Alexander Smith - Tea Time for the Traditionally Built People

Mma Ramotswe had to acknowledge that if somebody was called Lily, then it was not unreasonable for her to call a daughter Violet, and so she did not argue. But she did point out-even if very mildly-that the sins of the father should not be visited upon the child, and by the same token the sins of the child should not be a pretext to berate the father.

“We are not talking about fathers and sons here, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “We are talking about mothers and daughters.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “Well, Mma, time is passing. It is already time for tea, and we have so much work to do.”

“I will put the kettle on,” said Mma Makutsi briskly. “We have had a very big shock this morning, and tea will help us to get over it. That is what tea does. That is well known.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that it was.

AFTER THEY HAD DRUNK their tea and the cups had been washed and stacked away, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi set about the tasks of the day. For both of them, the most pressing duty was to interview players from the Molofololo list. Mma Ramotswe was to see one of the new players, a young physical education teacher, while Mma Makutsi had an eleven o'clock appointment on the verandah of the President Hotel. Her player was a busy man, he warned her, a salesman, and he could spare only half an hour. He was prepared to speak to her, though, as long as she bought him coffee.

“That is very rude,” she complained to Mma Ramotswe. “It is very ill-mannered to say that you will meet somebody but only if they buy you something.”

“Perhaps he was joking,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are people who talk like that, you know. They do not mean to be rude-they mean to be funny.”

“But I am not laughing,” said Mma Makutsi.

They left it at that, but when Mma Makutsi alighted from the minibus at the back of the President Hotel that morning, she already felt that her meeting with Oteng Bolelang, an experienced attacking midfielder (whatever that was) in the Kalahari Swoopers, would be trying. The term attacking midfielder had been used by Mma Ramotswe when she had asked her assistant to speak to Bolelang, but Mma Makutsi was doubtful as to whether Mma Ramotswe knew what it meant. “What is it?” she asked, and Mma Ramotswe had waved a hand and said, “He attacks, Mma. He attacks from the middle of the field.” Mma Makutsi had considered this, but it was only later that she thought of the obvious retort. “But what if the play has moved down to the other end of the field, Mma? What then? How can an attacking midfielder launch an attack when he is in the middle of the field and all the other players are down near the goalposts?” Mma Ramotswe would not have been able to answer that, she imagined, but then both of them were on very weak ground in this case and she was not one to talk. At least Mma Ramotswe had been to a football match, which was more than Mma Makutsi could claim.

The whole business, she thought as she made her way round the side of the President Hotel, was a complete waste of time. She and Mma Ramotswe would talk to these football players, with their ridiculous schoolboy-ish nicknames, and at the end of it all they would be none the wiser. Or they might be a little wiser in that they would have learned a bit more about the silliness of men's games, but they would not be wiser in their search for Mr. Molofololo's traitor.

The square in front of the President Hotel, a large, well-used pedestrian thoroughfare known as the Mall, was more crowded than usual. The end-of-the-month pay-day had fallen a few days ago, and the effect of the sudden injection of money into pockets was still being felt. All along the square, which ran from the government offices at one end to the bank offices at the other, small traders had set up their stalls. There were sellers of crudely made sandals, the shoes laid out before them in rows; dressmakers, with their racks of voluminous dresses; purveyors of traditional medicines, with their little piles of twisted roots and strips of bark; sellers of carvings and wooden salad bowls; hawkers of cheap sunglasses and perfumes. Business was being done-but not a great deal, as this spot seemed to provide for as many social as commercial opportunities. Questions were being asked about relatives and colleagues; marriages were being discussed and planned; complaints about the doings of officials and officialdom were being shared, and expanded; and, of course, news was being conveyed of distant cattle. There was a lot happening.

Mma Makutsi would have preferred to wander the length of the Mall, stopping to chat to people she recognised, but saw that she was already a few minutes late for her appointment. So, with the sinking heart of one obliged to perform an unwelcome task, she climbed up the open staircase that graced the front of the President Hotel and made her way onto the shaded verandah.

The hotel would become busy at lunch time, but now only a few of the tables were occupied. At one, a smartly dressed woman sat alone, a magazine on the table in front of her. She was on edge, Mma Makutsi noticed, with the nervous look of one who is expecting to meet somebody important-somebody she was keen to impress, perhaps. From time to time she looked at a small mobile phone on the table; looked longingly, thought Mma Makutsi. Oh, my sister, Mma Makutsi said under her breath. Oh, my sister, I am sorry. He is not going to come, is he?

Mma Makutsi's gaze moved on. A middle-aged couple, visitors wearing large floppy hats, sat at a table poring over a tourist guide. Mma Makutsi smiled; so many people read these guides when they might have been looking around them and seeing the place they were reading about. It was the same with cameras: visitors spent so much time peering through the viewfinders of their cameras that they never looked at the country they were photographing. The couple lowered their books, though, and looked at her, smiled; her own smile grew wider. That was better. What does the book say about me? she wondered. Look out for Mma Makutsi. She is the fiancée of Mr. Phuti Radiphuti, and you should look out for him too.

The brief reverie ended. There he was-there was no doubt about it-Mr. Oteng Bolelang, midfield attacker, sitting at a table near the verandah parapet, pointedly looking at his watch.

“I am very sorry to be late, Rra,” she said, as she sat down at the table. “But as Mma Ramotswe says, it is better to be late than to be the late.”

Oteng Bolelang looked at her in puzzlement. “What is this? Who is this Mma Ramotswe?”

He spoke with an unusually high-pitched voice, which caught Mma Makutsi unawares. She had imagined that footballers-and especially midfield attackers-would speak with deep, masculine voices. This man, however, spoke with a rather thin, reed-like voice, the voice of a bird, she thought, or the voice of one of those thin dogs howling at the top of its register.

“Mma Ramotswe is the woman who owns the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency,” she said. “That is who she is.”

Oteng gave a shrug. “I do not know her.” His tone was peevish.

Mma Makutsi smiled pleasantly. “Well, maybe one day you will meet her, Rra. She has asked me, though, to speak to you. You will know that Mr. Molofololo wants you all to speak to us.”

“He told us that,” said the footballer. “He thinks that we have nothing better to do than to talk to wo… talk to people.”

Women, thought Mma Makutsi. That is what you were about to say, but you stopped yourself. You do not like women, I think, Rra. You do not like us.

“I am sure that you are very busy, Rra,” she said. “You told me on the telephone that you are a salesman. What do you sell?”

“Fridges,” said Oteng. “Fridges and freezers.”