Alexander Smith - Tea Time for the Traditionally Built People

The minibus was now on the Tlokweng Road, approaching the stop at which Mma Makutsi would alight. She felt much better after that stirring piece of self-addressed rhetoric, and as she stepped down from the minibus she caught sight of the small doughnut tuck-stand that she frequented on a Friday, as a treat. Today was only a Monday, but she would indulge herself, she thought. She would buy a doughnut for herself-a rich, greasy, sugar-dusted doughnut-and one for Mma Ramotswe too. They would eat them together over their morning tea, in companionable enjoyment-two ladies sharing a common office, but two friends as well, united as friends so often are, in the love of the things they loved.

THAT WAS VERY GOOD, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe, licking the sugar off the tips of her fingers. “There is a lot to be said for starting the week with a doughnut.” She picked the last few crumbs off her plate and popped them into her mouth. “Up to now, we have been finishing the week with a doughnut. Maybe we should change and start the week with one.”

“Or we could start and finish the week with one,” said Mma Makutsi. “That would always be possible.”

Mma Ramotswe struggled with temptation for a moment, but only for a moment. “That would be a very good policy, Mma.” And not only did it strike her as being very attractive from the point of view of personal satisfaction, but it also made sense in terms of staff morale. She had read a magazine article recently in which the author, described as a famous expert, had written that any employer wishing to get the best out of staff should introduce a system of staff perks. Small privileges are always welcome, he wrote. A staff outing not only provides pleasure, it bonds staff together and motivates them. Mma Ramotswe thought that staff outings were undoubtedly a good idea, but she did not feel that they were necessarily a good thing for a business as small as hers. She and Mma Makutsi had plenty of opportunities to bond when they sat in their little office together; indeed, they had been bonding from the day that Mma Makutsi had first arrived and talked herself into a job. And if they were to go on an outing together, where would they go? It was all very well for people who worked in places like Johannesburg to talk about going on staff outings; there were plenty of places to go to in a city of that size. Gaborone was so much smaller, and there were few places that she and Mma Makutsi could go to that they would not have already been to many times before.

They could go and have tea in the café on River Walk, the one where you could sit and look out over the car park with the eucalyptus trees in the distance, but they could just as easily have tea in the office and, with minimum craning of the neck, see the edge of that very same stand of eucalyptus trees. Or they could go down to Mokolodi and have tea in the restaurant there; that was perhaps a bit more exciting, but it would require a half-hour trip in the tiny white van to get there, and the tiny white van was not really in a position to make such a trip at present. It was true that it was running, but only just; walking, perhaps, would have been a better word to describe it.

She pushed her plate to the side of her desk. The thought of her van filled her with dread. That morning Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had left for work first, and when Mma Ramotswe arrived he was standing in front of the garage, chatting to Fanwell, when the tiny white van limped into its parking place at the side of the building. Seeing him, Mma Ramotswe had put her foot down on the accelerator, hoping that the van might just rise to the occasion and drive up at a normal speed. It had not, and the sudden strain on the engine had produced a frightening grinding sound, more serious, it seemed, than any noise the van had previously emitted.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni broke off his conversation with his apprentice and walked briskly over to the van.

“What a terrible sound,” he said. “Mma Ramotswe! How long has your van been making that sound?”

Mma Ramotswe swallowed hard. “A sound, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? You say that it's making a strange sound? Are you sure it was not some other vehicle?” She looked desperately over her shoulder to see if anything was passing on the Tlokweng Road. The road was quite empty.

“No, it is your van,” he said. “There must be something very wrong with it. I'll take a look at it right away. We've got a couple of hours before the next job is due in.”

Mma Ramotswe realised that she had no escape. “I don't want to be any trouble,” she muttered. “Maybe some other time.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am your husband, Mma. I cannot have my own wife driving round in a van that makes a noise like that. Think of my reputation-just think of it. What would they say?” He looked at her reproachfully before answering his own question. “They would say that I was not much of a mechanic if that was the sound that my own wife's van made. Everyone would be saying that.”

Mma Ramotswe caught Fanwell's eye. He shrugged, as if to say, I told you, Mma Ramotswe. I told you that there was no hope.

She went into the office, her heart quite cold within her. She knew what would happen, and that a mechanical sentence of doom, uttered in words as powerful and as grave as those of any doctor imparting bad news, would soon be uttered. She decided, though, that there was no point in doing anything but put it out of her mind for the time being. When there is nothing you can do to stop the march of adverse events, then the best thing, she felt, was to get on with life and not to worry. And at that particular moment, Mma Makutsi had come in with the doughnuts, which would be a balm, if only a temporary one, to the anxiety she felt.

And there was plenty to do. When Mma Makutsi arrived in the office that morning, she had found a large envelope tucked under the door, emanating, according to what was written on the outside, from the office of Mr. Leungo Molofololo.

“I've been expecting that,” said Mma Ramotswe, examining the neatly typed sheets of paper that Mma Makutsi handed over to her. “This is the list of the players. This is where we start, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi, standing behind Mma Ramotswe and looking over her shoulder, pointed to one of the names. “Big Man,” she said. “What stupid names these footballers have, Mma. They are just boys. Small boys.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled indulgently. She would not have put it quite like that, but she knew what Mma Makutsi meant. Women did not give one another nicknames. For some reason it was always men, and the names chosen were indeed absurd: private jokes that meant nothing to others; a small humiliation hung around the neck of some unfortunate. Why, she wondered, did men behave like this? You would think that they would learn- and some of them were learning, a bit-but most of them did not. “I know all about Big Man,” she said. “He's the goalkeeper and he is very small. He's not big at all.”

“There you are,” said Mma Makutsi. “That proves it. Why call a small man Big Man? That is very stupid-just as I said.” She peered at the list. “And who is this man called Rops? It says here that he is the captain. Why is he called Rops?”

“Rops is a name I have heard before,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is a perfectly good name. Unlike this one here. You see that he is called Joel ‘Two Feet’ Koko.”

“Another silly name,” said Mma Makutsi. She moved back to her desk and sat expectantly. “Well now, Mma Ramotswe, what do we do with this list? How do we find the traitor?”

Mma Ramotswe laid the list down. “Let's think, Mma Makutsi. What have we done in the past?”

Mma Makutsi looked puzzled. “We've never had anything to do with a football team, Mma. Not that I recall.”