Mma Makutsi sat down. She had encountered rude receptionists before and she wondered what it was about the job that seemed sometimes to attract unfriendly people. Perhaps it was that people did the opposite of what they really wanted to do. There were gentle prison guards and soldiers; there were unkind nurses; there were ignorant and unhelpful teachers. And then there were those unfriendly receptionists.
She did not have to wait long. After a few minutes the door to the inner office opened and a young woman walked out. She was carrying a folded piece of paper and was smiling. She walked over to the receptionist and whispered something into her ear. There was laughter.
When the young woman had left, the receptionist glanced at the door and gestured for Mma Makutsi to go in. Then she continued with her nail-painting. Mma Makutsi rose to her feet and made her way to the door, knocked, and without waiting for an invitation, went in.
THEY LOOKED at one another in astonishment. Mma Makutsi had not expected this, and the sight of this woman behind the desk deprived her of all the poise she had summoned for her entry. But in that respect she was equal with the woman behind the desk; equal in other respects too, as it was her old classmate from the Botswana Secretarial College, Violet Sephotho.
It was Violet who recovered first. “Well, well,” she said. “Grace Makutsi. First the College. Then the Academy of Dance and Movement. Now here. All these crossings of our paths, Mma! Perhaps we shall even find out now that we are cousins!”
“That would be a surprise, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, without saying what sort of surprise it would be.
“I was only joking,” said Violet. “I do not think we are cousins. But that is not the point. The point is that you have come here looking for a job? Is that correct?”
Mma Makutsi opened her mouth to reply, but Violet continued. “You must have heard of us. We are what are called head hunters these days. We find top people for top jobs.”
“It must be interesting work,” said Mma Makutsi. “I wondered whether…”
“It is,” said Violet. “Very interesting.” She paused, looking quizzically at Mma Makutsi. “I thought, though, that you had a good job,” she went on. “Don’t you work for that fat woman who runs that detective business next to that smelly old garage? Don’t you work for her?”
“That is Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi. “And the garage is Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. It is run by…”
Violet interrupted. “Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “So you’ve lost that job, have you?”
Mma Makutsi gasped. It was outrageous that this Violet, this fifty-per-cent (at the most) person should imagine that she had been dismissed from the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. “I did not!” she burst out. “I did not lose that job, Mma! I left of my own accord.”
Violet looked at her unapologetically. “Of course, Mma. Of course. Although sometimes people leave just before they’re pushed. Not you, of course, but that happens, you know.”
Mma Makutsi took a deep breath. If she allowed herself to become angered, or at least to show her anger, then she would be playing directly into Violet’s hands. So she smiled gently and nodded her agreement with Violet’s comment. “Yes, Mma. There are many cases of people who are dismissed who say that they resigned. You must see a lot of that. But I really did resign because I wanted a change. That’s why I’m here.”
This submissive tone seemed to appeal to Violet. She looked at Mma Makutsi thoughtfully. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said slowly. “But I can’t work miracles. The problem is that…Well, the problem, Mma, is one of presentation. These days it is very important that firms have a smart image. It’s all about impact, you know. And that means that senior staff must be well presented, must be…of good appearance. That’s the way it is in business these days. That’s just the way it is.” She shuffled a few papers on her desk. “There are a few high-level vacancies at the moment. A personal assistant post to a chief executive. A secretary to the general manager of a bank. That sort of thing. But I’m not sure if you’re quite right for that sort of job, Mma. Maybe something in a Ministry somewhere. Or…” She paused. “Have you thought of leaving Gaborone? Of taking something down in Lobatse or Francistown or somewhere like that? Lots of people like those places, you know. There’s not so much going on, of course, but it’s a peaceful life out of town.”
Mma Makutsi watched Violet as she spoke. The face revealed so much; that she had been taught by Mma Ramotswe, who had pointed out that the real meaning of what anybody said was written large in the muscles of the face. And Violet’s face said it all; this was a calculated put-down, an intentional humiliation, possibly inspired by jealousy (Violet knew about Phuti Radiphuti and knew that he was well off), possibly inspired by anger over their vastly differing performances at the Botswana Secretarial College, but more probably inspired by pure malice, which was something which often just occurred in people for no apparent reason and with which there was no reasoning.
She rose to her feet. “I don’t think you have anything suitable for me,” she said.
Violet became flustered. “I didn’t say that, Mma.”
“I think you did, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “I think you said it very clearly. Sometimes people don’t have to open their mouths to say anything, but they say it nonetheless.”
She moved towards the door. For a moment or two it seemed as if Violet was about to say something, but she did not. Mma Makutsi gave her one last glance, and then left, nodding to the receptionist on her way out, as politeness dictated. Mma Ramotswe would be proud of me, she thought; Mma Ramotswe had always said that the repaying of rudeness with rudeness was the wrong thing to do as it taught the other person no lesson. And she was right about that, as she was right about so many other things. Mma Ramotswe…Mma Makutsi saw the face of her friend and heard her voice, as if she was right there, beside her. She would have laughed at Violet. She would have said of her insults, Little words, Mma, from an unhappy woman. Nothing to think twice about. Nothing.
Mma Makutsi went out into the sunshine, composed herself, and began to walk home. The sun was high now, and there was much more warmth in it. She could get a minibus most of the way, if she waited, but she decided to walk, and had gone only a short distance when the heel of her right shoe broke. The shoe now flapped uselessly, and she had to take both shoes off. At home, in Bobonong, she had often gone barefoot, and it was no great hardship now. But it had not been a good morning, that morning, and she felt miserable.
She walked on. Near the stretch of open bush that the school used for playing sports, she picked up a thorn in her right foot. It was easy to extract, but it pricked hard for such a small thing. She sat down on a stone and nursed her foot, rubbing it to relieve the pain. She looked up at the sky. If there were people up there, she did not think that they cared for people down here. There were no thorns up there, no rudeness, no broken shoes.
She rose and picked up her shoes. As she did so, a rattly old blue taxi drove past, the driver with his right arm resting casually on the sill of the window. She thought for a moment, That’s a dangerous thing to do—another car might drive too close and that would be the end of your arm.
She raised her own arm, suddenly, on impulse. The taxi stopped.
“Tlokweng Road, please,” she said. “You know that old garage? That place. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.”
“I will take you there, Mma,” said the taxi driver. He was not rude. He was polite, and he made conversation with Mma Makutsi as they drove.
“Why are you going there, Mma?” he asked as they negotiated the lights at the old four-way stop.
“Because that’s where I work,” said Mma Makutsi. “I took the morning off. Now it’s time to go back.”