cruelty that employers could show in the past. That was an improvement. And the hospitals were better, and school bullies found it a bit harder to bully people; and there were fewer cruel nicknames; and fewer power cuts just when you wanted to cook the evening meal.
She looked at Mma Potokwane. The matron was staring up at the ceiling, and Mma Ramotswe realised that her friend was probably thinking exactly the same thoughts that she was, even if she had made the original comment about people saying that things were getting worse.
“Of course,” mused Mma Potokwane, “you might say…”
Mma Ramotswe waited, but the sentence remained unfinished, hanging in the air like an immense question mark over the state of the world.
“You might say,” Mma Ramotswe suggested, “that in some ways—just in some ways, Mma—things are going to the dogs.”
“Maybe the dogs don’t want it that way,” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe the dogs say: Why are they giving all this to us, when we are just dogs and we have enough to do scratching ourselves for fleas and looking for things to eat? Maybe that is what the dogs are thinking, Mma.”
They both laughed.
“What I was going to say, Mma Ramotswe,” continued Mma Potokwane, “is that even if some people say that things are becoming worse—and I’m not saying they don’t have their reasons for thinking that—there are some things that are not changing.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “And one of those things is the women of this country. We are still making women like that housemother—like Mma Kentse. Those ladies are still here, Mma.”
“I am very glad,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“So when I put an advertisement in the paper for a housemother, I am overwhelmed by the replies, Mma. Thirty, forty ladies apply—sometimes as many as fifty. And when I interview them, almost every single one of them has what it takes to be a housemother. Would you believe that, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe had heard of the large numbers of people who applied for jobs, and she wondered how employers managed to select from such a wide field. Was everyone interviewed? And even if that happened, how did one distinguish one applicant from another when they all probably had roughly the same qualifications?
She asked Mma Potokwane how she made her selection.
“It is very difficult,” replied the matron. “You have thirty ladies—all wanting an interview. You cannot speak to them for very long.”
“No, you cannot do that. That would take days.”
“Weeks,” said Mma Potokwane. “Because they all like talking in an interview. And they want to show you how well they can cook. They go on and on about their recipes. And their children. They tell you about their children so that you will know what a good mother they are. Some of them bring the children to the interview and the child starts telling you why her mother should get the job. That is a very difficult situation, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe could imagine that. She felt glad that she had never had to interview anybody for a job. When Mma Makutsi was appointed, it was she—Mma Ramotswe—who had been interviewed by Mma Makutsi, not the other way round. And other people who had worked for the agency—such as Mr. Polopetsi—had been taken on without an interview because she felt sorry for them.
“So do you look at references?” she asked.
Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “Sometimes references are useful, but only if they tell the truth. Most references, I’m afraid, are not very truthful.”
“And why is that, Mma?”
“Because people are too kind,” said Mma Potokwane. “People do not like to write unkind things about other people. So they say that this person is very good at her job and shows plenty of initiative, and so on. They say that she is a quick learner and has been a great asset to the company. They say that everybody in the office likes her. They say all these things, Mma, because a person who works for
She looked at Mma Potokwane. The matron was staring up at the ceiling, and Mma Ramotswe realised that her friend was probably thinking exactly the same thoughts that she was, even if she had made the original comment about people saying that things were getting worse.
“Of course,” mused Mma Potokwane, “you might say…”
Mma Ramotswe waited, but the sentence remained unfinished, hanging in the air like an immense question mark over the state of the world.
“You might say,” Mma Ramotswe suggested, “that in some ways—just in some ways, Mma—things are going to the dogs.”
“Maybe the dogs don’t want it that way,” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe the dogs say: Why are they giving all this to us, when we are just dogs and we have enough to do scratching ourselves for fleas and looking for things to eat? Maybe that is what the dogs are thinking, Mma.”
They both laughed.
“What I was going to say, Mma Ramotswe,” continued Mma Potokwane, “is that even if some people say that things are becoming worse—and I’m not saying they don’t have their reasons for thinking that—there are some things that are not changing.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “And one of those things is the women of this country. We are still making women like that housemother—like Mma Kentse. Those ladies are still here, Mma.”
“I am very glad,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“So when I put an advertisement in the paper for a housemother, I am overwhelmed by the replies, Mma. Thirty, forty ladies apply—sometimes as many as fifty. And when I interview them, almost every single one of them has what it takes to be a housemother. Would you believe that, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe had heard of the large numbers of people who applied for jobs, and she wondered how employers managed to select from such a wide field. Was everyone interviewed? And even if that happened, how did one distinguish one applicant from another when they all probably had roughly the same qualifications?
She asked Mma Potokwane how she made her selection.
“It is very difficult,” replied the matron. “You have thirty ladies—all wanting an interview. You cannot speak to them for very long.”
“No, you cannot do that. That would take days.”
“Weeks,” said Mma Potokwane. “Because they all like talking in an interview. And they want to show you how well they can cook. They go on and on about their recipes. And their children. They tell you about their children so that you will know what a good mother they are. Some of them bring the children to the interview and the child starts telling you why her mother should get the job. That is a very difficult situation, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe could imagine that. She felt glad that she had never had to interview anybody for a job. When Mma Makutsi was appointed, it was she—Mma Ramotswe—who had been interviewed by Mma Makutsi, not the other way round. And other people who had worked for the agency—such as Mr. Polopetsi—had been taken on without an interview because she felt sorry for them.
“So do you look at references?” she asked.
Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “Sometimes references are useful, but only if they tell the truth. Most references, I’m afraid, are not very truthful.”
“And why is that, Mma?”
“Because people are too kind,” said Mma Potokwane. “People do not like to write unkind things about other people. So they say that this person is very good at her job and shows plenty of initiative, and so on. They say that she is a quick learner and has been a great asset to the company. They say that everybody in the office likes her. They say all these things, Mma, because a person who works for
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