Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (16 page)

Mma Ramotswe dragged a chair over to Mma Makutsi's side and sat down. “Now listen, Mma. You must not jump to conclusions. Remember what Mr. Andersen says? Remember that bit— I read it out to you once. He said
Do not decide that something is the case until you know it is the case
. Those were his exact words, were they not, Mma? They were. And if you apply them to this, all that you know is that for some reason—and you do not know what reason that is—Phuti had Violet Sephotho in his car yesterday evening. What time was it?”

“Oh, I don't know, Mma. Five thirty, maybe.”

“Five thirty? Well, what do people do at five o'clock, Mma? They go home, don't they?”

This brought a fresh wail from Mma Makutsi. “He was taking her back home with him! Oh, Mma Ramotswe, that is what they were doing. They were going back to his house for immoral conversations.”

Mma Ramotswe made a dismissive sound. “Nonsense, Mma. You have no evidence that anybody was thinking about immoral conversations, whatever those may be. What if Phuti was simply giving her a ride home—to
her
home—because she had stayed late in the store? What if that is all that he was doing? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think that it is the most likely explanation. Don't you?”

Mma Makutsi did not, but after a few minutes of further comforting, she appeared to pull herself together. “I must get on
with my work, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “It is no good thinking about these things when I am trying to work. There will be time to think about them later.”

“You should talk about it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is best to discuss these things, don't you think?”

Again, Mma Makutsi did not, and Mma Ramotswe decided that there was nothing further that she could do just then. It was time to go in search of Big Man Tafa, which she did, driving in her new, medium-sized blue van, which felt so alien, so wrong in every way.

Just as she was parking the van under a tree at the end of the street—a meandering, unpaved road of middle-range houses on the western edge of Gaborone—a small boy appeared. He was wearing a tiny pair of khaki trousers and a tee shirt several sizes too large for his spindly torso, had dust on his knees and a large sticking plaster across the bridge of his nose. And like all small boys who appear out of nowhere when one is looking for something, this one, she thought, would be bound to know in which of these houses lived Big Man Tafa. Small boys knew such things; they were familiar with the car number plates of every driver in the area; they knew the name of every dog associated with every house, and the vices of every such dog; they knew the best place to find flying ants when the rains caused the termites to crawl up from their subterranean burrows and rise up into the sky, unless a small boy snatched them first, tore off their fluttering wings, and popped them, delicious morsels, into his mouth; they knew which trees harboured birds' nests and which did not; and which of the area's residents would pay you four pula to wash and polish the car.

The Principles of Private Detection
contained no advice on the seeking of information from small boys, but Mma Ramotswe had often thought that it should. Perhaps she could write to Clovis
Andersen one day and tell him of the things that were not in the book but that might appear in a future edition. But where was he, this Clovis Andersen, who knew so much about private detection? Somewhere in America, she imagined, because he sometimes mentioned famous cases in American cities that sounded so exotic to her ears that she wondered whether they really could exist. Where was this place called Muncie, Indiana? Or Ogden, Utah? Or, most intriguing of all, this town called Mobile, Alabama? Did that town move from place to place, as the name suggested? What happened there? Would they have heard of red bush tea, she wondered. Would they have heard of Gaborone?

“Big Man Tafa?” said the small boy in response to Mma Ramotswe's question. “Yes, he lives here, Mma. He lives in that house over there. That one.”

He pointed a small, dirty finger in the direction of a house halfway down the street.

“In the yellow house?”

The boy nodded gravely. “That is his house, Mma. Mmakeletso lives there too.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. The boy had used the traditional way of referring to a woman by naming her as the mother of her firstborn child. Mma Tafa, then, had a daughter called Keletso. That was an extra bit of information, which could be useful, but was probably not. There was more to come.

“She is a very fat lady,” said the boy adding, politely, “Like you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe patted him on the head. “You are a very observant boy. And a good one, too. Thank you.”

