Chapter One

A Great Sadness among the Cars of Botswana

Precious Ramotswe was sitting at her desk at the No. 1 Ladies'
Detective Agency in Gaborone. From where she sat she could gaze out
of the window, out beyond the acacia trees, over the grass and the
scrub bush, to the hills in their blue haze of heat. It was such a
noble country, and so wide, stretching for mile upon mile to brown
horizons at the very edge of Africa. It was late summer, and there
had been good rains that year. This was important, as good rains
meant productive fields, and productive fields meant large, ripened
pumpkins of the sort that traditionally built ladies like Mma
Ramotswe so enjoyed eating. The yellow flesh of a pumpkin or a
squash, boiled and then softened with a lump of butter (if one's
budget stretched to that), was one of God's greatest gifts to
Botswana. And it tasted so good, too, with a slice of fine Botswana
beef, dripping in gravy.

Oh yes, God had given a great deal to Botswana, as she had been
told all those years ago at Sunday school in Mochudi. "Write a list
of Botswana's heavenly blessings," the teacher had said. And the
young Mma Ramotswe, chewing on the end of her indelible pencil, and
feeling the sun bearing down on the tin roof of the Sunday school,
heat so insistent that the tin creaked in protest against its
restraining bolts, had written: (1) the land; (2) the people who
live on the land; (3) the animals, and specially the fat cattle.
She had stopped at that, but, after a pause, had added: (4) the
railway line from Lobatse to Francistown. This list, once submitted
for approval, had come back with a large blue tick after each item,
and the comment written in: Well done, Precious! You are a sensible
girl. You have correctly shown why Botswana is a fortunate
country.

And this was quite true. Mma Ramotswe was indeed a sensible person
and Botswana was a fortunate country. When Botswana had become
independent all those years ago, on that heart-stilling night when
the fireworks failed to be lit on time, and when the dusty wind had
seemed to augur only ill, there had been so little. There were only
three secondary schools for the whole country, a few clinics, and a
measly eight miles of tarred road. That was all. But was it? Surely
there was a great deal more than that. There was a country so large
that the land seemed to have no limits; there was a sky so wide and
so free that the spirit could rise and soar and not feel in the
least constrained; and there were the people, the quiet, patient
people, who had survived in this land, and who loved it. Their
tenacity was rewarded, because underneath the land there were the
diamonds, and the cattle prospered, and brick by brick the people
built a country of which anybody could be proud. That was what
Botswana had, and that is why it was a fortunate country.

Mma Ramotswe had founded the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by
selling the cattle left her by her father, Obed Ramotswe, a good
man whom everybody respected. And for this reason she made sure
that his picture was on the office wall, alongside, but slightly
lower than, the picture of the late President of Botswana, Sir
Seretse Khama, paramount chief of the Bangwato, founding president
of Botswana, and gentleman. The last of these attributes was
perhaps the most important in Mma Ramotswe's eyes. A man could be a
hereditary ruler, or an elected president, but not be a gentleman,
and that would show in his every deed. But if you had a leader who
was a gentleman, with all that this meant, then you were lucky
indeed. And Botswana had been very lucky in that respect, because
all three of her presidents had been good men, gentlemen, who were
modest in their bearing, as a gentleman should be. One day,
perhaps, a woman might become president, and Mma Ramotswe thought
that this would be even better, provided, of course, that the lady
in question had the right qualities of modesty and caution. Not all
ladies had those qualities, Mma Ramotswe reflected; some of them
being quite conspicuously lacking in that respect.

