Alexander Smith - The Full Cupboard of Life

“I have had trouble with oil,” he said. “There are always oil leaks and I always have to put more oil in the front. Every time I make the journey up from Lobatse, I have to put in more oil.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni grimaced. “That is bad, Rra. But you should not have to do it. If the person who serviced this car made sure that the rubber seal on the rod that holds the oil cylinder was in its proper place, then this sort of thing would not happen.” He paused. “I could fix this for you. I could do it in ten minutes.”

The butcher looked at him. “I cannot bring the car in to your garage now,” he said. “I have to talk to my brother about our sister’s boy. He is a difficult boy, that one, and we have to work something out. And anyway, I cannot be paying all sorts of mechanics to look at this car. I have already paid a lot of money to the garage.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes. “I would not have charged you, Rra. That is not why I offered.”

For a few moments there was silence. The butcher looked at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and knew, immediately, what sort of man he was dealing with. And he knew, too, that his assumption that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would want payment was a gross misreading of the situation; for there were people in Botswana who still believed in the old Botswana ways and who were prepared to do things for others just to help them and not in prospect of some reward. This man, whom he had found lying underneath his car, was such a man. And yet he had paid such a great deal of money to those mechanics and they had assured him that all was in order. And the car, after all, worked reasonably well, even if there was a small problem with oil.

The butcher frowned, slipping a hand inside his collar and tugging at it, as if to loosen the material. “I do not think there can be anything wrong with my car,” he said. “I think that you must be wrong, Rra.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. Without saying anything, he pointed to the edge of the dark oil stain, just discernible beneath the body of the car. The butcher’s gaze followed his hand, and he shook his head vigorously. “It is impossible,” he said. “I take this car to a good garage. I pay a great deal of money to have it looked after. They are always tinkering with the engine.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni raised an eyebrow. “Always tinkering? Who are these people?” he asked.

The butcher gave the name of the garage, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew immediately. He had spent years trying to improve the image of the motor trade, but whatever he, and others like him, did they would always be thwarted by the activities of people like the butcher’s mechanics; if indeed they were mechanics at all-Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had strong doubts about the qualifications of some of them.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.

‘If you would let me look at the engine, Rra,” he said. “I could very quickly check your oil level. Then we would know whether it was safe for you to drive off to have more oil put in.”

The butcher hesitated for a moment. There was something humiliating about being called to account in this way, and yet it would be churlish to reject an offer of help. This man was obviously sincere, and seemed to know what he was talking about; so he reached into his pocket for the car keys, opened the driver’s door, and set about pulling the silver-topped lever that would release the catch on the engine cover.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood back respectfully. The revealing of an engine of this nature-an engine which was older than the Republic of Botswana itself-was a special moment, and he did not want to show unseemly curiosity as the beautiful piece of engineering was exposed to view. So he stood where he was and only leaned forward slightly once he could see the engine; and quickly drew in his breath, and was silent-not in admiration, as he had expected, but in shock. For this was not the engine of a 1955 Rover 90, lovingly preserved; he saw, instead, an engine which had been cobbled together with all manner of parts. A flimsy carburettor, of recent vintage and crude construction; a modern oil filter, adapted and tacked onto the only original part that he could make out-the great, solid engine block that had been put into the car at its birth all those years ago. That at least was intact, but what mechanical company it had been obliged to keep!

The butcher looked at him expectantly. “Well, Rra?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni found it hard to reply. There were times when, as a mechanic, one had to give bad news. It was never easy, and one often wished that there were some way round the brute truth. But there were occasions when just nothing could be done, and he feared that this was one of them. “I’m sorry, Rra,” he began. “This is very sad. A terrible thing has been done to this car. The engine parts…” He could not go on. What had been done was an act of such mechanical vandalism that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could not find the words to express the feelings within him. So he turned away and shook his head, as might one who had seen some great work of art destroyed before his eyes, cast low by the basest Philistines.

MMA HOLONGA sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. From the other side of the desk, Mma Ramotswe watched her client. She had observed that some people found it easier to tell a story if they shut their eyes, or if they looked down, or focused on something in the distance-something that was there but not there. It did not matter to her; the important thing was that clients should feel comfortable and that they should be able to talk without embarrassment. It might not be easy for Mma Holonga to talk about this, as these were intimate matters of the heart, and if closing her eyes would help, then Mma Ramotswe thought that a good idea. One of her clients, ashamed of what he had to say, had talked from behind cupped hands; that had been difficult, as what he had said had been far from clear. At least Mma Holonga, addressing her from her private darkness, could be understood perfectly well.

“I’ll start with the man I like best,” she said. “Or at least I think he is the one I like the best.”

Then why not marry him? thought Mma Ramotswe. If you liked a man, then surely you could trust your judgment? But no, there were men who were likeable-charming in fact-but who were dangerous to women: Note Makoti, thought Mma Ramotswe. Her own first husband, Note Makoti, was immensely attractive to women, and only later would they discover what sort of man he really was. So Mma Holonga was right: the man you liked might not be the right man.

“Tell me about this man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What does he do?”

Mma Holonga smiled. “He is a teacher.”

Mma Ramotswe noted this information on a piece of paper. First man, she wrote. Teacher. It was important information, because everybody in Botswana had their place, and one simple word could describe a world. Teachers were respected in Botswana, even if so many attitudes were changing. In the past, of course, it had been an even more important thing to be a schoolteacher, and the moral authority of the teacher was recognised by all. Today, more people had studied for diplomas and certificates and these people considered themselves to be every bit as good as teachers. But often they were not, because teachers had wisdom, while many of these people with paper qualifications had not. The wisest man Mma Ramotswe had ever known-her own father, Obed Ramotswe, had no Cambridge Certificate, not even his Standard Six, but that had made no difference. He had wisdom, and that counted for very much more.

She looked out of the window while Mma Holonga began to explain who the teacher was. She tried to concentrate, but the thought of her father had taken her back to Mochudi, and to the memories that the village had for her; of afternoons in the hot season when nothing happened but the heat and when it seemed that nothing could ever have happened; when there was time to sit in front of one’s house in the evening and watch the birds flying back to the trees and the sky to the West fill with swathes of red as the sun went down over the Kalahari; when it seemed that you would be fifteen years old for ever and would always be here in Mochudi. And you were not to know then what the world would bring; that the life you imagined for yourself elsewhere might not be as good as the life you already had. Not that this was the case with Mma Ramotswe’s life, which had on the whole been a happy one; but for many it was true-those quiet days in their village would prove to be the best time for them.