they do, something seems to go badly wrong. Penalties are given away unnecessarily or the defence doesn't quite work out. There are many reasons.”

  Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. “If it's a game, Rra, then surely anything can happen. Maybe things will improve.”

  Mr. Molofololo shook his head disconsolately. “I would like to think that,” he said. “But I'm afraid that we're doomed. I do not think that things will get any better until …”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at him expectantly. “Until what, Rra?”

  “Until we find out who the traitor is.”

  Mma Ramotswe waited for him to expand on this, but he simply looked at her angrily, as if blaming her in some way for his team's misfortunes. Was he one of those people, she wondered, who see enemies at every turn? She had known somebody like that once; he had suspected everybody of plotting against him. Perhaps Mr. Molofololo saw traitors everywhere, all of them intent on letting him down.

  “Perhaps you should tell me about this traitor,” she said gently. “Is it a business rival of yours, maybe?”

  This suggestion seemed to make Mr. Molofololo even crosser. “I don't know, Mma,” he said, somewhat peevishly. “It may be somebody like that behind the traitor. Who knows? The real problem is that there is a traitor in the team.”

  “Somebody who wants you to lose?” Mma Ramotswe had heard of people who fixed games—there had been some row about this happening in cricket in South Africa and it had got into the local papers. But would the same thing happen in football in Gaborone? She wondered whether the stakes would be high enough; perhaps they were. Perhaps it was a matter of Mercedes-Benzes; they seemed to come into these things a great deal.

  Mr. Molofololo folded his hands in his lap. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe, I'm afraid that may be true. In fact, I'm sure that it's true. There is somebody in the team who wants us to lose and is making very sure that we do.”

  Mr. Molofololo stopped speaking, and there was silence. Outside, in the acacia tree behind the office, a dove cooed—the small Cape dove that had taken up residence in the tree and cooed for a mate who never came.

  Mma Ramotswe spread her hands. “I don't know, Rra, if I am the best person to find out what is going on here,” she said.

  “But you're a detective,” protested Mr. Molofololo. “And I have asked around, Mma. Everybody has said to me: you go to that Mma Ramotswe—she is the one who can find things out. That is what they said.”

  It was flattering to Mma Ramotswe to hear that her reputation had spread, but she knew nothing at all about football, and it seemed to her that it would be impossible to detect something as subtle and devious as match-fixing. It would be difficult enough for her to work out which direction the team was playing in, let alone to discover who was deliberately not doing his best.

  “I may be a detective, Rra,” she explained, “but this is a very special thing you are asking me to do. How can I find out who this … this traitor is if I know nothing about football? I cannot sit there and say, See that? See what is going on over there—that is very suspicious. I cannot do that.”

  “And I cannot either,” said Mma Makutsi. “I know nothing about football either.”

  Mr. Molofololo sighed. “I'm not asking you to do that, Mma,” he said. “I'm asking you to look into the private lives of the players. Find out who is being paid money to do this—because money will be changing hands, I'm sure of it.”

  This changed everything. “I can certainly do that, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Indeed, that is what we do rather well, isn't it, Mma Makutsi?”

  Mma Makutsi nodded emphatically. “We often find out where men are hiding their money when it comes to divorce,” she said. “Men are very cunning, Rra. But we find out where the money is.”

  Mr. Molofololo raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure you do,” he said.

  “So we shall be happy to act for you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We will need details of all the players. We shall need to know exactly where they live, and I need to be able to have some contact with the team. Can you think of any suitable cover for me?”

  Mr. Molofololo thought for a moment. “We have a lady who gives massages to the players,” he said. “She helps them if they pull a muscle or something like that. But she also helps to keep their limbs in good working order. You could be her assistant, perhaps. She has worked for me for many years and is very discreet.”

  “That is important,” said Mma Makutsi from behind her desk. “One does not want a lady who talks too much.”

  AT THE END OF THAT DAY, at five o'clock, when the whole of Gaborone streamed out of its shops and offices and other places of work, when the sun began to sink low over the Kalahari to the west, Mma Ramotswe locked the office behind her and walked, with Mma Makutsi, on to the Tlokweng Road. Mma Makutsi would catch a minibus there, one of those swaying, overloaded vehicles that plied their trade along the roads that led into the city, and she said to Mma Ramotswe, “Why walk all the way, Mma? Come with me o
n the minibus and then you can get off when we get to the crossroads and walk from there.”

