The problem with blackmail, thought Mma Ramotswe, is this: the victim is often a wrongdoer, but, once blackmailed, attracts our sympathy. But why should we feel sorry for somebody who is simply being made to pay for the wrong that he did? It occurred to Mma Ramotswe that this was a problem that deserved serious consideration. Perhaps it was even a question to put to Aunty Emang. Aunty Emang …
CHAPTER FOUR
WHAT FEMINISTS HAVE IN MIND FOR MEN
MMA MAKUTSI made the evening meal that night for Mr Phuti Radiphuti, her newly acquired fiancé. Phuti Radiphuti was the son of the elder Mr Radiphuti, successful businessman, farmer, and proprietor of the Double Comfort Furniture Shop. She had met Phuti at the dancing classes which they had both attended at the Academy of Dance and Movement. This was not a real academy, in that it had no buildings and indeed had no staff other than the woman who took the money and the instructor, Mr Fano Fanope, an accomplished dancer who had danced, successfully, in Johannesburg and Nairobi. Word of the engagement had spread round the dance class, and Mr Fanope himself had made an official announcement at the end of one evening that the academy was proud to have brought the couple together.
“Dancing is about contact between people,” he had said in his speech. “When you dance with somebody you are talking to him, even if you do not open your mouth. Your movements can show what is in your heart. That is very important. And that is why so many happy couples meet through dancing. And that is another reason why if you have not already booked your place on our next course, you should do so now. Ladies, you could be like Grace Makutsi and find a good husband here; gentlemen, look at Mr Phuti Radiphuti, who has found this fine lady. May they be very happy together! May they have many happy hours on the dance floor and elsewhere!”
Mma Makutsi had been touched by this speech, in spite of the blatant reference to advance bookings. She liked Mr Fanope, and she knew that he was genuinely pleased about the engagement. She knew, too, that this pleasure was shared by many of the other members of the class, even if not by all. One of the other women, a person by the name of Violet, who had been at the Botswana Secretarial College with her, had smirked during Mr Fanope’s speech and had muttered something to the man standing next to her, who had suppressed a laugh. Mma Makutsi had exchanged words with this woman at an earlier session, when Violet had made a disparaging remark about Mma Makutsi’s green shoes (of which she was very proud) and had effectively sneered at Phuti Radiphuti. By a supreme effort of will, Mma Makutsi had replied to her courteously and had even gone out of her way to compliment her. This had been difficult indeed, as Violet had achieved a bare pass mark at the Botswana Secretarial College—somewhere around fifty per cent—and was clearly only interested in finding the richest husband available.
As she witnessed the smirk, for a delicious moment Mma Makutsi imagined what she might say to Violet if the opportunity presented itself. And in fact it did, at the end of that evening, when Violet sidled up to her and said, “Well, Mma, that’s a kind thing you’ve done. It’s very good of you to look after Mr Radiphuti like that. It must have been very hard for him to find a wife and now you have agreed to marry him. You are a really kind person. But I always knew that, of course.”
Mma Makutsi had looked at her enemy. At the back of her mind were the memories of those days at the Botswana Secretarial College when the glamorous girls, of whom Violet was more or less the leader, would sit at the back of the class and discuss their social triumphs and snigger when Mma Makutsi or one of the other hard workers was complimented by the instructor. She had said nothing then, and she really should say nothing now, but the temptation was just too great.
“Thank you, Mma,” she had said. “But I am the lucky one, you know. It’s not every girl can get a husband like that.” She paused before continuing, “But I hope that you have some of my luck in the future. Who knows?” And with that she smiled sweetly.
Violet’s eyes widened. “Lucky? Oh, I don’t know about that, Grace Makutsi! I’m not so sure that it’s lucky to be landed with a man like that. Anyway, I hope that it works out well for you. And it might.” And then she herself added, “Who knows?”
Mma Makutsi felt her heart beating fast within her. It was time for the coup de grâce. “But I am lucky, Mma,” she said. “I think that any girl who marries into that family will be very lucky. And rich too.”
Violet faltered. “Rich?”
“Ssh,” said Grace Makutsi, putting a finger to her lips. “It’s not polite to talk about it. So I won’t mention the Double Comfort Furniture Shop, which is one of the businesses my fiancé owns, you know. I must not talk about that. But do you know the store, Mma? If you save up, you should come in some day and buy a chair.”
Violet opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. And then Mr Fanope had appeared and had shaken Mma Makutsi’s hand and led her away to speak to another member of the class who wanted to congratulate her. Mma Makutsi had glanced back at Violet, who was fiddling with her handbag, but who looked up and caught her eye and could not conceal her envy. There was so much history there; a history of shame, and poverty, and struggle, and she could hear Mma Ramotswe’s voice in her head now. “That was not a very kind thing to do, Mma Makutsi,” Mma Ramotswe said. “You should not have done that.”
“I know,” Mma Makutsi answered, mentally. “But I just couldn’t help it, Mma.”
And the voice of Mma Ramotswe immediately softened. “I know too,” she said. “I know.” And she did, because although she was kind, Mma Ramotswe was also human, and appreciated that there were times when it was impossible to resist a small triumph, especially one that could make one smile when one remembered it later; smile for hours and hours.
MMA MAKUTSI and Phuti Radiphuti had slipped comfortably into an arrangement. On four days of the week, including Monday, Phuti came for his evening meal at Mma Makutsi’s house; on the other three days he ate in turn with his senior aunt, his sister and her husband, and, on Sunday evening, with his aged father. The dinners with his father were sometimes trying for him, as his father’s memory was not what it used to be and he frequently repeated himself, especially when talking about cattle. But Phuti was dutiful, and he would sit for hours while his father went over and over the same ground: Did Phuti remember that fine bull that he had sold to that man who lived at Mahalapye? Could Phuti remember how much they had paid for that Brahmin cow that they had bought from that Boer farmer down at Zeerust? That had been a fine cow, but when did she die? Did Phuti remember which year it was? And what about that bull that went to Mahalapye? Did Phuti remember that one? Was he sure?
On occasion, Mma Makutsi would join him for these meals at his father’s house, and she would sit through the same conversations, trying hard not to nod off during the narratives or the questions that interspersed them. What were the cattle like up at Bobonong this year? Were they thin? Were they different from the cattle down in the south? She noticed that when he was with his father, Phuti’s stammer became more acute. During the dinners that they had at her house, it was barely noticeable now, which spoke to the confidence which she had succeeded in building up in him. In her company, he was now quite capable of uttering long and involved sentences, either in Setswana or in English, without any hesitation or stumbling. This new-found fluency, of which he was so proud, enabled him to say things that he had been unable to say for years, and the words flowed out of him; words about childhood, about being a boy; words about the furniture business and the comfort, or otherwise, of the various sorts of chairs; and words about the pleasure, the sheer pleasure, of having found somebody with whom he would now start to share his life. It was as if a drought had ended—a drought that had made for expanses of silence, as drought will dry up a salt pan and render it white and powdery—and the words were like longed-for rain, turning the land green at last.