To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) by Alexander McCall Smith
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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charging. Not enough energy.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate again. “Perhaps they’re not getting enough meat, you know. Sometimes that’s the explanation.”
There was silence.
“Meat has lots of iron in it,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued. “Iron makes your muscles strong. It gives you the energy you need to do things.” He paused. “I’m not saying that’s always the explanation, but I think that in some cases—some cases, Mma—that might be what’s happening.”
“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe, looking straight ahead. “But this man she met…the mechanic, the iron-deficient one…”
“He became very religious,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “He joined one of those marching churches, but I think he found all that marching a bit too much.”
“Perhaps it required too much energy,” remarked Mma Ramotswe. “And this poor man, with his iron problem, couldn’t keep up.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “Something like that happened, I expect. Anyway, you know what he did? He started his own church. He called it the Church of Christ, Mechanic.”
Mma Ramotswe’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. “What a strange name, Rra. What did he mean?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shrugged. “He was not trying to be funny, Mma. He thought that it was a good name. He thought that Jesus would have been a mechanic if there had been cars. He was a carpenter, you see.”
“I know that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this church of his—did anybody join?”
“Oh, yes. There were many people who joined. Two hundred, I heard.”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a few moments. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. I don’t think that God really cares what church you belong to. I think it’s much the same to him whether you are Christian or Jewish or Muslim. He listens to everybody, I think.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought that she was right. He was not a man with a very sophisticated theology, and there were times when he had his serious doubts. But when all was said and done he thought that there was something beyond us, something other than the human, and that if you closed your eyes and thought about this thing long enough you could hear its voice within you. That was enough for him.
“One of my customers goes to his church,” he went on. “He is very pleased with it. He said that they have a big braai every Sunday lunch time, with lots of sausages. They go to the Notwane River in the rainy season, otherwise they have their picnic near the dam. And they sing hymns while they eat the sausages. He says it is very spiritual. That’s the word he used, Mma— spiritual. They do the baptism in the river or the dam. They put them right under the water, still wearing their clothes.”
She pictured the scene. She saw a river and the sinners being led into the water and being submerged, and all the time the people on the banks would be singing and eating sausages. She smiled.
“There are worse things to do on a Sunday,” she said. “It is better to be doing those spiritual things than sitting idly at home or in some shebeen somewhere, drinking.”
He agreed. “You’re right, Mma. I was not criticising this man and his church. But I would say, though, that he seemed to do quite well out of it all.”
Mma Ramotswe’s antennae homed in on this. Africa was full of prophets who had done well out of their prophecy. Other places, too, had the same problem—not just Africa. She had discovered a wonderful English word for which there seemed to be no precise Setswana equivalent— charlatan. She savoured the sound of it— charlatan. It seemed to describe a certain sort of person very accurately, she thought. Was this man, this Flat, a charlatan?
“My customer told me that they were very happy in the church,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said. “He said that the Reverend Flat Ponto had converted a very rich woman to the church and that she had given him a car for use in his
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate again. “Perhaps they’re not getting enough meat, you know. Sometimes that’s the explanation.”
There was silence.
“Meat has lots of iron in it,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued. “Iron makes your muscles strong. It gives you the energy you need to do things.” He paused. “I’m not saying that’s always the explanation, but I think that in some cases—some cases, Mma—that might be what’s happening.”
“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe, looking straight ahead. “But this man she met…the mechanic, the iron-deficient one…”
“He became very religious,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “He joined one of those marching churches, but I think he found all that marching a bit too much.”
“Perhaps it required too much energy,” remarked Mma Ramotswe. “And this poor man, with his iron problem, couldn’t keep up.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “Something like that happened, I expect. Anyway, you know what he did? He started his own church. He called it the Church of Christ, Mechanic.”
Mma Ramotswe’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. “What a strange name, Rra. What did he mean?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shrugged. “He was not trying to be funny, Mma. He thought that it was a good name. He thought that Jesus would have been a mechanic if there had been cars. He was a carpenter, you see.”
“I know that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this church of his—did anybody join?”
“Oh, yes. There were many people who joined. Two hundred, I heard.”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a few moments. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. I don’t think that God really cares what church you belong to. I think it’s much the same to him whether you are Christian or Jewish or Muslim. He listens to everybody, I think.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought that she was right. He was not a man with a very sophisticated theology, and there were times when he had his serious doubts. But when all was said and done he thought that there was something beyond us, something other than the human, and that if you closed your eyes and thought about this thing long enough you could hear its voice within you. That was enough for him.
“One of my customers goes to his church,” he went on. “He is very pleased with it. He said that they have a big braai every Sunday lunch time, with lots of sausages. They go to the Notwane River in the rainy season, otherwise they have their picnic near the dam. And they sing hymns while they eat the sausages. He says it is very spiritual. That’s the word he used, Mma— spiritual. They do the baptism in the river or the dam. They put them right under the water, still wearing their clothes.”
She pictured the scene. She saw a river and the sinners being led into the water and being submerged, and all the time the people on the banks would be singing and eating sausages. She smiled.
“There are worse things to do on a Sunday,” she said. “It is better to be doing those spiritual things than sitting idly at home or in some shebeen somewhere, drinking.”
He agreed. “You’re right, Mma. I was not criticising this man and his church. But I would say, though, that he seemed to do quite well out of it all.”
Mma Ramotswe’s antennae homed in on this. Africa was full of prophets who had done well out of their prophecy. Other places, too, had the same problem—not just Africa. She had discovered a wonderful English word for which there seemed to be no precise Setswana equivalent— charlatan. She savoured the sound of it— charlatan. It seemed to describe a certain sort of person very accurately, she thought. Was this man, this Flat, a charlatan?
“My customer told me that they were very happy in the church,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said. “He said that the Reverend Flat Ponto had converted a very rich woman to the church and that she had given him a car for use in his
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