  She was tempted. It had been a busy day, what with Mr. Molofololo and several other clients who had slipped in without an appointment, and all she wanted now was to get home. But she had said that she would walk, and walk she would.

  “No thank you, Mma. It is good exercise, you see. It's important that people in Botswana should get exercise. We talked about that already.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled. “But it's also important,” she said, “that people in Botswana get back home in good time. It's important that they have time to cook themselves a good dinner. It's important that they do not get covered in dust from too much walking. All of these things are important.”

  Mma Ramotswe just smiled. “I hope that you sleep well tonight, Mma. I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

  And with that they bade their farewells, and Mma Makutsi watched Mma Ramotswe begin to walk along the road back towards town. She admired her employer, who was far stronger, she thought, than she was herself. I would never walk if I had the chance of getting into a car or a minibus. No, I would not, and that is because Mma Ramotswe is a strong and determined lady and I am just one of these ladies who blow with the wind. She paused; she was not sure that this was the right metaphor. For a moment she imagined Mma Ramotswe being buffeted by a strong wind, one of the hot, dry winds that come from far off in the bush, far over on the other side of the border, from hills that she could not name and had never seen. She saw the wind ruffle Mma Ramotswe's skirt and blouse, inflating them briefly; but Mma Ramotswe stood firm, while all about her acacia trees were bending and leaves whirling in mad vortices. Mma Ramotswe stood firm, even when lesser people, thin, insubstantial people, were being toppled and bowled over by the wind. That was Mma Ramotswe, her rock.

  Unaware of Mma Makutsi's fantasy, Mma Ramotswe made her way slowly along the edge of the road. The traffic was light in that direction, as most of the cars were coming out of town, heading back to the sprawling village of Tlokweng. She was now passing the eucalyptus trees that stretched out towards the dam to the south; she drove past these trees every day, and she thought that she knew them well. But now, on foot, it was as if she saw them for the first time. She loved their scent, that slightly prickly scent that reminded her of the handkerchiefs that her father's cousin used. She would put a few drops of eucalyptus oil onto the cloth and let the young Precious smell them. “That keeps away colds,” the cousin said. “If you put eucalyptus oil on your handkerchief, your nose is safe. Always.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled at the memory. She did not think that eucalyptus oil made a difference; she had read somewhere that nothing made a difference to colds other than washing your hands after you had touched a person suffering from one. People believed all manner of things, in the face of all the evidence, but if they did not, well, what then? What if we stopped believing in things that we could not prove? We had to believe in something, she thought. We had to believe in kindness and courtesy and telling the truth; we had to believe in the old Botswana values— all of these things could not be proved in the way in which one could prove that nothing made a difference to colds, and yet we had to believe them.

  Such thoughts to be thinking while walking along the side of the Tlokweng Road; but at least they distracted her, even if only temporarily, from a growing feeling of discomfort in her right foot. Now, as Mma Ramotswe turned off into the area known as the village, to walk along Odi Drive, she realised that what she was developing was a blister, and a painful one at that. She stopped, crouched down, and took off her shoe, feeling gingerly for that place where she thought the pain came from. Yes, the skin was raised there; it was a blister.

  She wondered whether she should remove her right shoe, or possibly both shoes. There was a time when she would have thought nothing of that; as a child and then as a young woman she would happily walk about unshod, particularly in the sand, which gave such a fine feeling to the soles of the feet. But now her feet had become softer and the very earth seemed to have become thornier and less hospitable.

  She replaced her shoe and began to walk down Odi Drive. The blister was quite painful now, and she was having to put less weight on that leg, resulting in a hobbling motion. Zebra Drive was still a long way away—at least twenty minutes, she thought, and she could imagine what her foot would be like at the end of that.

  She was now only a few yards—even if painful yards—from the Moffat house on the corner. She would go and see the Moffats, she decided; if the doctor was in, then he might even take a look at the blister and give her some cream for it. And if she asked, she was sure Mma Moffat would drive her home and save her continuing agony.

  Dr. Moffat was at home, and while Mma Moffat made tea for Mma Ramotswe, he examined her foot.

  “A very bad blister,” he said. “But I think we can save the foot.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up in alarm and saw that Dr. Moffat was smiling. “You worried me, Rra.”

  “Just a little joke, Mma Ramotswe,” he said, peeling the covering off a small square of sticking plaster. “Your foot's fine. But tell me: Why are you walking? What's wrong with your tiny white van?”

