Alexander Smith: The Kalahari Typing School For Men

The donkeys had wandered onto the road and were standing still, wondering whether to cross or not. A boy shouted at them and threw a stone to move them on, calling out their names: Broken Ear, Broken Ear! Thin One, Thin One! Come on, come on, move!

Which was Broken Ear, she wondered, as they all seemed to have fine ears, and none, now that one came to think of it, looked particularly thin. She was thinking of this, of the names which people give their animals, when a car turned off the road, circled Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors twice, and then drew up next to the tiny white van. Mma Ramotswe watched as the driver, a tall, well-built man in his early forties, got out.

“Dumela, Mma,” he said as he walked over towards her. “Can you help me? I am looking for the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.”

Mma Ramotswe realised that she must seem somewhat dreamy to him, standing there, staring at the donkeys; a woman who was perhaps not all there in the head. “That is me, Rra. I am sorry, I was thinking of something else.” She pointed to the donkeys. “I was listening to the herd boy calling out the names of those donkeys. I was not paying attention.”

The man chuckled. “And why should you? There’s nothing wrong with watching donkeys, or cattle, for that matter. I love to watch cattle myself. I can look at them for hours.”

“Who can’t?” replied Mma Ramotswe. “My father had a good eye for cattle. He could tell you a lot about a cow’s owner just by looking at her.”

“There are people like that,” he agreed. “It is a great talent. Perhaps you can do it. You could be a cattle detective, asking the cattle to tell you things.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. She had immediately taken to this man, whoever he was; he was the opposite of Mr. Buthelezi. You could not imagine this man being photographed in a wide-brimmed hat.

“I must tell you my name,” said the man. “I am Molefelo, and I come from Lobatse. I am a civil engineer, but I have a hotel down there, too. I used to build things, but now I just sit in an office and run them. It is not as much fun, I’m afraid.”

Mma Ramotswe listened politely. She had heard vaguely of Mr. Molefelo, she thought. She knew Lobatse, and she had probably been to his hotel once or twice with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni when they had gone down there together to visit her cousin. In fact, the last time she had been there, she had eaten a meal which had made her very ill; but this was not the time to mention that, she thought.

“We can go into the office,” she said, pointing to the door. “It will be more comfortable to sit down. My assistant will make us tea and we can talk.”

Mr. Molefelo glanced towards the door of the agency, where Mma Makutsi could be seen, peering out at them.

“I wonder if we could stay outside,” he said hesitantly. “It is such a pleasant day and…” He paused before continuing. “Actually, Mma, what I have to say is very private. Very, very private. I wonder if we could talk about it outside? We could take a walk, perhaps. I could talk to you while we were walking.”

Mma Ramotswe had encountered embarrassment before in her clients and understood that it was often no use trying to reassure them. If there was something which was really private, the presence of another often inhibited them. Of course, there was nothing-or almost nothing-that she had not heard. Nothing would astonish her, although there were occasions on which she marvelled at the ability people had to complicate their lives.

“I’m happy to go for a walk,” she said to Mr. Molefelo. “I will just tell my assistant that I am going, and then I am ready.”

THEY WALKED along a path that led back from the garage in the direction of the dam. There were thorn bushes and the sweet smell of grazing cattle. As they walked, Mr. Molefelo talked, and Mma Ramotswe listened.

“You may wonder, Mma, why I am telling you this, but I think you should know that I am a man who has changed. Something happened to me two months ago which has made me think about everything, about my whole life and how I’ve led it, and about how I should lead the rest of it. Do you know what I’m talking about?

“You are not talking to a particularly bad man, or anything like that. You are talking to a man who is probably much like other men. Just an average sort of man. There are thousands of men like me in Botswana. Ordinary men. Not very clever and not very stupid. Just ordinary men.”

“You are being modest,” interrupted Mma Ramotswe. “You are an engineer, aren’t you? That is a clever thing to be.”

“Not really. You have to be able to do mathematics and technical drawing, maybe. But beyond that, it’s mostly common sense.” He was silent for a moment before continuing. “But that’s not the point about being ordinary. The point about being ordinary is that the average man does some bad things in his life and some good things. There are probably no men who have done no bad things. Probably not one.”

“Nor women,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Women are just as bad as men. Sometimes they are worse.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Mr. Molefelo. “I do not know many women very well. I do not know how women behave. But that is not the point. I was talking about men, and I think I do know how men behave.”

“You have done a bad thing?” asked Mma Ramotswe bluntly. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Mr. Molefelo nodded. “I have. But don’t worry, it was not too bad-I haven’t killed anybody or anything like that. I’ll tell you about the bad thing I did-although I haven’t told anybody else, you know. But first I should like to tell you about what happened a few months ago. Then you will understand why I want to talk to you.

“As I told you, I have a hotel down in Lobatse. This has done quite well-it is a good place for weddings-and I have used the money I made from it to buy land. I bought land down near the border with Namibia, right down there. It takes me four hours’ driving from Lobatse to get there, and so I can’t go down every week. I have a man, though, who looks after it for me, and there are some families who live on the land and do work for me.”

“And this man, is he good with cattle? That is very important,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes, he is good with cattle. But he is also good with ostriches. I have a good flock of ostriches down there and some fine birds. Big ones. Strong. It’s a good place for ostriches.”

Mma Ramotswe did not know about ostriches. She had seen them, of course, and she knew that many people were keen on them. But in her mind, they were a poor substitute for cattle. She imagined a Botswana covered with ostriches rather than cattle. What a strange place that would be; undignified, really.

“My ostriches are well known for their good meat,” Mr. Molefelo went on. “But they are also good breeders. I have one who is very kind to the hens and has many children. He is a very fine ostrich, and I keep him in a special paddock so that he does not fight. I have seen him kick, you know. Ow! If he kicked a man, he would divide him in two. I’m not exaggerating. Two pieces. Down the middle.”

“I shall be very careful,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“I saw a man kicked by an ostrich once. He was the brother of one of the men who works on my farm, and he was not very strong. A long time ago, when he was a child, he was trodden upon by some cattle and hurt his back. He did not grow up straight, because his spine was twisted. So he could not do much work. Then he got TB, and that made him even worse. All that coughing, I suppose, makes you very weak.

“He came to see his brother one day, and they gave him some beer, although this weak man was not used to drinking. He liked the beer, and it made him feel brave for once in his life. So he went over to the ostrich pen and climbed over the tall fence that we use to keep the ostriches in. There was an ostrich nearby who was watching him, and he was very surprised when a man ran up to him waving his arms. The ostrich tried to run away, but he caught his wing in the fence and was slow. So the man caught him, and that was when the ostrich kicked him.