Alexander Smith - Tea Time for the Traditionally Built People

She hesitated. She had not come to the shopping centre to buy shoes; she had come to buy food, and there was a big difference between shopping for food and shopping for shoes, a difference concentrated in one word: guilt . There was no guilt at all in buying day-to-day requirements, such as food, whereas the purchase of shoes, even shoes that were intended for working use, was a process very susceptible to the onslaughts of conscience. Were the shoes necessary? Were shoes like this necessary? Would anybody believe that such shoes could possibly have been bought with functionality in mind? Such were the questions that confronted Mma Makutsi every time she entered a shoe shop. And such were the questions that she resolutely, and with admirable determination, swept aside before making a purchase.

Her hesitation was not long-lived. There would be plenty of time to buy the food for dinner even if she went into the shoe shop now. And she did not necessarily have to go in to buy; it was perfectly possible to go into a shoe shop just to look, even if Mma Makutsi inevitably came out with a new pair of shoes. This time it would be pure curiosity about the crocodile-skin shoes, nothing more than that.

The assistant recognised her. Her sister had been at the Botswana Secretarial College at the same time as Mma Makutsi; indeed, they had been quite good friends. “Mma Makutsi,” she said as she sidled up. “We haven't seen you for some time. Are you well, Mma?”

“Thank you, Mma. I am very well. And you are well?”

“I am well too, Mma. Thank you.”

There was a silence. Then Mma Makutsi continued, “And your sister is well too?”

“She is. She has had another baby. And the baby is well.”

“That is good.”

The silence returned. Mma Makutsi glanced in the direction of the window. “I couldn't help noticing, Mma,” she said, “that you had a very smart pair of shoes in the window there. Those ones on the stand. They are very pretty shoes.”

The assistant laughed. “They are, Mma. They are very pretty. And that's why we put them on that stand-so that if you walked past you would see them. And you have.”

She moved over towards the window and leaned forward to take the shoes off the stand. Returning to Mma Makutsi, she held them out in front of her, like a prize. “There, Mma. Look at these. These are very fine shoes.”

Mma Makutsi reached forward and took one of the shoes from the assistant's hand. She turned it over and examined the heel and the sole. The heel was high, but not so high as to make the shoes impractical. She looked inside: the workmanship was impeccable; neatly stitched seams ran down the side of the leather lining, and everything was meticulously and expertly finished. She ran a finger over the leather; it felt just right.

“They were made in Johannesburg,” said the assistant. “These shoes are exactly the style being worn today in Johannesburg, by the very fashionable ladies there. You know that, of course.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “Of course.”

“But they are now being worn in Gaborone too,” went on the assistant. “By our own more fashionable ladies.”

Mma Makutsi sat down silently on one of the chairs while the assistant, having given her the other shoe, fetched small nylon socks. The decision to try the shoes had been made wordlessly, but everything was well understood. The assistant knew what was going on in Mma Makutsi's mind and would leave her to conduct the internal struggle by herself; no help was needed from her. Other than to remark, perhaps, that the shoes were made of a leather which looked very like crocodile, but which was not. It was crocodile-look, apparently, which was not the same thing. “It is better for the crocodiles,” explained the assistant. “And it is just as beautiful. Many people would think that you are wearing crocodile if they saw those shoes. That is what they would think, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi slipped the shoes onto her feet. They were exactly the right size and fitted perfectly. She glanced at the assistant, who nodded encouragingly. She stood up.

“I am not sure when I would wear these shoes,” she said as she took a tentative step.

The assistant spread her hands. “Oh, Mma, you could wear them to all sorts of parties. They are ideal party shoes.”

Mma Makutsi looked down at the shoes. “I do not go to many parties,” she said. “In fact, I go to none.” This was true. Mma Makutsi was not a party-goer, and Phuti had never so much as suggested going to one.

“Or not,” the assistant added hurriedly. “These shoes do not need to go to parties. You can wear these to work. When you are entertaining a client. Or even for ordinary wear-when you feel that you want to look smart, even if you are doing nothing special. You could wear these shoes all the time, you know.”

“They are very pretty,” said Mma Makutsi. “Very elegant.”

The assistant nodded. “That is what I thought when I first saw them. I thought that these are the most elegant shoes we have had in the shop for a long time.”

Mma Makutsi asked the price. It was steep, but then she told herself: I am the fiancée of a wealthy man-still-and he has often said that he would buy me shoes and clothes. And I have never taken advantage of that; never. She looked into her purse. She had been to the bank to draw money and there was just enough for the shoes, even if nothing would be left over for the food.

It was a stark choice: shoes or food; beauty or sustenance; the sensible or the self-indulgent.

“I'll take these shoes,” she said firmly.

The assistant smiled broadly. “You'll never regret it, Mma,” she said. “Never. Not once.”

MMA MAKUTSI CAUGHT a minibus home. She was empty-handed, apart from the shoes, which had been placed in their elegant box and then in a plastic carrier bag. This bag sat on her lap where, had she not thrown caution to the winds, her shopping bag of groceries would have been. But had she bought groceries, she would not be experiencing that extraordinary feeling of renewal that an exciting purchase can bring. And did she really need groceries? There were some potatoes at home, and some spinach. There were also a couple of eggs and some bread. With a little ingenuity, what food there was could be combined to produce a tasty enough morsel for Phuti Radiphuti's dinner-a potato and spinach omelette perhaps, or fried egg and chips, a simple meal, but one which was exactly the sort of thing that men liked to eat.

She alighted from the minibus and walked the short distance to her house. Once inside, she sat down on one of the chairs at her table and took off her old shoes. Then, standing up, she walked around the room in the new shoes. The old shoes watched, looking at her reproachfully: Off with the old and on with the new, Boss, they said. So much for loyalty.

She shook her head. She would not be throwing the old shoes away; they should know that. You are still important to me, she said.

The shoes said nothing. They were sceptical.

The new shoes, once on, looked proudly at the old shoes. Eat your heart out, old ones , they said. You're history.

They are not, thought Mma Makutsi. They are not history. There's a place for all sorts and conditions of shoes.

Yeah, Boss, said the old shoes. Kind words, but the bottom line is this: we're history. Well, you'd better look out, Boss! What if you're history yourself?

She sat down again. The shoes, both old and new, were silent. Shoes cannot talk, she thought; it's just me talking to myself.

History, whispered the old shoes.

She looked down. The shoes, lying on the floor, were silent, their tongues loose, mere scraps of leather really, but with the look of self-satisfaction that came from having issued a well-timed and much-needed warning.