The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (3 page)

Mma Ramotswe thought it a bit presumptuous for Mma Makutsi to include herself in the company of doctors and lawyers, but did not say anything.

“It is also the name on my diploma from the Botswana Secretarial
College,” Mma Makutsi said. “That is it, framed, up there. See it? It reads
Grace Makutsi
, just above the place where it says
ninety-seven per cent
. Right there.”

“I have seen it before,” said Mma Potokwane, slightly shortly. “You have drawn my attention to it, Mma. More than once, I think.” She paused, waiting for her pointed remark to be absorbed, but Mma Makutsi merely smiled encouragingly.

“So, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Potokwane continued. “I have a rather complicated story to tell you.”

“I am used to such things,” Mma Ramotswe assured her. “Do I need to take notes? Is it that complicated?”

“I can write it all down in shorthand,” Mma Makutsi volunteered. “That way, not a word will be lost.”

“That will not be necessary,” snapped Mma Potokwane. “It is complicated and simple, all at the same time. You do not need to take notes. Have you heard of a man called Mr. Ditso Ditso? He is a well-known businessman.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. She had not met Ditso Ditso, but had seen his name in the papers on numerous occasions. And she knew people who knew him; that was always the case in Botswana—you inevitably knew somebody who knew somebody.

“Rra Ditso is quite a good man, I think,” said Mma Potokwane. “Sometimes people like that—rich people—are very selfish and forget where they have come from and who their people are. He is not like that.”

Mma Ramotswe felt able to agree with these remarks on the newly rich. The growing prosperity of Botswana meant that there were many who had come a long way, and it was not uncommon to find people who seemed to forget the claims of friends and family once their fortunes were established. Recently there had been a case reported in the newspapers of a wealthy bottle-store owner
whose elderly parents were discovered to be living in extreme poverty in a remote village. They had not even heard of their son’s success, but were still proud of it when it was revealed to them and declined to express any bitterness over the difference in their circumstances. Mma Ramotswe had been astonished by their response, but then had thought: no, these are the real Botswana values. The son might not have them, but the parents did. And parents—whether they were in Botswana or anywhere else—almost always forgave, whatever happened; or at least, mothers did. Whatever a son or daughter did, a mother forgave.

“It is good that he remembers other people,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Sometimes I think that rich people live in a country in which they are the only people. It is called the Rich People’s Place, I think.”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “I think that’s right, Mma. But this Ditso—he’s not like that at all. He has been very generous to everybody.” She paused. “Including ourselves. He has been very, very generous with his time.”

“That’s good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You must be pleased with that, Mma Potokwane. You’re always asking people …” She stopped herself. It was Mma Potokwane’s job to ask people to help the orphan farm, and she should not mention it as if it might be a fault.

Mma Potokwane raised a hand. “I should be pleased, Mma, but …”

For a few moments there was silence. Then Mma Makutsi said: “You are not pleased, Mma Potokwane?”

Again Mma Potokwane shifted in her chair and glanced at Mma Makutsi. “No, I’m not pleased, Mma Makutsi. Do I look pleased?”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I do not think you are pleased.”

“You are right, Mma. You are a very good detective. I am not pleased.”

There was a further brief silence. This time it was broken by Mma Ramotswe, who said: “So …” It was not much to say, but it moved the conversation on.

“The problem,” Mma Potokwane explained, “is that this Ditso is on the orphan-farm board. I have a board, you see, and they are the people who make the big decisions for the orphan farm. They are good people, and they like the orphans. They work very hard.”

“Of course they do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know some of those people on your board. They are on many boards—working very hard for their causes.”

Mma Potokwane agreed that this was so. She very rarely had any disagreement with her board, she said, but unfortunately a major disagreement had emerged over a decision that Mr. Ditso Ditso had talked the board into making. “We were given a very big grant by a diamond company recently,” said Mma Potokwane. “The board had to decide what to do with all the money. Rra Ditso came up with a project, although he did not consult me—not once. He said the money should be used for building purposes. I had no objection to that: we could do with a few more houses for the children to live in. But then he decided that it would be something quite different, and that was when everything began to be not quite so good.”

“He has chosen something unsuitable?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane raised her eyebrows. “Unsuitable is not a strong enough word, Mma. His choice is a disaster—a very big disaster.”

Mr. Ditso Ditso, Mma Potokwane went on to reveal, had decided that the orphan farm needed a dining hall and a modern kitchen to serve it. This would mean that all the food could be cooked in one place, and that would mean a considerable saving could be made. “It is always cheaper to do everything in one place,”
he said to the board. “I have always done that in my business, and it has made me a rich man. Do everything at the same time, in the same place, and your costs go down. If your costs go down, then your profits go up.”

These words, reported verbatim by Mma Potokwane, hung in the air. There was something wrong with them, thought Mma Ramotswe; they might apply to a business, but … but was an orphan farm a
business
?

Mma Potokwane sensed the reservation. “If you’re wondering whether that’s the right way to run an orphan farm, Mma, then you are right to think that. We are not a business.”

“You are a home,” said Mma Makutsi.

“That is exactly right,” said Mma Potokwane. “We are a home, and although we like to keep our costs down, there are other things to consider.”

“The house-mothers …,” began Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “As you know, we have little houses where the children live. They are not big—just eight to ten children in each, and one house-mother for each.”

