The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) Read Free Page A

anything.
    “It is also the name on my diploma from the Botswana SecretarialCollege,” Mma Makutsi said. “That is it, framed, up there. See it? It reads
Grace Makutsi
, just above the place where it says
ninety-seven per cent
. Right there.”
    “I have seen it before,” said Mma Potokwane, slightly shortly. “You have drawn my attention to it, Mma. More than once, I think.” She paused, waiting for her pointed remark to be absorbed, but Mma Makutsi merely smiled encouragingly.
    “So, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Potokwane continued. “I have a rather complicated story to tell you.”
    “I am used to such things,” Mma Ramotswe assured her. “Do I need to take notes? Is it that complicated?”
    “I can write it all down in shorthand,” Mma Makutsi volunteered. “That way, not a word will be lost.”
    “That will not be necessary,” snapped Mma Potokwane. “It is complicated and simple, all at the same time. You do not need to take notes. Have you heard of a man called Mr. Ditso Ditso? He is a well-known businessman.”
    Mma Ramotswe nodded. She had not met Ditso Ditso, but had seen his name in the papers on numerous occasions. And she knew people who knew him; that was always the case in Botswana—you inevitably knew somebody who knew somebody.
    “Rra Ditso is quite a good man, I think,” said Mma Potokwane. “Sometimes people like that—rich people—are very selfish and forget where they have come from and who their people are. He is not like that.”
    Mma Ramotswe felt able to agree with these remarks on the newly rich. The growing prosperity of Botswana meant that there were many who had come a long way, and it was not uncommon to find people who seemed to forget the claims of friends and family once their fortunes were established. Recently there had been a case reported in the newspapers of a wealthy bottle-store ownerwhose elderly parents were discovered to be living in extreme poverty in a remote village. They had not even heard of their son’s success, but were still proud of it when it was revealed to them and declined to express any bitterness over the difference in their circumstances. Mma Ramotswe had been astonished by their response, but then had thought: no, these are the real Botswana values. The son might not have them, but the parents did. And parents—whether they were in Botswana or anywhere else—almost always forgave, whatever happened; or at least, mothers did. Whatever a son or daughter did, a mother forgave.
    “It is good that he remembers other people,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Sometimes I think that rich people live in a country in which they are the only people. It is called the Rich People’s Place, I think.”
    Mma Potokwane smiled. “I think that’s right, Mma. But this Ditso—he’s not like that at all. He has been very generous to everybody.” She paused. “Including ourselves. He has been very, very generous with his time.”
    “That’s good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You must be pleased with that, Mma Potokwane. You’re always asking people …” She stopped herself. It was Mma Potokwane’s job to ask people to help the orphan farm, and she should not mention it as if it might be a fault.
    Mma Potokwane raised a hand. “I should be pleased, Mma, but …”
    For a few moments there was silence. Then Mma Makutsi said: “You are not pleased, Mma Potokwane?”
    Again Mma Potokwane shifted in her chair and glanced at Mma Makutsi. “No, I’m not pleased, Mma Makutsi. Do I look pleased?”
    Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I do not think you are pleased.”
    “You are right, Mma. You are a very good detective. I am not pleased.”
    There was a further brief silence. This time it was broken by Mma Ramotswe, who said: “So …” It was not much to say, but it moved the conversation on.
    “The problem,” Mma Potokwane explained, “is that this Ditso is on the orphan-farm board. I have a board, you see, and they are the people who make the big decisions for the