The Full Cupboard of Life

And if one were to ask oneself why girls like this would be watching the entrance to the radio station, it was surely not to see who went in, but who came out. And amongst those who were likely to come out, in terms of good looks and general interest to fashion-conscious girls of seventeen or so, who could it be but Mr Spokes Spokesi, the well-known disc-jockey and radio personality? Spokes Spokesi’s show, which stretched from nine in the morning until one-thirty in the afternoon,Cool Time with Spokes, was a favourite of younger people in Gaborone. The apprentices listened to it while they were working-although Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, when he could bear it no longer, would switch off their radio in a gesture of defiance. He at least had good taste and a limited tolerance for the inane patter which such radio stations pumped out with great enthusiasm. Mma Ramotswe would have had a similar lack of interest in Spokes except for one thing: he was the second name on the list of Mma Holonga’s suitors, unlikely though that was, and this meant that she would have to speak to him at some stage.

“Do you listen to this station?” she asked casually.

Constance clapped her hands. “All the time! All the time! It’s the best station there is. The latest music, the latest everything, and…”

“And Spokes, of course,” supplied Kokotso. “Spokes!”

Mma Ramotswe pretended to look blank. “Spokes? Who is this Spokes? Is he a band?”

Kokotso laughed. “Oh, Mma, you’re out of touch. Spokes does a show-the best show you can listen to. Can he talk! Oh my! You hear him talking about music and you can just see him sitting there in front of the mike. Oh!”

“And is he good-looking too?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“He’s fabulous,” said Constance. “The best-looking man in Gaborone.”

“In all Botswana,” suggested Kokotso.

“My!” said Mma Ramotswe. “And will we see him if we sit here long enough? Will we see him coming out?”

“Yes,” said Constance. “We come here once a week usually just to see Spokes. He talks to us sometimes; sometimes he just waves. He thinks that we work in that building over there and are just sitting here to pass the lunch hour. He doesn’t know that we come to see him.”

Mma Ramotswe tried to look intrigued. “How old is this Spokes?” she asked.

“Just the right age,” said Constance. “He’s twenty-eight. And his birthday is…”

“The twenty-fourth of July,” said Kokotso. “We shall come here on that day with a present for him. He will like that.”

“You are very kind,” said Mma Ramotswe. She studied the girls for a moment, trying to imagine what it must be like to worship somebody who was, after all, almost a stranger to them. Why did people behave this way with entertainers? What was so special about them? And then she stopped, for she had remembered Note Mokoti and her own feelings for him all those years ago when she was hardly older than these girls. And the memory made her humble; for we should not forget what it is to be young and to have ideas and attitudes that may later seem so fanciful.

“Will he be out soon?” she asked. “Will we have to wait long?”

“It depends,” said Constance. “Sometimes he sits inside and talks to the station manager for hours. But on other days he comes out the moment his show goes off the air and he gets into his car. That is his car over there, that red one with the yellow curtains in the back. It is a very smart car.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at the car. First Class Motors, she thought dismissively, but then Kokotso grabbed her arm and Constance whispered in her ear: Spokes!

He came out of the front door, dressed in his hip-hugging jeans, his shirt open to the third button down, a gold chain round his neck; Spokes Spokesi himself, Gaborone icon, silver-tongued rider of the airwaves, good-looking, confident, ice-cool, flashing white teeth.

“Spokes!” murmured Kokotso, and as if he had heard her barely articulated prayer, he turned in their direction, waved, and began to make his way over the car park to where they sat.

“Hiya, girls! Dumela and all the rest of it, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!”

Kokotso dug Mma Ramotswe in the ribs. “He’s coming to speak to us,” she whispered. “He’s seen us!”

“Hallo there, Spokes,” called out Constance. “Your show today was great. Fantastic. That band you played at ten o’clock. To die for!”

“Yes,” said Spokes, who was now standing before them, smiling his devastating smile. “Good sound. A good sound.”

“This lady hasn’t listened to you yet, Spokes,” said Kokotso, gesturing towards Mma Ramotswe. “Now she knows. She’ll be listening tomorrow morning, won’t you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. She did not like to lie and would not lie now. “No,” she said. “I won’t be listening.”

Spokes looked at her quizzically. “Why not, Mma? My music’s wrong for you? Is that it? Maybe I can play some more oldies.”

“That would be nice,” said Mma Ramotswe politely. “But please don’t worry about me. You play what your listeners want to hear. I’ll be all right.”

“I like to please everybody,” said Spokes agreeably. “Radio Gabs is for everyone.”

“And everyone listens, Spokes,” said Kokotso. “You know we listen.”

“What are you doing today, Spokes?” asked Constance.

Spokes winked at her. “You know I’d like to take you to the movies, but I have to go and look after the cattle. Sorry about that.”

They all laughed at this witticism, Mma Ramotswe included. Then Mma Ramotswe spoke.

“Haven’t I seen you before, Rra?” she said, looking at him closely, as if inspecting him. “I’m sure that I’ve seen you.”

Spokes drew back slightly, but seemed bemused. “You see me here and there. Gaborone is not a big place. You might have seen my picture in the papers.”

Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful. “No, it wasn’t in the papers. No…” She paused, as if trying to drag something out of her memory, and then continued, “Yes! That’s it. I remember now. I’ve seen you with that lady who owns the hair-braiding salons. You know the one. I’ve seen you with her somewhere or other. A party maybe. You were with her. Is she your girlfriend, Rra?”

Her remark made, she watched its effect on him. The easy smile disappeared, and in its place there was a look of anxiety. He glanced at the young girls, who were looking at him eagerly. “Oh that lady! She is my aunty! She is not my girlfriend!”

The girls giggled, and Spokes leaned forward to touch Kokotso lightly on the shoulder. “Meet you later?” he asked. “Metro Club?”

Kokotso squirmed with pleasure. “We’ll be there.”

“Good,” said Spokes, and then, to Mma Ramotswe, “Nice meeting you, aunty. Go carefully.”

MMA MAKUTSI listened intently to what Mma Ramotswe had to say when she returned that afternoon from her meeting with Constance, Kokotso, and Spokes.

“I have spent two days on this matter so far,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have met and interviewed two of the suitors on Mma Holonga’s list, and neither of them is in the slightest bit suitable. Both can only be interested in her money. One by his own admission-he said it himself, Mma-and the other by the way he behaved.”

“Poor Mma Holonga,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have read that it is not easy being rich. I have read that you can never tell who is really interested in you or who is interested only in your money.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed. “I am going to have to speak to her soon and tell her what progress I have made. I am going to have to say that the first two are definitely unsuitable.”

“That is very sad,” said Mma Makutsi, thinking how sad it was, too, that there was Mma Holonga with four suitors and there was she with none.