Alexander Smith: The Double Comfort Safari Club

Her thoughts went immediately to snakes. There was a particular sort of snake, the puff adder, that made a sound like that when it was agitated. Those snakes were always finding their way inside and causing terrible trouble. Perhaps there was one in the room already, sliding its way across the floor to where she lay. She sat bolt upright. The sound came again, and this time she was able to locate it as being outside the room. It was definitely outside, and she had decided now that this was no snake.

She rose to her feet and crept silently across the room to the low window. Very slowly, she drew the curtain and peered outside. The moon was a sliver away from fullness, bathing the staff quarters and the surrounding bush in silver light. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, and then everything was clear, sharply delineated enough to throw ghostly moon shadows on the ground.

She looked, and saw, barely an arm’s length away from the gauze window, looking directly in at her, a fully grown lion. He looked straight at her, surprised, and she saw for a moment the moon in his eyes. Then, with a sudden tensing of muscle and a whipping movement of his tail, he turned and shot back into the bush. It happened so quickly that she wondered for a moment whether she had imagined it, but there was a rustle of leaves in the bush where he had run, and that was proof that this was no dream, no illusion.

She heard her heart thumping within her, her mouth dry from shock and fear. She stared at the place where only seconds ago the lion had been; she would not have been surprised had she seen his shadow in the moonlight, imprinted on the ground, as a shadow will register on a photographic plate, caught, as now, in silver.

She let the curtain fall back into place. She made her way back to her sleeping mat. She would not wake Mma Makutsi, nor, she thought, would she tell her about this the following morning. There were some things it was better that people-and Mma Makutsi in particular-did not know.

THEY STARTED their journey home the next day. The boatman did not engage them in unsettling conversation, but kept up his tuneless whistle for much of the way back. Then, picking up the van from the cousin’s house, they started the long drive home. They talked about all sorts of things on the way back: about weddings and children and money. About cattle. About jealousy and envy and love. About cakes. About friends and enemies and people they remembered who had gone away, or changed, or even died. About everything, really.

They stayed overnight in Francistown, as they had started late from Maun and needed the break. Their hotel was cheap and noisy, and there were mosquitoes to keep them from sleeping. In the morning they left without breakfasting, eager to get away from the smell of the place, and stopped at a small village on the main road, where they bought doughnuts and large mugs of tea. By noon they were back in Gaborone.

Mma Ramotswe dropped Mma Makutsi off at her house and made her way to the office to attend to the mail, which Charlie would have picked up from the postbox for them. She was going through the small number of letters she had received when Mma Mateleke arrived.

“I do not have an appointment, Mma,” her visitor said. “But you do not need an appointment to see an old friend, do you?”

Mma Ramotswe felt tired. She was not in the mood to see anybody, but she could not turn Mma Mateleke away. “I am always happy to see you,” she said.

“Good,” said Mma Mateleke. “Since I saw you last, my husband has been very attentive. He has tried to take me out to dinner, to the Portuguese restaurant-you know the one? But I do not have time for such things, Mma, particularly when the invitation is the result of guilt over an affair. Men are very easy to read, aren’t they?”

Mma Ramotswe did not reply, and so Mma Mateleke continued. “So tell me, Mma, have you found out that my husband is having an affair? Who is the woman?”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. She wanted to be at home; she did not want to have to give Mma Mateleke the advice that she had planned to give her. She just did not have the energy. But she could hardly refuse to answer, and so she said, “I have looked into it, Mma. And I am satisfied of one thing: your husband is not having an affair. No girlfriend. Nothing.”

Mma Mateleke stared at her. “You are sure, Mma?” the midwife asked. “You are sure that he is not seeing somebody?”

Mma Ramotswe suddenly became very alert, very aware of what was happening. And at that moment, simply by looking at her friend, she knew. Mma Mateleke was disappointed. She wanted to hear that the Reverend Mateleke was having an affair. That realisation made it all clear. A wife would not be disappointed to hear that her husband was not having an affair, unless she herself was having an affair. If she was having an affair, it would be much easier for her to blame him for the breakdown of the marriage if he were having one too. It was very simple.

Mma Ramotswe stared at her friend. “I can tell that you are disappointed, Mma. It shows.”

Mma Mateleke made a dismissive gesture, but said nothing.

Mma Ramotswe thought of what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said to her about the man he had met on the Lobatse Road, the man who appeared to have driven out to rescue Mma Mateleke when her car broke down. He had wondered whether that man was Mma Mateleke’s lover, but Mma Ramotswe had rather dismissed the suggestion. He had mentioned the man’s name, though, and it came back to her now. “So tell me, Mma,” she said. “How long have you been having an affair with that man-with Mr. Ntirang?”

Mma Mateleke’s eyes narrowed. “Ntirang?” And her voice, small and strained, provided further confirmation.

“I cannot help you in this matter,” said Mma Ramotswe wearily. “All I can say is this: I believe that your husband is very fond of you. I believe that he is anxious because I suspect that he knows. So you must now decide what to do. I cannot make that decision for you. You must choose.”

Mma Mateleke said nothing. She stood up, hesitated for a moment, and then left the room without saying goodbye. Mma Ramotswe sat down and closed her eyes. The long drive had tired her to the extent of being incapable of making tea. But Mr. Polopetsi came in, saw the state she was in, and made tea for her. He did not ask her why she looked so despondent, so defeated, but sat there, silently, sharing her tea, until she was ready to gather herself and go home.

THREE DAYS LATER, with everything back to normal after the Maun trip, they were sitting in the office when Mma Ramotswe noticed that it was time, as it so often seemed to be, for morning tea. Mma Makutsi put on the kettle, her accustomed task, and lined up the two teapots at the ready.

“Be sure to use the big one for the ordinary tea,” said Mma Ramotswe from the other side of the room. “That would be best.”

Mma Makutsi hesitated. “But it is the one you have always used,” she ventured. “I do not want to change things…”

Mma Ramotswe was insistent. “No, Mma. We have already discussed this. I am happy with that small teapot for my red bush tea. I am happy to change.”

The words I am happy to change made Mma Makutsi think. What Mma Ramotswe said about herself was probably true: when change came along, she often seemed to welcome it, or at least accept it. There were many people who did not-who harped on about the past and how things used to be, who never understood that some things have to be different as time passes. Mma Ramotswe was not one of these… Mma Makutsi stopped. No, perhaps she was. She always said that the old Botswana morality should not be changed; she always went for midmorning tea at the President Hotel on Saturdays and did not want that changed; and she had been very reluctant indeed to change her van. And yet, there were many novel things that Mma Ramotswe seemed to accept. Perhaps she was a mixture, as most of us were; we accepted some changes-changes we liked-and resisted others-changes we did not like. Yes, that must be it.