twenty-five per cent. He told Mma Potokwane about it.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “I don’t believe it, Mma. Fattening cattle at the moment is a loss-making business—look at the price of feed. I had that man from Molepolole in the garage the other day. He deals in animal feeds, and he says that farmers are finding it difficult to pay him these days. He asked me for credit because his truck repair was going to be so expensive…A new differential, new suspension, and other things too.” He shook his head at the litany of cost. “An engine is not a cheap thing, Mma.” She had heard him say that so often—sometimes to his garage clients, as he broke bad news; sometimes to her; sometimes to friends. He spoke from experience, but always with sympathy.
“No, Rra, you are right: an engine is not a cheap thing.” Nothing was cheap, she thought—even the things that were said to be free. Love itself was not cheap—it came with a price tag of its own, a price tag that, at the extreme end, was a broken heart. Freedom was not cheap—its price tag was watchfulness and courage. Even fresh air, the air we breathed each day, had its price tag, it seemed—one we were only now beginning to understand and was all about not destroying the things that gave us that fresh air—the trees, the greenery.
She looked at him; she knew that she did not have to ask whether he agreed to give credit. He always did. “You helped him, Rra, I suppose.”
“Yes. How could I not?”
“No, you had to help him.” She frowned. “I am worried about Mr. Polopetsi, Rra. I’m afraid that he’s going to end up in…” She had been going to say “in difficulty,” but Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said “in prison.”
And that made her reach her decision. Her already lengthy list of things to do had just grown by one item:
Speak to Mr. Polopetsi.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY LIKE THIS PLACE VERY MUCH
C HARLIE CAME BACK from the funeral in his grandfather’s village the following morning. He was full of village news—the sorts of stories that always emanated from such places: whose house had been attacked by termites; who had married whom; who had gone off to Lobatse and who had come back, and why. Mma Ramotswe listened patiently. She knew the appeal of such matters, and she was pleased that Charlie, belonging as he did to a generation brought up outside the villages, should be enthusiastic about what happened in such places. This was the spirit of the country being passed on—it was as simple, and important, as that. But there was business to be done, and she gently reminded him of that.
“Very interesting, Charlie,” she said. “But we have work to do. We have a pressing case: a foreign client.”
Charlie’s attention was immediately engaged. “I am ready, Mma Ramotswe. I am fresh and ready to go. Whatever needs to be done—I am the one, Mma. Tell me, Mma.”
He sat before her in the client’s chair, leaning forward eagerly to hear every detail. She told him about Susan’s visit and the account she had given of her childhood in Botswana. Charlie nodded as she spoke; he understood.
“There are many people like that,” he said. “They come to Botswana and they fall in love—not with a person, Mma, but with a country. They like this place very much.”
“She was born here, of course.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “That is different. But it is also the same.”
She did not press him on the distinction, but continued by telling him of Susan’s specific requests. “These are not the usual sorts of things a detective agency has to look into, Charlie.”
Charlie grinned. “No, Mma, this is not about bad husbands, or wives who become too friendly with other men. It is not that sort of thing.”
From behind him, Mma Makutsi, who had been busy filing, joined in. “There is more to our work than that, Charlie.” She paused amidst a shuffling of paper. “Even if that’s the only sort of thing that some people seem to think
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “I don’t believe it, Mma. Fattening cattle at the moment is a loss-making business—look at the price of feed. I had that man from Molepolole in the garage the other day. He deals in animal feeds, and he says that farmers are finding it difficult to pay him these days. He asked me for credit because his truck repair was going to be so expensive…A new differential, new suspension, and other things too.” He shook his head at the litany of cost. “An engine is not a cheap thing, Mma.” She had heard him say that so often—sometimes to his garage clients, as he broke bad news; sometimes to her; sometimes to friends. He spoke from experience, but always with sympathy.
“No, Rra, you are right: an engine is not a cheap thing.” Nothing was cheap, she thought—even the things that were said to be free. Love itself was not cheap—it came with a price tag of its own, a price tag that, at the extreme end, was a broken heart. Freedom was not cheap—its price tag was watchfulness and courage. Even fresh air, the air we breathed each day, had its price tag, it seemed—one we were only now beginning to understand and was all about not destroying the things that gave us that fresh air—the trees, the greenery.
She looked at him; she knew that she did not have to ask whether he agreed to give credit. He always did. “You helped him, Rra, I suppose.”
“Yes. How could I not?”
“No, you had to help him.” She frowned. “I am worried about Mr. Polopetsi, Rra. I’m afraid that he’s going to end up in…” She had been going to say “in difficulty,” but Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said “in prison.”
And that made her reach her decision. Her already lengthy list of things to do had just grown by one item:
Speak to Mr. Polopetsi.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY LIKE THIS PLACE VERY MUCH
C HARLIE CAME BACK from the funeral in his grandfather’s village the following morning. He was full of village news—the sorts of stories that always emanated from such places: whose house had been attacked by termites; who had married whom; who had gone off to Lobatse and who had come back, and why. Mma Ramotswe listened patiently. She knew the appeal of such matters, and she was pleased that Charlie, belonging as he did to a generation brought up outside the villages, should be enthusiastic about what happened in such places. This was the spirit of the country being passed on—it was as simple, and important, as that. But there was business to be done, and she gently reminded him of that.
“Very interesting, Charlie,” she said. “But we have work to do. We have a pressing case: a foreign client.”
Charlie’s attention was immediately engaged. “I am ready, Mma Ramotswe. I am fresh and ready to go. Whatever needs to be done—I am the one, Mma. Tell me, Mma.”
He sat before her in the client’s chair, leaning forward eagerly to hear every detail. She told him about Susan’s visit and the account she had given of her childhood in Botswana. Charlie nodded as she spoke; he understood.
“There are many people like that,” he said. “They come to Botswana and they fall in love—not with a person, Mma, but with a country. They like this place very much.”
“She was born here, of course.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “That is different. But it is also the same.”
She did not press him on the distinction, but continued by telling him of Susan’s specific requests. “These are not the usual sorts of things a detective agency has to look into, Charlie.”
Charlie grinned. “No, Mma, this is not about bad husbands, or wives who become too friendly with other men. It is not that sort of thing.”
From behind him, Mma Makutsi, who had been busy filing, joined in. “There is more to our work than that, Charlie.” She paused amidst a shuffling of paper. “Even if that’s the only sort of thing that some people seem to think
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