“They are very good ladies,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes, they are. I choose them very carefully. Not everybody can be a house-mother. A lady must be kind if she is to be a house-mother. She must also be able to control the children. She must know what it is like to have no parents, and she must make allowances. There are many things for a good house-mother to keep in mind. It is not easy.”

“But it works,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have seen those ladies, and they are very fine people. The children love them.” She frowned. “Surely the board doesn’t want to do away with your house-mothers. Who would there be to love the children?”

Mma Potokwane assured her that the board had no intention of getting rid of house-mothers; there would still be plenty of work for
them to do. “They keep the houses clean. They mend the children’s clothes. There are many things. But the big thing, Mma, the big thing they do is they cook the children’s food and they eat it together, round a table, like a real family.”

“And if there is a new hall and a kitchen—”

Mma Potokwane became animated. “That will all go, Mma Ramotswe! That will go! And if that happens, then the heart of our place will be …” She searched for the right words. “It will stop beating. There will be no heart any more.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at her hands. Of course Mma Potokwane was right: your family was made up of the people you ate with as a child. Everybody knew that. And how could the people who sat on the board not understand it as well? Had they themselves no people to eat with?

She put that to Mma Potokwane, who thought for a moment before she replied. “I think that maybe they know that, but they are dazzled by all the money that they are being offered. That is what money does, Mma Ramotswe—you must have seen that. Sometimes we need to look the other way when people put money in front of our noses. We have to look at the other things we can see so that the money doesn’t hide them.” She sighed. “And they are very pleased at the thought of savings. They are always saying to me that we must look for ways to save money. And here is one. They tell me that it will cost only half as much to make the same amount of food in one kitchen. They say that we cannot ignore that.”

Mma Ramotswe listened to this gravely. She understood the point that Mma Potokwane was making; she had seen the children eating in their houses with their house-mother; she had smelled the rich stews bubbling away in the tiny kitchens of the individual houses; she knew what all of that meant. And now they were planning to have the children sit all together in one great dining hall, served by a kitchen into which they would never be allowed to
wander. What chance would a child have of sticking a finger into some dish to taste what was being made? Or of standing beside a house-mother while she made a meal and sang, as some of those women did? Who would teach the children the cooking songs? Not some anonymous chef, she thought, hired to produce large quantities of food with efficiency rather than love. And food made with love, she thought, tasted better—everybody knew that. It just did.

“I’m very sorry to hear all this, Mma Potokwane,” she said. “But I’m not sure if we can do anything to help. If you haven’t been able to persuade your board to change its mind, then I can’t see what any of us can do. They will just say, ‘You mind your own business, Mma Ramotswe.’ That is what I fear they will say, Mma.”

“I know that, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have tried, and I have failed. I cannot expect you to do any better. But …”

I should have known she would not be so easily defeated
, thought Mma Ramotswe.
Not Mma Potokwane
 … “But?”

Mma Potokwane leaned forward in her chair. Mma Makutsi did so too. “I have had an idea, Mma Ramotswe. It’s just an idea. I have no proof of anything.”

Mma Ramotswe waited. “An idea?”

“More of a suspicion.” She paused. “What if we found out that Mr. Ditso was in favour of this project for the wrong reason?”

“I do not think the board would accept it.”

Mma Potokwane was triumphant. “Exactly!”

Mma Ramotswe brought her down to earth. “But is there any reason to think that he is behaving dishonestly?”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “How do you get as much money as he has? By working? I really don’t see, Mma, how one man could do so much work that he would end up with so much money. No, there’s something else there—something that we don’t know about but that must be there, Mma—it must.”

THAT EVENING
, Mma Ramotswe fed the children early so that they could both tackle homework that had taken second place to more attractive afternoon activities—to football, in Puso’s case, and to talking to friends in Motholeli’s. Both of the foster children were bright, although Puso showed a tendency to be easily distracted.

“It says here,” said Mma Ramotswe patiently as she sat with Puso at the table that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had made for the boy’s bedroom, “that it takes one man one hour to dig a ditch.”

Puso looked up at her. “That is very quick, Mma. One hour? Could anybody dig a ditch in one hour?”

“It’s just for this sum,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And we shouldn’t worry about that just now. What else does it say?” She looked at the crumpled sheet of paper on which the homework exercises had been printed out. “It says that if it takes one man one hour to dig the ditch, then how long would it take for three men to dig the same ditch? What do you think is the answer to that, Puso?”

Puso frowned. “It would be very hard for three men to dig one ditch, Mma. They would always be getting in each other’s way. So it would probably take longer than it would take one man to do it. Maybe two hours?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “We don’t have to worry about practical things when we’re doing sums,” she said. “You can forget about things like that. What you must do is divide one by three. That will tell you.” She paused. She was not sure whether he had learned about fractions yet, and the trouble, anyway, was that everything was different these days. Children did not learn to count in the same way as they used to. And she was not even sure whether fractions had been abolished altogether.

“Let’s think of it in minutes,” she said at last. “One hour is sixty
minutes. So if you divide sixty by three, what do you get? That is how long it would take three men to do the work done by one.”

Puso closed his eyes. Opening them, he pursed his lips with effort before he replied, “Ten minutes? No, maybe five.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No, that’s not right. The answer is twenty minutes, Puso. And do you know how I got that answer?”

The boy shrugged. “They could do it much more quickly if they had somebody like Mma Potokwane ordering them about. She’d make them dig faster, wouldn’t she, Mma?”