  Mma Ramotswe hesitated. “Oh, Dr. Moffat, I am very sad. I am very, very sad. My van …”

  “Have you had an accident?”

  “No, not an accident. My van is an old one. It has been my friend for many years—right from the time I came to Gaborone. And now it is like an old cow standing under a tree waiting for the end to come. I don't know …”

  She faltered. She did not know what to do, and now she wept for the van that she loved so much. It was ridiculous, she thought, a grown woman weeping for a van. But Dr. Moffat did not think it ridiculous; he had seen so much of human suffering in all its shapes and sizes, and he knew how easy it was for people to cry. So he and Mma Moffat, who had come in with a cup of tea for their visitor, comforted her and talked to her about the little white van.

  “One thing's very certain,” said Dr. Moffat. “It's the same for humans as it is for vans. When something needs to be fixed, don't just deny it. Go and see somebody—a doctor for a person, a mechanic for a van.”

  “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will just tell me it has to go. I know he will.”

  “Then speak to one of those young men—his apprentices. Get him to fix it for you.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silent as she contemplated this suggestion. She would never lie to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, but that did not mean that she had to tell him everything.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MMA MAKUTSI MAKES

  PERI-PERI CHICKEN

  THAT EVENING, while Mma Ramotswe nursed the painful blister on her right heel, Mma Makutsi was busy in her kitchen, cooking dinner for her fiancé, Mr. Phuti Radiphuti, proprietor of the Double Comfort Furniture Shop and owner, too, of a large herd of fine cattle built up by his father, the older Mr. Radiphuti. Mma Makutsi knew what Phuti Radiphuti's culinary tastes were and had recently discovered that he was particularly partial to peri-peri chicken, a dish that the Portuguese had dreamed up in Mozambique and Angola. From there it had spread into other countries, including Botswana, where it was a favourite amongst those who liked their food to be scathingly hot. Phuti was one of these, she thought, and could happily chew on the most stinging of chilli peppers without the need of a glass of water.

  “You'll get used to it, Grace,” he said. “You will not feel it at all. Peri-peri chicken, vindaloo curries—everything. It will all taste equally good.”

  She was doubtful, but for Phuti's sake was still prepared to put up with what she thought to be excessively fiery dishes; and now she was making one of these, dropping several large pinches of flaked chilli into the marinade of oil and lemon juice that she had prepared shortly before Phuti's arrival.

  She dipped a finger into the sauce and then dabbed it against her tongue. Immediately she felt an intense stinging sensation and reached for a glass of water to cool the burning. How can he do it? she ask
ed herself. This made her reflect on how often one had to pose that question about men. They did all sorts of inexplicable things, and women were always asking themselves the same question: How can they do it?

  When Phuti arrived half an hour later, the chicken was almost ready. Phuti sat at her table, which was covered with a new yellow tablecloth she had recently bought, and watched Mma Makutsi attend to the final preparations.

  “I am a very lucky man to be marrying somebody who can make peri-peri chicken,” he announced. “I always wanted to meet such a lady.”

  She laughed. “Would you not marry me if I could not make peri-peri chicken?”

  Phuti thought this very amusing. He was not quite as quick as Mma Makutsi, and he enjoyed her ability to make light-hearted comments such as this. He would have liked to have been able to reply with some witty riposte, but what could he say? Of course he would have married her, irrespective of her ability to cook peri-peri chicken. Indeed, he had not even known about that until after he had proposed.

  “I would marry you,” he said, “even if you could cook nothing—nothing at all! I would marry you even if you wore glasses, which you do, of course.”

  For a while nothing was said as both of them tried to work out the significance of the last remark. Then Phuti cleared his throat. “Of course I do not mind glasses, and yours are very pretty, Grace. That is what I think.”

  Mma Makutsi stirred the peri-peri chicken rather more aggressively than perhaps was necessary. “The chicken is almost ready, Phuti,” she said. “I will serve you now.”

  They ate in silence, and it was several minutes before Phuti spoke. “When I said …” he began. “I didn't mean …”

  “Of course not. I didn't think that you meant that.”

  During the ensuing silence Mma Makutsi drank several glasses of water. It felt to her as if a hot iron had been run across her tongue, and the water, curiously enough, seemed only to make each successive mouthful more fiery. When the chicken was finished, she served a dessert of pineapple and custard that she knew Phuti would like, and this seemed to dispel the gloom that had settled over the table.