Take that woman who was always on the radio-a political woman who
was always telling people what to do. She had an irritating voice,
like that of a jackal, and a habit of flirting with men in a
shameless way, provided that the men in question could do something
to advance her career. If they could not, then they were ignored.
Mma Ramotswe had seen this happening; she had seen her ignoring the
Bishop at a public function, in order to talk to an important
government minister who might put in a good word for her in the
right place. It had been transparent. Bishop Theophilus had opened
his mouth to say something about the rain and she had said, "Yes,
Bishop, yes. Rain is very important." But even as she spoke, she
was looking in the direction of the minister, and smiling at him.
After a few minutes, she had slipped away, leaving the Bishop
behind, and sidled up to the minister to whisper something to him.
Mma Ramotswe, who had watched the whole thing, was in no doubt
about what that something had been, for she knew women of this sort
and there were many of them. So they would have to be careful
before choosing a woman as president. It would have to be the right
sort of woman; a woman who knew what hard work was and what it was
like to bear half the world upon your shoulders.

On that day, sitting at her desk, Mma Ramotswe allowed her thoughts
to wander. There was nothing in particular to do. There were no
outstanding matters to investigate, as she had just completed a
major enquiry on behalf of a large store that suspected, but could
not prove, that one of its senior staff was embezzling money. Its
accountants had looked at the books and had found discrepancies,
but had been unable to find how and where the money had
disappeared. In his frustration at the continuing losses, the
managing director had called in Mma Ramotswe, who had compiled a
list of all the senior staff and had decided to look into their
circumstances. If money was disappearing, then there was every
likelihood that somebody at the other end would be spending it. And
this elementary conclusion-so obvious really-had led her straight
to the culprit. It was not that he had advertised his ill-gotten
wealth; Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to elicit this information by
placing temptation before each suspect. At length, one had
succumbed to the prospect of an expensive bargain and had been able
to offer payment in cash-a sum beyond the means of a person in such
a position. It was not the sort of investigation which she enjoyed,
because it involved recrimination and shame, and Mma Ramotswe
preferred to forgive, if at all possible. "I am a forgiving lady,"
she said, which was true. She did forgive, even to the extent of
bearing no grudge against Note Mokoti, her cruel former husband,
who had caused her such suffering during their brief, ill-starred
marriage. She had forgiven Note, even though she did not see him
any more, and she would tell him that he was forgiven if he came to
her now. Why, she asked herself, why keep a wound open when
forgiveness can close it?

Her unhappiness with Note had convinced her that she would never
marry again. But then, on that extraordinary evening some time ago,
when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had proposed to her after he had spent all
afternoon fixing the dispirited engine of her tiny white van, she
had accepted him. And that was the right decision, for Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni was not only the best mechanic in Botswana, but he was one
of the kindest and most gracious of men. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would
do anything for one who needed help, and, in a world of increasing
dishonesty, he still practised the old Botswana morality. He was a
good man, which, when all is said and done, is the finest thing
that you can say about any man. He was a good man.

It was strange at first to be an engaged lady; a status somewhere
between spinsterhood and marriage; committed to another, but not
yet another's spouse. Mma Ramotswe had imagined that they would
marry within six months of the engagement, but that time had
passed, and more, and still Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said nothing
about a wedding. Certainly he had bought her a ring and had spoken
freely, and proudly, of her as his fiancée, but nothing had
been said about the date of the wedding. She still kept her house
in Zebra Drive, and he lived in his house in the Village, near the
old Botswana Defence Force Club and the clinic, and not far from
the old graveyard. Some people, of course, did not like to live too
close to a graveyard, but modern people, like Mma Ramotswe, said
that this was nonsense. Indeed, there were many differences of
opinion here. The people who lived around Tlokweng, the Batlokwa,
had a custom of burying their ancestors in a small, mud-walled
round house, a rondavel, in the yard. This meant that those members
of the family who died were always there with you, which was a good
practice, thought Mma Ramotswe. If a mother died, then she might be
buried under the hut of the children, so that her spirit could
watch over them. That must have been comforting for children,
thought Mma Ramotswe, to have the mother under the stamped
cattle-dung floor.

