Ramotswe. “Where?”
“Who knows?” replied Calviniah. “I don’t, I’m afraid.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Well, I have my suspicions. I don’t think she will be very happy.”
Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. She hated hearing about the unhappiness of others. There was so little time in life, so little, and yet there were so many who were obliged to spend those precious few years we had on this earth in unhappiness.
“Not that she has to be unhappy,” Calviniah continued. “You can lose all your money and still be happy.”
“And you might not have any in the first place,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “There are many people who do not have any money at all, Mma, and yet are happy with the world.”
Calviniah agreed. “That’s true enough, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe looked up. “You have your suspicions? You said you have your suspicions? Tell me about them, Mma.”
CHAPTER FIVE
AT THE HAPPY CHICKEN CAF
THAT EVENING, Charlie met Queenie-Queenie at the Happy Chicken Caf. This was a small restaurant in a cluster of shops not far from the old Standard Bank; its sign had suffered the loss of a final e, and the accidentally shortened name had stuck. It had been a favourite haunt of Charlie’s for some months, although its prices were, he thought, a bit on the steep side. In fact, Charlie was rarely in a position to buy a piece of chicken, restricting himself to the occasional free meal, given to him by Pearly, the restaurant’s owner, a woman who was vaguely related to his mother. Pearly had a soft spot for Charlie, and recognised that according to the rules of the old Botswana morality, as an older relative she had at least some responsibility for him. That was how it was: nobody was left alone, unrelated, and uncared for—somewhere, in the vast tangle of human relationships, everybody could say to at least someone: I am one of your people.
Of course, the operation of this system of solidarity was not always simple. While there might be one person who recognised your claim, there might equally be another—sometimes in a position of authority—for whom the claim meant little or nothing. In this case, the doubter was Mr. Potso, the chef who fried the chicken, a thick-set man with only one eye, who was Pearly’s lover, and who resented Charlie’s claims on her.
“This boy,” Mr. Potso complained to Pearly. “This boy who hangs about sometimes: Who exactly is he?”
“He’s my cousin’s son. Not my close cousin, you know, but one of my mother’s people from way back. I forget exactly where and when, but way, way back.”
Mr. Potso was not impressed with the credentials of this kinship. “There are many people,” he said. “There are so many people who were related a long time ago. We all go back to Adam, remember. We are all his cousins.”
Pearly laughed. “That was a long time ago, Potso.”
“That is what I’m saying,” countered Mr. Potso. “I’m saying if you start looking for relatives, then there are relatives under every stone.” He paused. You have to be careful, he thought; you have to be careful not to push women too far, because sometimes they can turn around and say, I’ve had enough of you. They could do that, and then they turn you out and where are you then? That was why you had to be careful, especially if you had only one eye. You could miss things if you had only one eye.
“All I’m saying,” he continued, “is that once you start picking up relatives, then you can end up with a lot of them. That is all I’m saying.”
“That is true enough, I suppose,” said Pearly. It was not a matter that she had given much thought to, but she was often impressed with Potso’s observations of the world. He might only have one eye, she had once said to a friend, but he sees a lot with that eye of his.
Mr. Potso was emboldened. “And then, if you’re not careful, you end up with one hundred relatives on your doorstep—all of them hungry. All wanting something from you. And then along will come the baboons. They’ll say, ‘Don’t forget about us! We are your cousins too—a long way back. What about us? What have you got for us to eat?’ ”
Pearly laughed. “I don’t think so, Potso. If baboons come to your place, you chase them back into the bush. You say, ‘Get back where you belong.’ That’s what you say, Potso.”
Potso smiled. “They’re