The Double Comfort Safari Club - By Alexander McCall Smith Page 0,75
barely half an hour to reach Lion’s Tail Camp. It was a more modest camp than Eagle Island, with smaller, tented rooms for the visitors, but still with that stylish old-safari feel that Botswana did so well. The manager was away in Maun, but the head guide, Moripe Moripe, an old friend of Mighty, greeted them warmly and listened attentively to Mma Ramotswe’s story. As her explanation drew to a close, he started to nod encouragingly.
“Yes, Mma,” he said. “I remember that lady. Mma Grant was here at the time. You are right.” He paused, as if fetching something from the dim recesses of memory. “It was July, Mma. I remember it because that was the month that my grandmother became late.”
“Are you sure of that? July?”
He nodded. “Yes, I am.”
She felt the familiar excitement that came with the solving of a mystery. But in this case, although she was pleased to have found out what happened, she felt appalled at what she had done. She had raised the hopes of a man who would now have to be told that the fortune he thought he was going to receive would no longer be his.
She reached into the bag she had brought with her and took out the obituary cutting. “Is this that lady?” she asked.
Moripe Moripe examined the photograph. “That is the lady. She had hair like that. That is her.”
“Are you sure?” asked Mma Ramotswe, looking into his eyes. It seemed unlikely to her that somebody would remember one guest of many, and after a few years had passed.
Moripe Moripe met her gaze. “I am very sure, Mma. If you spend a long time with somebody, and you talk to them a lot, then you remember them.”
Mma Ramotswe skirted round what she thought was a general observation. “Who was the guide who looked after her, Rra?”
Moripe Moripe looked surprised by the question. “But I’ve just told you, Mma. It was me. I was the one. I looked after her for five or six days. That is why I remember her.”
It was then that Mighty intervened. “You can trust this man, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “He is well known to us. I know him. And Tebogo knows him too.”
The mention of the name Tebogo appeared to amuse Moripe Moripe. “That is a good man,” he said.
“Moripe Moripe is going to marry Tebogo’s sister,” said Mighty. “They are good friends.”
They are good friends. It took a moment or two for the words to sink in, as is often the case when something is said that suddenly offers a way out of an impossible situation. They are good friends. As she repeated the words to herself, Mma Ramotswe felt an immense relief. Bride price, she thought. Lobola. It was often there in Botswana, in the background, playing an important role in people’s affairs, like a strong wind that always blew, or a strong current under the surface of water. Always there.
They had not yet told Moripe Moripe about the legacy, but now she felt she could. “I have a curious story to tell you, Rra,” she said. “But first, I think you should sit down.”
They sat down more or less where they were, under a tree, with the sun burning down over the swamps in a flourish of red. “This story is one of extraordinary coincidence, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe began. And she told him of the two Mrs. Grants arriving one shortly after the other, and of their going to nearby camps. It seemed unlikely, but one could see how it had happened. Unlikely things do happen, said Mma Ramotswe, and she knew, for she had seen many such things happen in her job, and had long since come to the conclusion that the extraordinary was often not quite as extraordinary as people imagined it to be. Then, after relating what had happened, she went on to tell him of the deathbed request by Mrs. Grant—the real Mrs. Grant. “And that is what I have come to tell you, Rra. You have been given twenty thousand pula. It is her way of saying thank you.”
Moripe Moripe took the news calmly. “That is very kind, Mma. Very kind.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mighty, who looked down at the ground in silent sympathy. How was she going to tell him that she had already promised the money to another, even if it was his future brother-in-law?
“Tell me, Rra,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You are going to marry Tebogo’s sister. Are the parents late—her parents?”