The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

nodded. “I did. Have you not seen the posters?”
    Mma Makutsi had not seen any posters, and now she listened with dismay as Patricia told her about the posters that had appeared in her part of town a day or two previously. These were emblazoned with a large photograph of Violet, under which there was an exhortation to vote for her in a forthcoming by-election. Mma Makutsi said nothing as she absorbed this news. She had heard of the by-election—caused by the death of a popular member of parliament—but she would never have imagined that Violet Sephotho, of all people, would turn out to be a candidate. Violet Sephotho the shameless husband- and fiancé-snatcher; she who at the Botswana Secretarial College had been lazy and uninterested, going so far as to laugh at several members of the teaching staff, and to mock their ways of speaking; she who had achieved barely fifty per cent in the college’s final examinations, and yet who had gone on to get glittering job after glittering job (such was the injustice of the world). What possible claim could such a woman have to represent the people of Gaborone?
    “I am very shocked,” said Mma Makutsi. “It will be a very bad day for Botswana if that woman is elected to parliament. It will be the beginning of the end.”
    “It will not happen,” said Patricia. “God will not allow it.”
    “God cannot stop everything,” said Mma Makutsi. “He is very busy dealing with big things. He cannot watch the results of elections here in Gaborone.”
    “Then the voters will,” said Patricia.
    Mma Makutsi pointed out that the voters might not know the full extent of Violet’s unsuitability to be their representative. “Not everybody has seen what she is capable of,” she said.
    “Then we must tell them,” said Patricia. “I shall put a notice in the window of the shop saying
Do not vote for Violet Sephotho.
Many people walk past the shop window every day, and they will see this message.”
    “Every little bit will help,” said Mma Makutsi. “I might make a badge with the same message and wear it every day. And I could ask the Botswana Secretarial College to put it up on the notice board outside the college.”
    This idea appealed to both of them, and indeed there were others, of varying degrees of practicality. The placing of a notice in the shop window seemed possible, but Mma Makutsi was less sure about the Stop Violet–sponsored half-marathon, or the Violet Sephotho Prevention charity concert in the football stadium. “These are all interesting ideas,” she said to Patricia. “But I do not think that we can do them all. For the time being we should just try the notice in your window.”
    Mma Makutsi now pointed to a pair of shoes near the top of the display. They were white, with a distinct satiny sheen, and had straps crossing at the ankle. She knew immediately that these were the shoes in which she would be married. The knowledge was a relief in a way, as it put an end to doubt, and having the right shoes—as these undoubtedly were—would make everything else, including the dress and handbag, fall into line.
    Patricia reached forward and plucked one of the shoes from the display. “I knew it, Mma!” she exclaimed. “I knew that these would be the ones you chose. I didn’t want to say anything, because I did not want to interfere, but I knew in my heart, Mma, that these would be the right shoes for you.”
    She handed the shoe to Mma Makutsi, who took it gingerly, as one might take possession of a great treasure, an item worthy of religious awe.
    “Oh, my …,” Mma Makutsi muttered, as she examined the shoe. “This is a beautiful shoe.”
    “A very beautiful shoe,” said Patricia. “And do you see that rose,Mma? We have no other shoes, not one pair, that has a rose on the front. It is very rare.”
    Mma Makutsi touched the small leather rose; it was supple, soft, and dyed perfectly white, even on the underside of its petals. “So pretty,” she