Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (10 page)

“As you can probably hear, Rra,” she said, “the office is rather busy at the moment. But I shall start on your case as soon as I can.”

It was a genuine excuse; Mma Ramotswe had been busy, but
she never expected clients to understand that. She knew how special each of us is to ourselves, and how inconceivable it is to us that somebody else's concerns should be more pressing than our own. And the richer people were, she had noticed, the more difficult it became for them to understand that there were other people with hopes and plans of their own, however small these might seem from the heights occupied by rich people. Perhaps to them we look like ants, thought Mma Ramotswe; and she imagined, for a moment, a rich person looking down and saying,
That ant there, that traditionally built ant, is Mma Ramotswe. And that one scurrying around over there, that ant with big glasses, is Mma Makutsi
.

Mr. Molofololo, though, proved not to be like that. He said that he understood that she was busy and that his matter would have to take its place in the queue. To which Mma Ramotswe replied, “It is a very small queue, Rra, and your case is near the top of the list now.”

“In that case, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mr. Molofololo, “I hope that you will be able to come with me to a football match tomorrow. We are playing a big, important game at the Stadium, and a great deal is at stake.”

Mma Ramotswe thought quickly. Her Saturdays were something of a ritual. She always went to the President Hotel for tea in the morning, and then, after a quick shopping trip, she would return and make lunch. In the afternoon she would have a nap, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni also sometimes did, before getting up to make biscuits for tea. It was a very satisfactory way of spending a Saturday, and the prospect of attending a football match did not strike her as being very attractive. On the other hand, Puso might come too; he was always talking about soccer, although she never paid much attention to what he said about it. Many of the things that boys and men said were like that, she felt; important enough to them, but not all that important to girls and women.

“I will come to the match, Rra,” she said, and then, thinking quickly, she added, “Would you be able to send a car to collect me? My own van is … is temporarily out of order.”

“I shall get my driver to collect you at two o'clock,” said Mr. Molofololo.

“And my foster son?” said Mma Ramotswe. “May he come too?”

“You will both be the guests of Mr. Leungo Molofololo,” said Mr. Molofololo. “Guaranteed.”

Mma Ramotswe thanked him and gave him directions to the house. Then, before they said goodbye, she asked what he thought were the prospects for the match. There was hesitation at the other end of the line; just that silence that, on the telephone, always signals,
I am thinking
. Eventually he answered. “The game will be stolen from us, Mma,” he said. “Everybody knows that we are the stronger team. But the game will be stolen.”

There was only one word for what Mma Ramotswe heard in his voice, and that was
sorrow
. And as she rang off, she said to Mma Makutsi, “Mma, have you noticed how things that are really not very important can become very important? A football match? What is it? A game. But to men it is the beginning and end of the world.”

“Not to all men,” said Mma Makutsi primly. “Phuti Radiphuti has no time for football. He says that it is just a waste of time.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “But surely Phuti has something that is important to him,” she said, adding quickly, “Apart from you, Mma. You are very important to him.”

Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment. “Phuti likes collecting model aeroplanes,” she said. “That is important to him.”

Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. “That must be very interesting,” she said. “There are not many men, I think, who do that.”

“Oh there are, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “There are four other men in Gaborone who are interested in model aeroplanes;
actually, three of them are still boys. They come to Phuti's house and show each other their planes. They enjoy that very much.”

“Everybody needs a hobby,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Particularly men. They need hobbies because they do not have enough to do. We women always have too much to do and do not have to spend our time watching football or playing with … collecting model aeroplanes.”

“You are right, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “The whole world is on the shoulders of women. How does that song go? Do you remember that song?”

Mma Ramotswe did, and she sang a snatch of it then and there, improvising the words, which were all about how one is on the shoulders of the other but that there is no pain in this, and nobody would have it otherwise.

THE KALAHARI SWOOPERS
?” asked Puso. “Are you sure, Mma?”

The small boy's reaction—something between incredulity and sheer delight—had not surprised Mma Ramotswe when she told him that they were to be the guests of no less a person than the owner of the team.