There were many good things about the old ways, and it made Mma
Ramotswe sad to think that some of these ways were dying out.
Botswana had been a special country, and still was, but it had been
more special in the days when everybody-or almost
everybody-observed the old Botswana ways. The modern world was
selfish, and full of cold and rude people. Botswana had never been
like that, and Mma Ramotswe was determined that her small corner of
Botswana, which was the house on Zebra Drive, and the office that
the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency and Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors
shared, would always remain part of the old Botswana, where people
greeted one another politely and listened to what others had to
say, and did not shout or think just of themselves. That would
never happen in that little part of Botswana, ever.

That morning, sitting at her desk, a steaming mug of bush tea
before her, Mma Ramotswe was alone with her thoughts. It was nine
o'clock, which was well into the working morning (which started at
seven-thirty), but Mma Makutsi, her assistant, had been instructed
to go to the post office on her way to work and would not arrive
for a little while yet. Mma Makutsi had been hired as a secretary,
but had quickly proved her value and had been promoted to assistant
detective. In addition to this, she was Assistant Manager of
Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, a role which she had taken on with
conspicuous success when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been ill. Mma
Ramotswe was lucky to have such an assistant; there were many lazy
secretaries in Gaborone, who sat in the security of their jobs
tapping at a keyboard from time to time or occasionally picking up
the telephone. Most of these lazy secretaries answered the
telephone in the same tone of voice, as if the cares of being a
secretary were overwhelming and there was nothing that they could
possibly do for the caller. Mma Makutsi was quite unlike these;
indeed she answered the telephone rather too enthusiastically, and
had sometimes scared callers away altogether. But this was a minor
fault in one who brought with her the distinction of being the most
accomplished graduate of her year from the Botswana Secretarial
College, where she had scored ninety-seven per cent in the final
examinations.

As Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk, she heard sounds of activity from
the garage on the other side of the building. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
was at work with his two apprentices, young men who seemed entirely
obsessed with girls and who were always leaving grease marks about
the building. Around each light switch, in spite of many
exhortations and warnings, there was an area of black
discolouration, where the apprentices had placed their dirty
fingers. And Mma Ramotswe had even found greasy fingerprints on her
telephone receiver and, more irritatingly still, on the door of the
stationery cupboard.

"Mr J.L.B. Matekoni provides towels and all that lint for wiping
off grease," she had said to the older apprentice. "They are always
there in the washroom. When you have finished working on a car,
wash your hands before you touch other things. What is so hard
about that?"

"I always do that," said the apprentice. "It is not fair to talk to
me like that, Mma. I am a very clean mechanic."

"Then is it you?" asked Mma Ramotswe, turning to the younger
apprentice.

"I am very clean too, Mma," he said. "I am always washing my hands.
Always. Always."

"Then it must be me," said Mma Ramotswe. "I must be the one with
greasy hands. It must be me or Mma Makutsi. Maybe we get greasy
from opening letters."

The older apprentice appeared to think about this for a moment.
"Maybe," he said.

"There's very little point in trying to talk to them," Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni had observed when Mma Ramotswe subsequently told him of
this conversation. "There is something missing in their brains.
Sometimes I think it is a large part, as big as a carburettor
maybe."

Now Mma Ramotswe heard the sound of voices coming from the garage.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was saying something to the apprentices, and
then there came a mumbling sound as one of the young men answered.
Another voice; this time raised; it was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

Mma Ramotswe listened. They had done something again, and he was
reprimanding them, which was unusual. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was a mild
man, who did not like conflict, and always spoke politely. If he
felt it necessary to raise his voice, then it must have been
something very annoying indeed.

"Diesel fuel in an ordinary engine," he said, as he entered her
office, wiping his hands on a large piece of lint. "Would you
believe it, Mma Ramotswe? That . . . that silly boy, the younger
one, put diesel fuel into the tank of a non-diesel vehicle. Now we
have to drain everything out and try to clean the thing
up."

Excerpted from THE FULL CUPBOARD OF LIFE: More from the No. 1
Ladies' Detective Agency © Copyright 2004 by Alexander McCall
Smith. Reprinted with permission by Pantheon Books, a division of
Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.