The Good Husband of Zebra Drive by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

that. You are a very intelligent woman. You have a piece of paper to prove it.” She pointed to the framed diploma above Mma Makutsi’s desk; the words
ninety-seven per cent
clearly legible even from afar. “Don’t forget to take that, Mma,” she said.
    Mma Makutsi looked up at the diploma. “You could easily have got one of those yourself, Mma,” she said.
    â€œBut I didn’t,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You did.”
    There was silence for a moment.
    â€œDo you want me to stay?” asked Mma Makutsi. There was an edge of uncertainty in her voice now.
    Mma Ramotswe opened her hands in a gesture of acceptance. “I don’t think that you should, Mma,” she said. “You need a change. I would love you to stay, but I think that you have decided, haven’t you, that you need a change.”
    â€œMaybe,” said Mma Makutsi.
    â€œBut you will come back and see me, won’t you?”
    â€œOf course,” said Mma Makutsi. “And you will come to my wedding, won’t you? You and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? There will be a seat for you in the front row, Mma Ramotswe. With the aunties.”
    There was nothing more to do other than to retrieve the framed diploma from its place on the wall. When it was taken down, there was a white patch where it had been hanging, and they both saw this. Mma Makutsi had been there that long; right from the beginning, really, those humble days in the original office, when chickens came in, uninvited, and pecked at the floor around the desks.
    Their words of farewell were polite—the correct ones, as laid down in the old Botswana customs. Tsamaya sentlê: go well. To which the reply was, Sala sentlê: stay well; mere words, of course, but when meant, as now, so powerful. Mma Ramotswe could tell that Mma Makutsi was regretting her decision and did not want to go. It would have been easy to stop this now, to suggest that while Mma Makutsi was replacing the diploma, she, Mma Ramotswe, would start to make the tea. But somehow it seemed too late for that. Sometimes one knew, as Mma Makutsi clearly did, when it was necessary to move on to the next stage of one’s life. When this happened, it was not helpful for others to hold one back. So she allowed Mma Makutsi to leave, did nothing to stop her, and it was not until she had been gone for ten minutes or so that Mma Ramotswe began to weep. She wept for the loss of her friend and colleague, but also for everything else that she had lost in this life, and of which, unexpectedly, she was now by a flood of memories reminded: for her father, that great man, Obed Ramotswe, now late; for the child she had known for such a short time, such a precious time; for Seretse Khama, who had been a father to the entire country and who had made it one of the finest places on this earth; for her childhood. She wanted everything back, as we do sometimes in our irrationality and regret; we want it all back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    HOW DOES ONE BECOME MORE EXCITING?
    I F I CAN FIX A CAR, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni told himself, then I can do a simple thing like find out whether a man is seeing a woman. And yet, now that he came to start the enquiry, he was not sure whether it would be quite as straightforward as he had imagined it would be. He could have asked Mma Ramotswe’s advice, but she was preoccupied with the consequences of Mma Makutsi’s departure and he did not want to add to her burdens. As far as the garage was concerned, Charlie still had to work a week’s notice—he had spared him a longer period than that, although he would have been entitled to insist on a month. Fortunately, since it was a relatively quiet period—the school holidays, when people tended not to find fault with their cars and when thoughts of routine servicing were put aside—it would be easy for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to take a few hours off every day, should the need arise. The younger apprentice was slightly more