“His driver will pick us up,” she said. “So I want you to have a bath beforehand and put on your best shirt—the red one, I think—so that you will be smart when you meet the captain.”

This news was almost too much for Puso to absorb. The captain of the Kalahari Swoopers, Rops Thobega, was something of a hero. Even Mma Ramotswe, who knew nothing about football, had heard all about Rops Thobega and his doings. He was one of the more senior players in Botswana football, having been a professional player since his late teens. Now, at the age of thirty, he was getting to the point where younger men were breathing down his neck, but he was still one of the most popular and appreciated
of players, and recently had even been praised in Parliament for his initiatives with delinquent youths. “No boy behaves badly if he spends enough time on the football pitch,” he was quoted as saying. “Give me a young man who is coming up before the courts and I will change him.”

A vain promise, some said, but it had been one that he had delivered upon. In particular, he had turned round three young men who had been facing jail and who had become strong football players. Now all three of them were in a team—admittedly a weak team, but they had given up on their bad behaviour.

“Rops Thobega?” asked Puso breathlessly. “Will I meet him, Mma?”

“I think there is a good chance,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We are the guests of Mr. Leungo Molofololo, and he said something about introducing us to the players.”

“That is very exciting, Mma,” said Puso. “I will take my football and ask him to sign it.”

Such was his excitement that Puso was ready a full two hours before Mr. Molofololo's driver was due to collect them. Then, in the comfort of the large Mercedes-Benz that had been sent by Mr. Molofololo, they drove the short distance to the Stadium. It was a hot afternoon, and it would have been preferable to have the windows of the car closed in order to allow the cooling system to operate, but Puso insisted on opening his so that passers-by could see him sitting in the car. Mma Ramotswe smiled. She was pleased to see the boy get such a thrill from the outing.

They were greeted at the Stadium by one of Mr. Molofololo's officials, who led them into a room at the back of the seating area. There they found Mr. Molofololo and, sitting opposite, wearing football shorts and shirt, Rops Thobega himself. Mr. Molofololo glanced up when Mma Ramotswe entered, and he gestured for her to take the vacant seat beside him.

“Rops and I always have a talk before a game,” Mr. Molofololo
said after the introductions had been made. “We talk about strategy.”

“I should not interrupt you,” said Mma Ramotswe, glancing at Puso, who was standing at her side, staring intently at Rops. “There is a young man here …”

Rops looked at Puso and smiled. “Who wants me to sign his football?”

Puso stepped forward, holding the ball out to Rops, who took it and signed. “Work hard at school, young man,” the great football player said. “Play football. Eat healthily. Be polite. Do your best. Understand?”

Puso nodded.

“Good advice,” said Mr. Molofololo. “But now, Mma Ramotswe, I want to bring Rops in on this. He's the captain, you see.”

“I knew that,” said Mma Ramotswe. She smiled at Rops. “Everybody knows about you, Rra.”

The captain inclined his head graciously. “And everybody knows about you, Mma Ramotswe.”

She glanced at Mr. Molofololo. If everybody knew about her, then it was going to be difficult for her to work on this case discreetly. And certainly there would be no possibility of her pretending to be what she was not, as Mr. Molofololo had suggested earlier. “Do they, Rra? What do they know about me?”

The captain stood up and flexed his arms. Then he put one foot in front of the other and rocked gently, stretching the muscles of his legs. “They know that you are the private detective lady who has that place on the Tlokweng Road. Near the garage. They know about that.”

“Do they, Rra?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Do you think that everybody knows that? Everybody?”

Rops stopped his exercise. “No, I am exaggerating, Mma. I happen to know that because I remember everything I read in the
newspaper. But I do not think that there will be all that many people who will remember that sort of thing.”

Mr. Molofololo, who had been following the exchange with interest, now interrupted. “Would the players know, do you think, Rops?”

Rops looked thoughtful. “No, probably not. The boys do not read the front part of the newspaper. They read the sports news, and by the time they have finished reading about football their eyes are too tired to read the other pages.”

Mr. Molofololo laughed. “They are football players, you see, Mma Ramotswe. And the heads of football players are usually just full of football. They do not have any space for other thoughts.” He paused, looking appreciatively at Rops. “Except for Rops, of course. Rops is not like that.”

