“This whole business with that butcher’s car,” he said. “I went round to First Class Motors yesterday afternoon.”
“Ah!” said Mma Ramotswe, and thought: this is my fault. I urged him to go and now this has happened. So, rather than say Ah! again, she said, “Oh!”
“Yes,” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni miserably. “I went up there yesterday afternoon. The man who runs the place was at a funeral in Molepolole, and so I spoke to one of his assistants. And this man said that he had seen the butcher’s car round at my garage and he had mentioned it to his boss, who was very cross. He said that I was taking his clients, and that he was going to come round and see me about it this morning, when he arrived back from Molepolole. He said that his boss was going to ‘sort me out.’ That’s what he said, Mma Ramotswe. Those were his words. I didn’t even have the chance to complain, as I had intended to. I didn’t even have the chance.”
Mma Ramotswe folded her arms. “Who is this man?” she snapped angrily. “What is his name, and who does he think he is? Where is he from?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “He is called Molefi. He is a horrible man from Tlokweng. People are scared of him. He gives mechanics a bad name.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment. She felt sorry for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was a very peaceful man and who did not like conflict. He was not one to start an argument, and yet she rather wished that he would stand up to this Molefi man a bit more. Such people were bullies and the only thing to do was to stand up to them. If only Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were a bit braver… Did she really want him to fight, though? It was quite out of character, and that was just as well. She could not abide men who threw their weight around, and that was one of the reasons why she so admired Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Although he was physically strong from all that lifting of engines, he was gentle. And she loved him for that, as did so many others.
She unfolded her arms and walked over to stand beside Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “When is this man coming?” she asked.
“Any time now. They said this morning. That is all they said.”
“I see.” She turned away, intending to go over to the apprentices and have a word with them. They would have to rally round to deal with this Molefi person. They were young men… She stopped. Tlokweng. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said that Molefi was from Tlokweng, and Tlokweng was where the orphan farm was, and the orphan farm made her think of Mma Potokwane.
She turned back again, ignoring the apprentices, and walked briskly back into her office. Mma Makutsi looked up at her expectantly as she came in.
“Is he all right? I was worried.”
“He is fine,” she said. “He is worried about something. That man at First Class Motors has been threatening him. That’s what’s going on.”
Mma Makutsi whistled softly, as she sometimes did in moments of crisis. “That is very bad, Mma. That is very bad.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I am going out to Tlokweng right now. This very minute. Please telephone Mma Potokwane and tell her that I am coming to fetch her in my van and that we need her help. Please do that right now. I am going.”
WHEN MMA RAMOTSWE arrived at the orphan farm, Mma Potokwane was not in her office. The door was open, but the large, rather shabby chair in which Mma Potokwane was often to be found-when she was not bustling round the kitchens or the houses-was empty. Mma Ramotswe rushed outside again and looked about anxiously. It had not occurred to her that Mma Potokwane might not be found; she was always on duty, it seemed. And yet she could be in town, doing some shopping, or she could even be far away, down in Lobatse, perhaps, picking up some new orphan.
“Mma Ramotswe?”
She gave a start, looking about her. It was Mma Potokwane’s voice, but where was she?
“Here!” came the voice. “Under this tree! Here I am, Mma Ramotswe.”
The matron of the orphan farm was in the shade of a large mango tree, merging with the shadows. Mma Ramotswe had looked right past her, but now Mma Potokwane stepped out from under the drooping branches of the tree.
“I have been watching a special mango,” she said. “It is almost ready and I have told the children that they are not to pick it. I am keeping it for my husband, who likes to eat a good mango.” She dusted her hands on her skirts as she walked towards Mma Ramotswe. “Would you like to see this mango, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked. “It is very fine. Very yellow now.”
“You are very kind, Mma,” called out Mma Ramotswe. “I will come and see it some other time, I think. Right now there is something urgent to talk to you about. Something very urgent.”
Mma Potokwane joined her friend outside the office, and Mma Ramotswe quickly explained that she needed her to come to the garage, “to help with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” Mma Potokwane listened gravely and nodded her agreement. They could go straight away, she said. No, she would not need to fetch anything from her office. “All I need is my voice,” she said, pointing to her chest. “And it is all there. Ready to be used.”
They travelled back to the garage in the tiny white van, now heavily laden and riding low on its shock absorbers. Mma Ramotswe drove more quickly than she normally did, sounding the horn impatiently at indolent donkeys and children on wobbling cycles. There was only one hold-up-a small herd of rickety cattle, badly looked after by all appearances, which blocked the road until Mma Potokwane opened her window and shouted at them in a stentorian voice. The cattle looked surprised, and indignant, but they moved, and the tiny white van continued its journey.
They drew up at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors a few minutes after the arrival of Molefi. A large red truck was parked outside the garage, blocking the entrance, and on this was written FIRST CLASS MOTORS in ostentatious lettering. Mma Potokwane, to whom the situation had been explained by Mma Ramotswe on the way back, saw this and snorted.
“Big letters,” she murmured. “Big nothing.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. She was sure that the summoning of Mma Potokwane was the right thing to do and this remark made her even more certain. Now, as they negotiated their way round the aggressively parked truck and she saw Molefi standing in front of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was looking down at the ground as his visitor remonstrated with him, she realised that they had not arrived a minute too early.
Mma Potokwane bustled forward. “So,” she said. “Who do we find here in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s garage? Molefi? It’s you, isn’t it? You’ve come to discuss some difficult mechanical problem with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, have you? Come for his advice?”
Molefi looked round and glowered. “I am here on business, Mma. It’s business between me and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” His tone was rude and he compounded the offence by turning his back on Mma Potokwane and facing Mr J.L.B. Matekoni again. Mma Potokwane glanced at Mma Ramotswe, who shook her head in disapproval of Molefi’s rudeness.
“Excuse me, Rra,” said Mma Potokwane, stepping forward. “I think that perhaps you might have forgotten who I am, but I certainly know exactly who you are.”
Molefi turned around in irritation. “Listen, Mma…”
“No, you listen to me, Rra,” Mma Potokwane said, her voice rising sharply. “I know you, Herbert Molefi. I know your mother. She is my friend. And I have often felt sorry for her, with a son like you.”
Molefi opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came.
“Oh yes,” went on Mma Potokwane, shaking a finger at him. “You were a bad little boy, and now you are a bad man. You are just a bully, that’s what you are. And I have heard this thing about the butcher’s car. Oh, yes, I have heard it. And I wonder whether your mother knows it, or your uncles? Do they know it?”
Molefi’s collapse was sudden and complete. Mma Ramotswe watched the effect of these words and saw the burly figure shrink visibly in the face of Mma Potokwane’s tongue-lashing.
“No? They have not heard about it?” she pressed on. “Well, I think I might just let them know. And you, you, Herbert Molefi, who thinks that he can go round bullying people like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni here, had better think again. Your mother can still tell you a thing or two, can’t she? And your uncles. They will not be pleased and they might just give their cattle to somebody else when they die, might they not? I think so, Rra. I think so.”
