“So why did they not say something?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“Because they were embarrassed,” said Mr Polopetsi. “Nobody wanted to be the one to go and tell Neil that the people did not want that bird about the place. Nobody wanted to be thought to be superstitious and not modern. That was it, wasn’t it, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded, somewhat reluctantly. Mr Polopetsi had reached exactly the same conclusion as she had. But what had he done about it? She had considered the issue to be of such delicacy that she would have to think very carefully about what to do. Mr Polopetsi, it would seem, had blundered right in.
“You said that you had solved the problem,” she said. “And how did you do that, Rra? Did you tell the bird to fly away?”
Mr Polopetsi shook his head. “No, not that, Mma. I took the bird. I took it away at night-time.”
Mma Ramotswe gasped. “But you can’t do that …”
“Why not, Mma?” asked Mr Polopetsi. “It’s a wild creature. Nobody owns wild birds. They had no right to keep it there.”
“They would release it once it was healed,” said Mma Ramotswe, a note of anger showing in her voice.
“Yes, but before that, what would happen?” Mr Polopetsi challenged. “Somebody could kill the bird. Or some awful thing might happen out there and everybody would then blame Neil for allowing the bird to come. It could have been a terrible mess.”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. What Mr Polopetsi said was probably right, but it still did not justify his taking matters into his own hands. “Where did you let it go, Rra?” she asked. “Those birds don’t live down here. They live up there.” She pointed northwards, in the direction of the empty bush of the Tuli Block, of the Swapong Hills, of the great plains of Matabeleland.
“I know that,” said Mr Polopetsi. “And that is why I have not let it go yet. I have asked one of the truck drivers to take it up there when he drives up to Francistown tomorrow. He will let it go for us. I have given him a few pula to do this. And some cigarettes.”
“So where is this bird now?” interjected Mma Makutsi. “Where are you hiding it?”
“I am not hiding it anywhere,” said Mr Polopetsi. “It is in a cardboard box outside. I will show it to you.”
He rose to his feet. Mma Ramotswe exchanged a glance with Mma Makutsi—a glance which was difficult to interpret, but which was a mixture of surprise and foreboding. Then the two of them followed him out of the office and round to the back of the building. Against the wall, unprotected from the sun, was a large cardboard box, air holes punched into the top.
Mr Polopetsi approached the box cautiously. “I will open the lid just a little bit,” he said. “I do not want the bird to escape.”
Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi stood immediately behind him as he gently tugged at one of the flaps of the box. “Look inside,” he whispered. “There he is. He is resting.”
Mma Ramotswe peered into the box. There at the bottom lay the great shape of the ground hornbill, its unwieldy bill lying across its chest, half open. She stared for a moment, and then she stood up.
“The bird is dead, Rra,” she said. “It is not resting. It is late.”
SHE WAS GENTLE with Mr Polopetsi, who was too upset to help them bury the bird in the bush behind Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. She did not point out to him the foolishness of leaving the bird for several hours out in the hot sun, in a box in which the temperature must have climbed too high for the bird to survive. She did not say that, and a warning glance to Mma Makutsi prevented her from pointing it out either. Instead she said that anybody could make a mistake and that she knew that he was trying to be helpful. And then, as politely as she could, she told him that he should in future get her agreement to any proposed solutions he might have to problems. “It’s better that way,” she said quietly, touching him gently on the shoulder in an act of reassurance and forgiveness.
She and Mma Makutsi carried the lifeless form of the bird out into the bush. They found a place, a good place, under a small acacia tree, where the earth looked soft enough to dig a hole. And Mma Ramotswe dug a hole, a grave for a bird, using an adze borrowed from a man who had a plot of land next to the garage. She swung the adze high and brought it down into the ground in much the same way as women before her, many generations of women of her family and her tribe, had done in years gone past as they readied the soil of Botswana, the good soil of their country, for the crops. And Mma Makutsi scraped the soil away and prepared the bird for its grave, lowering it in gently, as one may lay a friend to rest.
Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi. She wanted to say something, but somehow she could not bring herself to say it.This bird is one of our brothers and sisters. We are returning it to the ground from which it came, the ground from which we came too. And now we put the soil upon it … And they did that, breaking the soil gently upon the bird, on the great beak, on the large, defeated body, so unfortunate in its short life and its ending, until it was covered entirely.
Mma Ramotswe nodded to Mma Makutsi, and together they walked back to the garage, barefoot, in simplicity, as their mothers and grandmothers had walked before them across the land that meant so much to them, and which was the resting place of us all—of people, of animals, of birds.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DR MOFFAT MAKES A DIAGNOSIS
MR POLOPETSI, mortified by what he had done, was now anxious to do anything to make up for the awful outcome of his venture. The next morning he put his head round the door of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency several times, asking if there was anything Mma Ramotswe wanted him to do. She replied politely that there was nothing very much that needed doing, but that she would call on him if something arose.
“Poor man,” said Mma Makutsi. “He is feeling very bad, don’t you think, Mma?”
“Yes, he is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It cannot be easy for him.”
“You were very kind to him, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “You didn’t shout. You didn’t show that you were angry.”
“What’s the point of being angry?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “When we are cross with somebody, what good does that do? Especially if they did not mean to cause harm. Mr Polopetsi was sorry about it—that’s the important thing.”
She thought for a moment. It was clear that Mr Polopetsi wanted some sign from her, some sign that she still trusted him in the performance of occasional tasks. He dearly wanted to do more detective work—he had made that much very plain—and he was no doubt concerned that this debacle would put an end to that. She would find something. She would give him a sign that she still respected his abilities.
Mma Ramotswe thought about her list of tasks. The Mokolodi matter had been resolved—in a very unfortunate way, of course, but still resolved. That left the matter of the doctor and the matter of Mma Tsau’s being blackmailed. She already had an idea of what to do about the doctor, and she would attend to that soon, but the blackmail affair still had to be dealt with. Could she use Mr Polopetsi for that? She decided that she could.
Mma Makutsi summoned Mr Polopetsi into the office, and he sat down in the client’s chair, wringing his hands anxiously.
“You know, Mr Polopetsi,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You know that I have always respected your ability as a detective. And I still do. I want you to know that.”
Mr Polopetsi beamed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mma. You are very kind. You are my mother, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe waved the compliment aside. I am nobody’s mother, she thought, except for my little child in heaven. I am the mother of that child.
“You were asking earlier on for something to do, Rra. Well, I have something for you to look into. There is a young woman called Poppy who came to see us. She works for a lady who had been stealing government food to feed to her husband. This lady, Mma Tsau, has received a blackmail threat. She thought it came from Poppy, because Poppy was the only one who knew.”