Alexander Smith - The Double Comfort Safari Club

She made the tea as her employer instructed. That was a good thing, as that morning not only did Mr. Polopetsi come in with his mug ready for filling, but also Charlie and Fanwell, and, last of all, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He did not linger, but poured himself a large cup and then returned to the garage, where there was a tricky repair being made to an important car. And as well as the entire staff, there was a visitor who wanted tea that morning: Mma Potokwane. She arrived just as Charlie and Fanwell were draining the last drops from their mugs, and caused their rapid departure. Even Charlie, who held few people in awe, was wary of Mma Potokwane, who seemed to remind him of all that was most powerful and daunting in Botswana womanhood.

It was not that Mma Potokwane had ever said very much to Charlie. It was true that she had once asked him what his long-term plans were, and asked the question in such a way as to imply that she at least could tell at a glance that he had none. It was true that she had once said to Mma Ramotswe-in his hearing-that he reminded her of a young man at the orphan farm who had turned out very badly and was now living in a cardboard box outside Lobatse. These comments were hardly confidence-building, and Charlie resented them. Yet it was not so much what she said that he objected to-it was the look that Mma Potokwane gave him. Normally Charlie could face down any look from a woman; after all, he had received many such looks from former girlfriends-looks of pure, distilled reproach-and knew how to deal with them. One simply looked the other way. But with Mma Potokwane it was different; her look, as Fanwell had once suggested, could stop the Mafikeng train in its tracks, and probably had.

If Mma Potokwane had a difficult relationship with Charlie, the same could be said of her dealings with Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe was aware of this, and had attempted to reassure her assistant that the matron surely had no real objection to her; it was just the way that she looked, a question of manner, really. “It is difficult running an orphan farm,” she said. “All those children. All those house mothers, all wanting this, that, and the next thing. And you know that Mma Potokwane would do anything for her people-anything.”

That was certainly true. Mma Potokwane would stop at nothing to secure some benefit for the children in her care. She would cajole and wheedle until people gave the children what they needed, and when it came to dealings with officialdom, she would give no quarter. She always won, and the children benefited.

That morning when Mma Potokwane called out a cheerful Ko! Ko! and came into the room, Mma Makutsi exchanged a concerned glance with Mma Ramotswe, quickly thinking of reasons why she might have to leave the office on unspecified, but urgent, business. Her concern, though, was misplaced: it soon became apparent that Mma Potokwane had come on an errand of sympathy, and that sympathy was directed at Mma Makutsi herself.

“Mma Makutsi,” she began, “I have heard of Mr. Radiphuti’s accident. I am very sorry, Mma. And I am so sad for you, Mma, so sad.”

Mma Makutsi looked up. Only two people so far had said anything like this to her-Mma Ramotswe herself and the woman she had met on the bench outside the hospital. But here was a third.

“That is very kind of you, Mma. Thank you.”

“I am always telling the drivers who deliver things to our place to watch out when they reverse. They do not listen, do they?”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “I think that is probably true. They are busy. They forget.”

“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “They probably think: This is just another woman talking to me. And now your poor Phuti has had this terrible injury. I am so sorry, Mma.”

“Thank you, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane sat down. “He is a lucky man to have you, Mma. When he comes out of hospital you can nurse him back to health. He will soon be up and about.”

Mma Ramotswe now got up from her desk to pour tea for their visitor. “Actually, he is already out, Mma. He has made very good progress.”

Mma Potokwane clapped her hands together. “That is very good news! So you are already looking after him. Give him plenty of meat, Mma. Breakfast, lunch, supper-good Botswana beef. That will make him strong. And vegetables. Also at breakfast, lunch and supper. Vegetables. Vitamin C.” She paused. “You’ve got somebody at your house to help you?”

It was Mma Ramotswe who answered. She looked round and saw Mma Makutsi staring down at her hands, clasped together on the desk. “Well, Mma, it is rather difficult. You see, Mma Makutsi would like to look after Phuti, but he has an aunt, and this aunt has somehow managed to-”

Mma Potokwane stopped her. “Oh, I have met that woman. I cannot remember her name, but she has a…”

“Big head,” Mma Makutsi supplied. “A big head, a bit like a melon.” She sketched the dimensions of the head with her hands.

“Yes, that is her,” said Mma Potokwane. “She is a very difficult woman. She was very rude to one of the house mothers once, at church, I think. She said that she was not putting enough money in the collection basket. I heard about that. The house mother had been crying. She said, Some woman with a very big head made me very embarrassed. I remember it.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled, picturing the scene. The people who volunteered to take the collection at church were often of a rather stern type, she thought. “That is the woman who is now looking after Phuti,” she said. “And she is trying to stop Mma Makutsi from seeing him.”

Mma Potokwane put down her teacup with a clatter. “What? What is this?”

“She turns me away when I go to the house,” explained Mma Makutsi. “She won’t let me see Phuti, my own fiancé.”

Mma Potokwane made a strange sound-a sort of eruption that came from deep within her, a small sound, perhaps, at its origin somewhere within her chest, but magnified tenfold as it came up through her matronly air passages, to emerge from her lips as an unmistakably disapproving snort. It was very like the sound, thought Mma Ramotswe, not without admiration, that a she-elephant makes when warning an intruder off her young.

“That is a piece of nonsense,” said Mma Potokwane. “The place for a man who is recovering from an injury is with the lady who is almost married to him. That has always been so, and the world has not changed so much that it is any different now.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe, as one matron to another. “Do you not agree with me, Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head to signify that she did not dissent. She agreed with Mma Potokwane on many things, but not all. Yet this was one area in which the agreement was perfect. Of course, this redoubtable woman, this defender of the interests of orphans-and fiancées-was right.

Mma Potokwane now looked out of the window, momentarily lost in thought. After a while she turned round and addressed Mma Makutsi. “Of course, it might be difficult for you to look after him all the time. You have your job, don’t you?”

Mma Makutsi sighed. “It would be hard, Mma, but I would like to try.”

“You live by yourself, don’t you, Mma?” Mma Potokwane asked.

“Yes, I do. But I always get back by five-thirty. So he would only be by himself from…”

“From seven in the morning until five-thirty in the evening,” said Mma Potokwane briskly. “That would not be very good for him, Mma. No, we must think of something else, and I believe that I have a solution.”

Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances.

“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have been thinking. There is a room behind my office at the orphan farm. It is a very comfortable room that we sometimes use when we have visitors. Mr. Radiphuti could stay there, and that means there would be many people to look after him during the day. We have a nurse, as you know, and there is a house mother nearby who is a very good cook. Then you could come every evening, Mma Makutsi, and you could stay in my place. We have two extra bedrooms in our house. So you could see him in the evenings and all weekends. He would be very well looked after, I think.”