She decided to leave the van where she had parked it and walk the short distance to the yellow house. The feel of a place— its atmosphere and mood—was often better absorbed on foot than from the window of a vehicle. She told the boy that if he watched
her van, she would give him two pula when she came back. He was delighted, and scampered off to take up his post. A pity, she suddenly thought; if somebody stole my van, then I might get the old one back. An idle thought: it was too late for that.

She walked down the road towards the Tafa house. Most of the houses on the street had walls built about their yards, preventing a passer-by from seeing too much, but she was able to form a view of the neighbourhood in general. This was not a wealthy part of town, but it was not a poor one; it was somewhere in between. The people who lived here were halfway up the ladder: the deputy managers of the branches of banks—not quite full managers yet; civil servants who were senior enough to be able to imagine themselves, in ten years' time perhaps, at a desk marked
Assistant Director;
deputy principals of schools. That, in itself, told her a lot before she even arrived at the gate of the Tafa house. This was a neighbourhood of people who were hoping to go up, but who were not yet where they wanted to be. And in the case of a goalkeeper, what did that mean? That he wanted to be captain, but was not yet in sight of it? What if you wanted to be captain and that post was taken? Your only hope in those circumstances would be for the captain to be got rid of—which presumably might happen if the team consistently lost over a period. Now that was an interesting thought, particularly if it came into the mind just as one walked down the short, cracked path that led from the gate to the front door of a goalkeeper's house.

MMA TAFA
—or Mmakeletso—passed a cup of tea to Mma Ramotswe. They were sitting at the kitchen table, where Mma Tafa had invited Mma Ramotswe to join her.

“It is better for us to be in the kitchen, Mma,” said Mma Tafa.
“I am cooking a stew and I do not want it to spoil. If we sit there, then I can watch it.”

“I like to be in the kitchen,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is often the most comfortable room in the house. A sitting room can be too formal, don't you find, Mma?”

“I do, Mma. Our sitting room is often untidy. Big Man throws his newspapers down on the floor or leaves his shoes lying about. I am always picking things up in this house. All the time.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “But men are always like that. They need us, Mma. What would they do if we were not there to tell them where their clothes are? They would be walking around with no clothes on because they would not be able to find them.”

Mma Tafa gave a chortle. It was a strange laugh, thought Mma Ramotswe, rather like the sound of an elephant's stomach rumbling.

“You are very right, Mma,” said Mma Tafa. “That would teach men to throw their clothes down on the floor. That would teach them.”

Mma Ramotswe took her tea cup gratefully. It was late morning, and very hot. There was a small fan on a shelf above the cooker, but she noticed that its plug had been detached. Tea would be cooling. As she took her first sip, she noticed Mma Tafa's eyes upon her. She had told her host that she had been asked by Mr. Molofololo to speak to his players to find out what was going wrong with the team. Big Man Tafa, his wife explained, was not in but would be back quite soon, in time for his lunch. Mma Ramotswe was welcome to stay until he arrived.

Mma Ramotswe sensed that Mma Tafa was glad of the company. She knew that it was not always easy for women in such places, where the easy companionship of the village had been replaced by the comparative anonymity of the town. Such a woman might spend much of the day without any contact with
other women—an unnatural state of affairs, in Mma Ramotswe's view. We are born to talk to other people, she thought; we are born to be sociable and to sit together with others in the shade of an acacia tree and talk about things that happened the day before. We were not born to sit in kitchens by ourselves, with nobody to chat to.

The absence of Big Man Tafa was convenient, as this would give Mma Ramotswe the chance to converse with his wife, and that, she knew, was often a better way of finding out about someone than talking to the person himself. So she lost no time in moving to the topic that had brought her to the kitchen of this yellow house.

“I do not think that the Kalahari Swoopers are doing all that well at the moment,” Mma Ramotswe said. “That is a big pity, isn't it?”

Mma Tafa rolled her eyes upwards. “It is very bad, Mma. When did the boys last win a game? I have almost forgotten.”

Mma Ramotswe looked into her tea cup. She did not want Mma Tafa to think that she was prying, but she sensed that a few direct questions might yield valuable results. “What's your view, Mma? Do you know why this is happening?”

She had chosen her words carefully. She had not asked Mma Tafa to tell her what Big Man Tafa himself felt, but she suspected that is what she would learn anyway.