Rops looked pleased with the compliment, and he gave a mock bow in the direction of Mr. Molofololo. “I do my best,” he said.

“And it is very good,” said Mr. Molofololo quickly. He gestured for Rops to sit down again, and then he indicated to an aide that he should take Puso out of the room. “Take the boy to the dressing room,” he said. “He can watch the players getting ready.”

Puso, star-struck silent but beaming with pleasure, was led away while Mma Ramotswe and the two men settled themselves around a table.

“Now, Rops,” Mr. Molofololo began, “I have told Mma Ramotswe about our problems. What I haven't told her is that you and I have talked and talked and talked and we have never got anywhere nearer a solution than when we started out. That's true, isn't it?”

Rops nodded his agreement. “We have, Boss. I agree with you in one thing. We have not been doing as well as we should. But I
do not agree with you when you say that we have a traitor in the team. Who is this man? Can you point him out to me?”

This seemed to irritate Mr. Molofololo, who sat forward in his seat and began to drum his fingers on the table. “I am the one. It is me. Me. If I could point him out to you, then we would not be where we are today. We would have dealt with him. And I wouldn't have had to go to a detective agency to get help. No, I cannot point to the traitor because I do not know who he is. But that does not mean that he is not there.”

For a moment nobody spoke. Rops frowned, as if he was trying to disentangle Mr. Molofololo's message; Mma Ramotswe was silent because she was wondering about the significance of the words
I am the one. It is me
. It was as if he had suddenly decided to confess to being the traitor himself, which did not make sense. So what did
I am the one
mean, then?

Mma Ramotswe broke the silence. “Excuse me, Rra,” she said. “You said
I am the one
. What did you mean, Rra?”

Mr. Molofololo looked at her as if she had raised an irrelevance. “What did you say I said, Mma?”

“You said
I am the one.”

He looked at Rops, who shrugged. Then he turned back to Mma Ramotswe. “I don't think I did, Mma. We were talking about finding this man who is letting the team down. We are looking for the jackal who has crept into the herd wearing the clothes of a goat. That is what we're talking about.”

Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of acceptance. “Very well, Rra. Let us talk about that.” She turned to face Rops. “Rra Thobega: Have you ever seen any of the players do anything that made you suspicious?”

Rops shook his head vehemently. “Never. Everybody plays with one-hundred-per-cent commitment. Commitment, Mma. Commitment.”

“Then why are we losing?” interjected Mr. Molofololo.

“Because somebody has to lose,” said Rops.

Mma Ramotswe thought this quite a reasonable thing to say. In any game where two teams were trying to win, one would be disappointed; that was the nature of competitive games. And there were, she imagined, teams that were not very good and would therefore lose consistently.

Mr. Molofololo, however, was not so impressed. “Yes,” he said. “Somebody has to win and somebody has to lose. But when you have a strong team like ours, then you do not expect it to be the one who will always lose, do you? We should win some games and lose others. That is the way these things work, I believe.”

Mr. Molofololo stared at Rops, as if daring him to contradict such obvious logic. But the captain merely shrugged, looked at his watch, and announced that it was time for him to go to the dressing room and marshal the team.

“Then we must go and find our seats,” said Mr. Molofololo, standing up and straightening his tie. “I shall get somebody to fetch your little boy up from the dressing room, Mma, and bring him to our seats. We are all sitting together in my special place. You will have a good view from there.”

THE GAME BEGAN
. For Mma Ramotswe the first few minutes were reasonably interesting, as Mr. Molofololo gave her a running commentary on who was who and how many goals they had scored—or failed to score—over the last season. He knew each of the players intimately, she thought; in fact, it rather reminded her of the way her late father, Obed Ramotswe, had known the cattle that made up his herd. He had known the strengths of each beast—its potential to grow, its lineage, its ability to withstand drought, and so on. Mr. Molofololo was like that with his players,
and she expected at any moment that he would launch into a discussion of how to breed football players, but he did not; that would perhaps be taking it a bit too far.