The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) by Alexander McCall Smith Page B
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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interest. “A very big surprise! Maybe you need to tell him about some things, Boss. Maybe Charlie doesn’t know yet!”
Charlie had been bettered, and he left the subject at that. But the following day, armed with a screwdriver and drill, he had installed a cheap wall mirror directly above the washbasin.
For the use of modern men
, he had written underneath. Some time later that day, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken a pen to the notice and altered the wording to read,
NOT For the use of mod ern est men
. Fanwell particularly appreciated this: “That will show him, Rra,” he said. “That will teach him to think he’s so big and handsome!”
The mirror remained, though, and was regularly used by Charlie, even if neither Fanwell nor Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni made any use of it—or admitted to doing so. Vanity was one of Charlie’s shortcomings, but it had always been tolerated by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who also put up with Charlie’s early stopping of work and unseemly dash for the door, while Fanwell continued at his post until five and then took five minutes to put away his tools and tidy up. Then it was time for him to board one of the swaying, overloaded minibuses that plied the Old Naledi route. If he was lucky, he would not have to wait long before one of these minibuses arrived, and then the journey never took more than fifteen minutes, dependingon traffic. Jumping off at his stop, he would cross the road, leap across the storm drain, and walk down the unpaved road that disappeared into the heart of the informal suburb.
Old Naledi was the one scar on the neat landscape of Gaborone. While there were other places that had cheap housing, none was as cheap as this, with its rickety houses made half of breeze-block, half of mud daub, their roofs consisting of tarpaulins, odd sheets of corrugated tin, and such other bits of building material as could be scavenged from here and there. It was not quite a shanty town, but at times it seemed to be not far off that, so great was the contrast between its evident poverty and the well-found prosperity of the other parts of the town.
The people who lived there did so because they had no choice. As often as not it was the only place that new arrivals could find—people who came into Gaborone from remote villages, lured by the promise of work and payment they could never find at home. Then there were people from over the border, from countries less fortunate—people for whom the small comforts that Old Naledi afforded, and its comparative safety, were paradise found. These people took what jobs they could, and were often exploited. They painted houses, fixed pipes, patched up roofs. They worked without complaint, and at the end of each month sent home what money they could spare, aware of the fact that every pula, every thebe they wired back to Bulawayo or beyond might be the crucial one that separated a full stomach from an empty one; that meant that a child could stay in school rather than be excluded for nonpayment of the tiny fee the schools required.
Fanwell lived in this place, but his lot was infinitely better than that of the migrants. He was a Motswana, a citizen, and thus entitled to the benefits that came with citizenship. He had been well schooled and had—eventually—completed his apprenticeship. He had a trade; he could get a job anywhere now, as there wasalways a call for qualified mechanics, even for those who did not have a great deal of experience. If he chose to continue working with cars, the fact that he had trained with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would stand him in good stead; already he had had an indirect, somewhat veiled offer from one of the big garages. “Ever wondered what it would be like to work in a
proper
garage?” they had asked. “Think about it, Fanwell. Good conditions. Big pay cheque. Latest tools. The lot.”
He had turned this approach down, resenting the implication that working at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors was somehow inferior. “I’m
Charlie had been bettered, and he left the subject at that. But the following day, armed with a screwdriver and drill, he had installed a cheap wall mirror directly above the washbasin.
For the use of modern men
, he had written underneath. Some time later that day, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken a pen to the notice and altered the wording to read,
NOT For the use of mod ern est men
. Fanwell particularly appreciated this: “That will show him, Rra,” he said. “That will teach him to think he’s so big and handsome!”
The mirror remained, though, and was regularly used by Charlie, even if neither Fanwell nor Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni made any use of it—or admitted to doing so. Vanity was one of Charlie’s shortcomings, but it had always been tolerated by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who also put up with Charlie’s early stopping of work and unseemly dash for the door, while Fanwell continued at his post until five and then took five minutes to put away his tools and tidy up. Then it was time for him to board one of the swaying, overloaded minibuses that plied the Old Naledi route. If he was lucky, he would not have to wait long before one of these minibuses arrived, and then the journey never took more than fifteen minutes, dependingon traffic. Jumping off at his stop, he would cross the road, leap across the storm drain, and walk down the unpaved road that disappeared into the heart of the informal suburb.
Old Naledi was the one scar on the neat landscape of Gaborone. While there were other places that had cheap housing, none was as cheap as this, with its rickety houses made half of breeze-block, half of mud daub, their roofs consisting of tarpaulins, odd sheets of corrugated tin, and such other bits of building material as could be scavenged from here and there. It was not quite a shanty town, but at times it seemed to be not far off that, so great was the contrast between its evident poverty and the well-found prosperity of the other parts of the town.
The people who lived there did so because they had no choice. As often as not it was the only place that new arrivals could find—people who came into Gaborone from remote villages, lured by the promise of work and payment they could never find at home. Then there were people from over the border, from countries less fortunate—people for whom the small comforts that Old Naledi afforded, and its comparative safety, were paradise found. These people took what jobs they could, and were often exploited. They painted houses, fixed pipes, patched up roofs. They worked without complaint, and at the end of each month sent home what money they could spare, aware of the fact that every pula, every thebe they wired back to Bulawayo or beyond might be the crucial one that separated a full stomach from an empty one; that meant that a child could stay in school rather than be excluded for nonpayment of the tiny fee the schools required.
Fanwell lived in this place, but his lot was infinitely better than that of the migrants. He was a Motswana, a citizen, and thus entitled to the benefits that came with citizenship. He had been well schooled and had—eventually—completed his apprenticeship. He had a trade; he could get a job anywhere now, as there wasalways a call for qualified mechanics, even for those who did not have a great deal of experience. If he chose to continue working with cars, the fact that he had trained with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would stand him in good stead; already he had had an indirect, somewhat veiled offer from one of the big garages. “Ever wondered what it would be like to work in a
proper
garage?” they had asked. “Think about it, Fanwell. Good conditions. Big pay cheque. Latest tools. The lot.”
He had turned this approach down, resenting the implication that working at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors was somehow inferior. “I’m
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