And she was right. “Big Man thinks that the problem is Mr. Molofololo,” said Mma Tafa. “He says that the boss doesn't know anything about football. He says this is always the problem with these rich men who own football teams. They think they can play but they cannot.”

Mma Ramotswe listened intently. “He does not like Mr. Molofololo?”

Mma Tafa hesitated. “I wouldn't say that.” She looked at Mma
Ramotswe, uncertain as to whether to trust her; but trust won. “No, maybe I would. Molofololo is very impatient, my husband thinks. He says that he is always telling the players what to do. He says that this is the job of the coach, or the captain. But he says that the coach is weak, and the captain used to be good but no longer is. He says that the captain should go out to the cattle post and look after his cattle rather than trying to play football any more.”

The reference to cattle struck Mma Ramotswe as significant. Sooner or later, in any issue in Botswana, cattle nudged their way in, as they will nose their way into a feeding trough. It was as if in the resolution of any dispute, people had to ask themselves the question: What do the cattle think about this? She knew, of course, what cattle thought: cattle wanted rain, and the sweet green grass that rain brought, and apart from that they liked Botswana exactly as it was.

Mma Tafa looked at Mma Ramotswe's tea cup to see if it needed refreshing. “Mind you, Mma,” she continued, “it's interesting that Mr. Molofololo gets somebody else to talk to his players about their problems. I mean no disrespect to you, Mma, but why ask a woman to go and speak to the men about football?”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Some people find it difficult to talk. Sometimes it's easier to get somebody else to talk for you.”

Mma Tafa let out a hoot of laughter. “But that man is always talking! My husband says that he never stops. Do this, do that. Talking all the time.” She shook her head. “No, the problem is that he cannot listen. That is his problem. So maybe he has chosen you to be his ears.”

Mma Ramotswe took her cue. “And what do you think these ears should be hearing, Mma? What words would you like to put into these ears?”

They understood one another perfectly. If there is a message, thought Mma Ramotswe, this will be it.

Mma Tafa stared at her. “What words, Mma? Well, here is a message.
New captain
, Mma. That is the message. And if he says, where can I find a new captain, tell him that there is only one man who can do that job properly, and he is already on the team. Big Man. He should be the captain, Mma. And he cannot wait forever. Soon. He must be the captain soon.” She paused. “And your tea, Mma? Are you ready for another cup?”

Mma Tafa could not have made herself clearer, thought Mma Ramotswe. It was natural for a woman to feel ambition for her husband, but you could not always assume that this ambition was felt by the husband himself. Did Big Man Tafa really want to be captain, or was it a case of Mma Tafa wishing to be a captain's wife? She decided to ask the question directly. “And Big Man?” she said. “Would Big Man like to be in Rops's shoes?”

“I think so,” said Mma Tafa.

“You only think so, Mma? Have you not asked him?”

Mma Tafa sighed. “Not all men know what they want to do, Mma. Many of them say that they are quite happy doing what they are doing, and do not know what they really want to do … underneath. You know what I mean, Mma?”

“I think I do,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“So it is the job of women—and that means you and me, Mma—to find out what our husbands
really
want to do, and then to tell them about it. That is our job, I think, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe wondered about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He was a mild man—famously so—and she had never heard him speak about the things that he wanted to do. Did he have ambitions? He must at some time have wanted to have his own garage, and he must have worked towards the achieving of that goal. Then he had wanted to marry, and had proposed—eventually—which suggested that he must have nursed matrimonial ambitions. But apart from that, she wondered what unfulfilled desires lurked in his breast. Did he want to learn to fly a plane, as the owner of
another garage had done? She thought not. He had been terrified on that occasion when Mma Potokwane had lined him up to do a charity parachute jump, and so it was unlikely that he wanted anything to do with aeroplanes. Did he want to learn to cook? Again, she thought not; Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had shown no interest in doing anything in the kitchen. Or did he want to go somewhere, perhaps to Namibia, to the sands and dunes of the coast down there, to the sea itself? He had never spoken of that.