Alexander Smith - The Kalahari Typing School For Men

Typewriters! Who had a large supply of old, partly unworkable typewriters gathering dust in a storeroom? The Botswana Secretarial College!

Mma Makutsi picked up the telephone. There was a rule that personal calls from the garage and the agency were not allowed. (“This is not directed against you,” Mma Ramotswe had said, “it’s those apprentices. Imagine if they were able to speak on the phone from work to all those girls. We would not be able to pay the bill, or even half of it.”) This was different. This was work, even if a sideline.

She dialled the number of the college and politely enquired after the health of the telephonist at the other end before she asked to speak to the assistant principal, Mma Manapotsi. She knew Mma Manapotsi well and often chatted with her if they met in town.

“We have always been so proud of you,” said Mma Manapotsi. “Ninety-seven percent! I shall never forget that. We still haven’t had any other girl, not a single one, who has managed more than eighty-five percent. Your name is secure in the annals of the college! We are so proud.”

“But you must also be proud of your son,” Mma Makutsi would remind her. Mma Manapotsi’s son, Harry, was a successful footballer, a member of the Zebras team and famous for scoring a crucial goal in a match against the Bulawayo Dynamos the previous year. He was an inveterate ladies’ man, as many of these footballers were, and his hair was always covered with a curious sticky gel, for the benefit of ladies, Mma Makutsi assumed. But his mother was proud of him, as any mother would be of a son who was capable of bringing crowds to their feet.

When Mma Manapotsi was put on the line, they exchanged warm greetings before Mma Makutsi broached the subject of the typewriters. As she spoke, she stood on her toe under the desk, just for luck. They might have thrown the old typewriters out by now, or had them repaired and put back into service.

She explained that she was hoping to start a small typing class and that she would be prepared to pay for the rental of the typewriters, even if they did not work perfectly.

“But of course,” said Mma Manapotsi. “Why not? Those old machines are useless, and we need to clear the space. You could have them in exchange for…”

Mma Makutsi thought of her savings and imagined the savings book with a row of noughts in every column.

“For an offer to come and talk to the girls now and then,” went on Mma Manapotsi. “I was thinking of introducing a new part of the curriculum. Talks from distinguished graduates on what to expect in the working world. You could be the first speaker.”

Mma Makutsi accepted the offer with alacrity.

“There are a dozen machines or so,” said Mma Manapotsi. “They don’t work properly, you know. They go qwertyui** rather than qwertyuiop. Some of them even go qop.”

“I don’t mind,” said Mma Makutsi. “They’re only for men.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” said Mma Manapotsi.

MMA MAKUTSI replaced the receiver on its cradle and then rose from her desk. She glanced through the open door that led into the garage; nobody was watching. Slowly, she began to gyrate round the office in celebratory dance, ululating quietly as she did so, her right hand moving back and forward before her mouth. It was a victory dance. The Kalahari Typing School for Men had just been born; her first business, her very own idea. It would work-she had no doubt of that-and it would solve all her problems. The men would come flocking, all eager to learn the vital skill, and the money would flow into her account.

She adjusted her glasses, which had slipped down to the end of her nose during the dance, and looked out of the window. She could hardly wait to tell Mma Ramotswe all about it, as she knew that she would approve. Mma Ramotswe had Mma Makutsi’s real interests at heart-she knew that very well. It would be a relief to her to hear that her employee had come up with such a sound project for her spare time. This was exactly the spirit of enterprise which Mma Ramotswe had spoken about on a number of occasions. Enterprise with compassion. Those poor men, desperate to know how to type, but too ashamed to ask how to do it, had relief in store.

MR. MOLEFELO sat on his rock, under the empty sky, watched by a small herd of cattle that had gathered not far off, and told Mma Ramotswe, his confessor, of what he had done all those years ago.

“I came to Gaborone when I was eighteen. I had grown up in a small village outside Francistown, where my father was the clerk of the village council. It was an important job in the village, but not important outside. I found out when I came to Gaborone that being a village clerk was nothing and that nobody had heard of him down here.

“I had always been good with my hands, and I had been entered by my school for a place in the Botswana Technical College, which was much smaller then than it is today. I had done well at school in all the science subjects, and I think my father hoped that I would end up designing rockets or something like that. He had no idea that this sort of work is not done in Gaborone; in his eyes, Gaborone was a place where anything could happen.

“My family did not have much money, but I was given a government scholarship to help me in my studies at the college. This was meant to provide you with just enough money to pay the fees and to live simply for the rest of the term. That was not easy, and there were many days when I was hungry. But that does not matter so much when you are young. It is easy to have no money then because you think that it will change and there will be money, and food, tomorrow.

“The college arranged for students to stay with families in Gaborone. These were people who had a spare room, or even in some cases just a shed, which they wanted to rent out. Some of us had to live in uncomfortable places, far from the college. Others were lucky and had rooms in houses where they gave you good food and looked after you like one of the family. I was one of these. I had half a room in a house near the prison, staying with the family of one of the senior officials in the prison service. There were three bedrooms in this house, and I shared one of them with another boy from the college. He was always studying and made no noise. He was also very kind to me, and shared the loaves of bread which he got for nothing from his uncle, who worked in a bakery. He also had an uncle who worked in a butchery, and we got free sausages from him. This boy seemed to get everything free, in fact. His clothes were all free, too-they were given to him by an aunt who worked in a shop which sold clothes.

“The woman of the house was called Mma Tsolamosese. She was a very fat lady-a bit like yourself, Mma-and she was very kind to us. She used to make sure that my shirts were washed and ironed, because she said that my mother would expect that. ‘I am your mother in Gaborone,’ she said. ‘There is one mother up there in Francistown and one mother down here. The one down here is me.’

“The husband was a very quiet man. He did not like his work, I think, because when she asked him what had happened in the prison that day, he simply shook his head and said: ‘Prisons are full of bad men. They do bad things all day. That is what happens.’ I do not remember him saying much more than that.

“I was very happy living in this house and studying at the college. I was happy, too, because I had found a girlfriend at long last. When I was at home I had tried and tried to find a girl who would talk to me, but there was nobody. Now, when I came to Gaborone, I found that there were many girls who were eager to get to know students at the college because they knew that we would be getting good jobs one day, and if they could get us to marry them, that would mean an easy life for them. I know, I know, Mma, it’s not as simple as that, but I think that many of these girls did think that way.