Mighty nodded, again looking furtively at Tebogo. “I understand, Mma. But I just don’t see how this can be. A lady called Mrs. Grant came to this camp…”
Mma Ramotswe took hold of his forearm. “Hold on, Rra. You said that a lady called Mrs. Grant came to the camp…”
“I did. And I have already shown you the evidence of that.”
Mma Ramotswe drew him further away from the other two, who were still engaged in their observation of the monkeys. “A lady called Mrs. Grant,” said Mma Ramotswe. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if testing each word. “Do you think that Grant is a common name, Rra? I’ve certainly seen it before. Have you?”
Mighty considered this. “I think so,” he said. “We’ve had other Grants before. Maybe it’s a common name in America, like… like Tebogo in Botswana. Or Ramotswe…”
Mma Ramotswe smiled, but did not let the joke distract her. “You’ve had other Grants before, you say. But not at the same time.”
“No, not at the same time.”
It was all falling into place. “Mighty,” she said, “what if there were two Mma Ramotswes? Or two Mma Grants?”
Mighty frowned. “Two Mma Ramotswes?” He stared at her, and then he put his hand to his cheek and stroked it. “Oh,” he said. Then, “Oh,” again.
“Oh,” echoed Mma Ramotswe. She looked in his eyes. He was a sharp-witted man. He understood. But there was one final piece of the jigsaw to fit into place. “Can you think of another camp with an animal in its name?”
Mighty answered quickly. “Our neighbour,” he said. “Three miles away. Lion’s Tail Camp.”
“Can you take me there?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mighty looked doubtful. “Right now?”
“Yes. Right now, Rra.”
“It’s getting late. We’ll have to go by boat.”
“I’m ready to go.”
Mighty still looked worried. “I don’t like to travel on the water at night. It would be dark by the time we came back.”
“Give me a torch,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall sit in the front and shine it ahead of us. If there are any hippos, we shall see their eyes in the beam of the torch.”
“You are a brave lady, Mma. Maybe that is why you’re a detective.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I am no braver than anybody else.” Was that true? she wondered. There was Mma Makutsi, after all… “I think that I shall leave my assistant back here. I don’t think that she will want to come.”
WITH MIGHTY’S EXPERT NAVIGATION through the spreading channels of the Delta, it took them barely half an hour to reach Lion’s Tail Camp. It was a more modest camp than Eagle Island, with smaller, tented rooms for the visitors, but still with that stylish old-safari feel that Botswana did so well. The manager was away in Maun, but the head guide, Moripe Moripe, an old friend of Mighty, greeted them warmly and listened attentively to Mma Ramotswe’s story. As her explanation drew to a close, he started to nod encouragingly.
“Yes, Mma,” he said. “I remember that lady. Mma Grant was here at the time. You are right.” He paused, as if fetching something from the dim recesses of memory. “It was July, Mma. I remember it because that was the month that my grandmother became late.”
“Are you sure of that? July?”
He nodded. “Yes, I am.”
She felt the familiar excitement that came with the solving of a mystery. But in this case, although she was pleased to have found out what happened, she felt appalled at what she had done. She had raised the hopes of a man who would now have to be told that the fortune he thought he was going to receive would no longer be his.
She reached into the bag she had brought with her and took out the obituary cutting. “Is this that lady?” she asked.
Moripe Moripe examined the photograph. “That is the lady. She had hair like that. That is her.”
“Are you sure?” asked Mma Ramotswe, looking into his eyes. It seemed unlikely to her that somebody would remember one guest of many, and after a few years had passed.
Moripe Moripe met her gaze. “I am very sure, Mma. If you spend a long time with somebody, and you talk to them a lot, then you remember them.”
Mma Ramotswe skirted round what she thought was a general observation. “Who was the guide who looked after her, Rra?”
Moripe Moripe looked surprised by the question. “But I’ve just told you, Mma. It was me. I was the one. I looked after her for five or six days. That is why I remember her.”
It was then that Mighty intervened. “You can trust this man, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “He is well known to us. I know him. And Tebogo knows him too.”
The mention of the name Tebogo appeared to amuse Moripe Moripe. “That is a good man,” he said.
“Moripe Moripe is going to marry Tebogo’s sister,” said Mighty. “They are good friends.”
They are good friends. It took a moment or two for the words to sink in, as is often the case when something is said that suddenly offers a way out of an impossible situation. They are good friends. As she repeated the words to herself, Mma Ramotswe felt an immense relief. Bride price, she thought. Lobola. It was often there in Botswana, in the background, playing an important role in people’s affairs, like a strong wind that always blew, or a strong current under the surface of water. Always there.
They had not yet told Moripe Moripe about the legacy, but now she felt she could. “I have a curious story to tell you, Rra,” she said. “But first, I think you should sit down.”
They sat down more or less where they were, under a tree, with the sun burning down over the swamps in a flourish of red. “This story is one of extraordinary coincidence, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe began. And she told him of the two Mrs. Grants arriving one shortly after the other, and of their going to nearby camps. It seemed unlikely, but one could see how it had happened. Unlikely things do happen, said Mma Ramotswe, and she knew, for she had seen many such things happen in her job, and had long since come to the conclusion that the extraordinary was often not quite as extraordinary as people imagined it to be. Then, after relating what had happened, she went on to tell him of the deathbed request by Mrs. Grant-the real Mrs. Grant. “And that is what I have come to tell you, Rra. You have been given twenty thousand pula. It is her way of saying thank you.”
Moripe Moripe took the news calmly. “That is very kind, Mma. Very kind.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mighty, who looked down at the ground in silent sympathy. How was she going to tell him that she had already promised the money to another, even if it was his future brother-in-law?
“Tell me, Rra,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You are going to marry Tebogo’s sister. Are the parents late-her parents?”
“They are. They are both sadly late.”
“So lobola will be payable to the uncles…” She hardly dared hope. But you had to hope; you had to. Not only about this, but about everything.
“To the brother. There is only one uncle and he is…” Moripe Moripe tapped the side of his head. “He is very happy, but he does not know what is going on. He thinks every day is Sunday. It is very strange.”
Mma Ramotswe thought it would be improper to let out a cry of delight. It could be misinterpreted, she felt, and she would not want Moripe Moripe to think that she took pleasure in the plight of his future uncle-in-law.
“So you have to pay the lobola for your future wife to Tebogo?”
Moripe Moripe looked glum, but almost immediately brightened. “Yes, and I was going to find it very difficult, Mma. I have asked him whether we can defer the payment. My sister has been ill and has many children. I have had to support them.”