Mma Ramotswe glanced in a cursory way at the side of the van and shook her head. “That is nothing,” she said dismissively. “That is just a bang that happened.”
Mma Makutsi had shown her surprise. “A bang?”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “A bang. It is not a big thing. I was parking the van in town and there was a post. It had no business being there. Somebody had put this post in the wrong place and it hit the side of the van. There was a little bang. That is all.”
Mma Makutsi bit her lip. Posts did not move; vans moved. But a warning glance from Mma Ramotswe told her that it would be unwise to pursue the matter further, and she had not. Now at Mokolodi, as then, she thought that it would be best not to say anything on the subject of parking or vans in general, and so they walked together in silence towards the office. A woman came out to greet them, a woman who appeared to recognise Mma Ramotswe.
“He is expecting you, Mma,” said the woman. “Your fiancé telephoned to tell us that you were coming.”
“He is my husband now,” said Mma Ramotswe, smiling.
“Oh!” exclaimed the woman. “That is very good. You must be very happy, Mma. He is a good man, Mr L.J.B. Matekoni.”
“J.L.B.,” corrected Mma Ramotswe. “He is Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and thank you, Mma. He is a very good man.”
“I would like to find a man like that,” said the woman. “I have a husband down in Lobatse. He never comes to see me. And when I go down there, he is never in.”
Mma Ramotswe made a clucking sound of sympathy, and disapproval—sympathy for the woman in her plight, and disapproval of what she thought was only-too-common masculine behaviour. There were many good men in Botswana, but there were some who seemed to think that their women were only there to flatter them and give them a good time when they felt in need. These men did not think of what women themselves needed, which was comfort and support, and a bit of help in the hundred and one tasks which women had to perform if homes were to be kept going. Who did the cooking? Who kept the yard tidy? Who washed and fed the children and put them to bed at night? Who weeded the fields? Women did all these things, and it would be nice, thought Mma Ramotswe, if men could occasionally lend a hand.
It was particularly hard for women now, when there were so many children left without parents because of this cruel sickness. These children had to be looked after by somebody, and this task usually fell to the grandmothers. But in many cases the grandmothers were finding it difficult to cope because there were simply so many children coming to them. Mma Ramotswe had met one woman who had been looking after twelve grandchildren, all orphaned. And there this woman was at seventy-five, at a time when a person should be allowed to sit in the sun and look up at the sky, cooking and washing and scraping around for food for the hungry mouths of all those children. And if that grandmother should become late, she thought, what then?
The woman led them back towards the office, a round building, made of stone, with a thatched roof that came down in low eaves. A man stepped from the door, looked momentarily surprised when he saw Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, and then gave a broad grin.
“Dumela, Mma Ramotswe,” he said, raising a hand in greeting. “And Mma …”
“This is Mma Makutsi, Neil,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Of course,” said Neil. “This is the lady who keeps cobras under her desk!”
Mma Makutsi laughed. “I do not wish to think about cobras, Rra,” she said. “I am only glad that you came when you did. I do not like snakes.”
“Those apprentices were not going about it the right way,” said Neil, smiling at the recollection. “You don’t throw spanners at snakes. It doesn’t help.”
He gestured for the two women to follow him to the terrace in front of the verandah. Several chairs were set under the shade of a tree, and they sat on these and looked out over the tops of the trees to the hills in the distance. A cicada was screeching somewhere in the grass nearby, a shrill, persistent sound, a call for another cicada, a warning, a protest against some injustice down in the insect world. The sky above was clear, a great echoing bowl of blue, drenched in light. There could be nothing wrong.
“It is very beautiful here,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If I worked here I would do no work, I think. I would sit and look at the hills.”
“You are welcome to come and look at these hills any time, Mma,” said Neil. He paused before continuing. “Are you here on business?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes, we are.”
Neil signalled to a young woman to bring them tea. “One of our people is in trouble? Is that it?” He frowned as he spoke.
For a moment Mma Ramotswe looked confused. Then she realised. “No, not my business—Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s business. Garage business.”
The misunderstanding cleared up, they sat and waited for the tea. Their conversation wandered. Mma Makutsi seemed to be thinking of something else, and Mma Ramotswe found herself expressing a view on something she knew nothing about—a plan to build some houses nearby. Then the subject of ostriches came up. This was more interesting to Mma Ramotswe, although when she came to think of it, what did she know about ostriches? Very little.
“We’ve got a number of ostriches over there,” said Neil, pointing in the direction of a small hillock in the mid-distance.
Mma Ramotswe followed his gaze. The expanse of bush was wide, the acacia trees like small umbrellas dotted thickly over the land. A patch of high grass on the edge of the clearing in which the camp sat moved slightly in the wind. There was nothing wrong; or was there? Why, thought Mma Ramotswe, do I feel that sensation, not fear, but something like it? Dread, perhaps; the sort of dread that can be felt in broad daylight, like this, with the sun all about and the shadows short and the presence of people—a man whistling as he attended to a task outside the office building, a woman leaning against her broom, chatting with somebody through a window.
“The thing about ostriches,” said Neil, “is that they are not very intelligent. In fact, ostriches are very stupid, Mma Ramotswe.”
“They are a bit like chickens, then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have never thought that chickens were very clever.”
Neil laughed. “That’s a good way of putting it! Yes. Big chickens.”
Mma Ramotswe remembered her meeting with Mr Molefelo, who had told her of how he had seen a man kicked by an ostrich and become late, immediately. “Chickens are not so dangerous,” she said. “I am not frightened of chickens.”
Neil raised an admonitory finger. “Stay away from ostriches, Mma Ramotswe. But, if you find yourself face-to-face with an angry ostrich, do you know what to do? No? I’ll tell you. You put your hat on the top of a stick and raise it well above your head. The ostrich will think that you are much taller than he is, and he will back off. It works every time—every time!”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes opened wide. What if she had no hat? Could she put something else on a stick and hold it up instead—one of her shoes, one of the green shoes with sky-blue linings perhaps? Or would the ostriches just laugh at that? There was no telling, but it was still an extraordinary piece of information, and she made a mental note to pass it on to Phuti Radiphuti the next time she saw him. She stopped herself; she had forgotten. She was not sure whether there would be a next time …
Neil reached for the tea-pot and poured tea for his guests. “You know, Mma Ramotswe, there’s something I want to talk to you about. I wasn’t going to mention it to you, but since you’re here, you might be just the person to deal with something. I know that you’re a … what do you call yourself, a detective?”
“Yes, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I call myself a detective. And other people call me that too.”
Neil cleared his throat. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Well, a detective is maybe what we need around here.”
Mma Ramotswe raised her cup to her lips. She had been right—there was something wrong. She had picked it up and, rather than doubting it, she should have trusted her instincts. There were usually ways of telling what was happening; there were signs, if one was ready to see them; there were sounds, if one was ready to hear them.