The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party (26 page)

This last achievement was partly to the credit of Mma Potokwane, who had interpreted Mma Makutsi’s acceptance of help with the pots and with cake as a green light to take over control of all aspects of the feast. Nobody had objected to this, not even Mma Makutsi, who, although she had in the past been irritated by Mma Potokwane’s controlling tendencies, found them a great reassurance now.

“She is like a hurricane,” Mma Makutsi whispered to Mma Ramotswe on Friday morning when Mma Ramotswe phoned her to check that all was well. “She is in the next room right now, and there is a lot of banging of pots and some big thumping sounds that I cannot make out.”

“Cakes,” suggested Mma Ramotswe. “That is the sound of her cakes being taken out of their tins.”

“Maybe, Mma. Now I think they are chopping something, but I do not know what it is.”

“She will make sure that everything is all right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I remember what she did at my own wedding. She got all the house-mothers at the orphan farm to do the cooking. She was like a general telling the Botswana Defence Force what to do. March this way, march that way—that sort of thing.”

“I don’t think she will let anything go wrong,” said Mma Makutsi, not without relief.

In this, she proved to be right. With the same efficiency and determination with which she organised the affairs of the orphan farm, Mma Potokwane ensured that everything was cooked and ready well before the guests began to file into the church where the ceremony was to be held. So while the guests waited in their pews,
craning their necks to look at and admire the fine outfits that everybody had donned for the occasion—the bright traditional print dresses of the women, the smartly pressed blue suits of the men, the colourful voile frocks of the little girls—back in the grounds of the Radiphuti house the tables along the sides of the tent were already stacked with pots of meat, with large bowls of gravy, with pumpkin and peas, with every sort of dish that anybody present might wish for. Mma Potokwane had left nothing to chance, and had been delighted to discover the generosity of the catering budget that the Radiphuti family had made available. If anybody came to the feast hungry or undernourished, she felt, then they would not go away in that state. Belts could be loosened if necessary, collars unbuttoned; it would be a memorable feast.

Mma Ramotswe had been allocated a seat in the front row, alongside Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Puso and Motholeli were in the row immediately behind them, seated beside two other children from Bobonong, with whom they had formed those instant friendships that children seem to manage so effortlessly. A little further behind, Charlie and Fanwell, both wearing shiny suits and bright ties, studied their hymn sheets conscientiously. When the time came to sing, as the bride entered on the arm of her uncle, the two young men proved to be enthusiastic singers, even if in different keys from each other.

As Mma Makutsi entered the church, a ripple of applause broke out at the back and spread through the congregation. Children waved, and some of the women ululated—a traditional sign of pleasure, pride, and congratulation. Mma Makutsi’s eyes were moist behind her large glasses; it had been so long a journey for her, and now she was at its culmination, in the presence of her family and those whom she loved. She saw their faces—the aunt who had helped her financially, in every small way that she could, who had paid for that first bus journey that she made to Gaborone all those
years ago; the cousins who had written to her regularly and had so generously congratulated her on each small triumph; and there, halfway down the church, in an aisle seat and turned to face her as she took those few steps to the altar, was the retired Principal of the Botswana Secretarial College, smiling with pride at her own, indirect role in bringing about the career that had led to all this.

Mma Ramotswe’s eyes, and the eyes of every woman present, were on the dress. It was magnificent: a floor-length creation of ivory satin, with large puffed sleeves and a sash round the waist. At the back, this sash was tied in a giant bow, like the wings of a butterfly. The bodice was trimmed with white lace, and around her neck Mma Makutsi wore a delicate gold chain with a pendant cross, a gift from Phuti Radiphuti, the groom who now awaited her at the altar.

There would be many speeches in the wedding tent later on. Now, as Phuti Radiphuti stepped forward to take his bride from the uncle, and as the congregation finished the opening hymn, the minister cleared his throat.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, “we are gathered here in this place to bring together in marriage two people, our brother and our sister, Phuti and Grace. They are being married here because they love one another and they declare that love now before you, this congregation, and before all Botswana. If there is any person who knows of any reason why these two people cannot be joined together in marriage by the laws of this country, then that person must now speak.”

There was silence. Charlie glanced at Fanwell, and winked.

The minister continued, “And so I shall now ask them to exchange their vows. Phuti, please take Grace’s hand. That is right. Now then …”

The marriage was solemnised. Mma Ramotswe watched, and from her position so close to the front heard every word of the vows.
She had so many memories: of her first meeting with Mma Makutsi, who had presented herself for interview with such confidence and determination; of her initial difficulties in coming to terms with her new assistant’s rather prickly behaviour; of her growing appreciation for her many fine qualities; of her pleasure when eventually she had found Phuti Radiphuti and her delight in their engagement. Mma Makutsi had been fortunate in finding Phuti, but fortune had also smiled on Mma Ramotswe, who now glanced tenderly at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni at her side. He noticed her glance, and touched the sleeve of her dress lightly, a small gesture that conveyed so much.

Mma Ramotswe cried, privately and unseen. She, the only begetter of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, cried. She cried for joy.

AFTERWARDS,
they left the church and went to the wedding tent at the Radiphuti house. Now the sound of voices rose, and there were children and dogs, and even one or two interested birds circling overhead. The uncle with the broken nose—the greedy one from Bobonong—made the main speech on Mma Makutsi’s side. Mma Ramotswe tried to follow what he had to say, but it seemed to her that it was hopelessly confused—some story of a cow that had run off to another field but who never forgot the cows back in the first field. It was a message of some sort, she assumed, but nobody seemed to be very interested in it. It was not very tactful, she thought, to use cow metaphors when one was talking about a bride, but Mma Makutsi herself did not seem to mind, and clapped as loudly as everybody else did when the uncle eventually sat down.

Mma Makutsi moved from table to table, from chair to chair, talking to the guests, accepting good wishes, showing her bouquet of flowers to the children, and doing her duty as hostess, as the new Mma Radiphuti. When she reached Mma Ramotswe’s table, at
first she did not say anything, but leaned forward and embraced the woman who had given her her one great chance in life, who had been such a good friend to her.

Then she spoke. “I am still going to be coming into the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mma,” she said. “This will not change things. I shall still be working.”

“I will be waiting for you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “After your honeymoon, of course.”

She looked at the bride. She saw the shoes.

“The shoes you gave me, Mma,” Mma Makutsi said. “They are very beautiful.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Charlie did his best, didn’t he?”

Mma Makutsi inclined her head graciously. “He did. It was very good of him to try.”

They both laughed. Charlie had tried to fix the original pair of broken shoes, and had not done too bad a job. He had done it discreetly, unasked, taking the shoes from a cupboard in the office and returning them a couple of days later. Mma Makutsi had been touched by this, even if his repair had in the end been inadequate. It was a peace offering, and she accepted it, for her part apologising for jumping to unwarranted conclusions in the affair of the twins. And that brought forth an apology from him. “You are not a warthog,” he said. “I am very sorry, Mma, for saying that.”

Mma Ramotswe had then slipped out and bought a new pair of shoes for Mma Makutsi—ones that she thought would be suitable for the wedding. These had proved perfect, and Mma Makutsi had shown them to Phuti Radiphuti at the same time as she confessed to the destruction of their predecessors. He had not minded in the least. “The important thing is that you didn’t hurt your ankle,” he said. “That is what counts.”

THERE WERE MANY SPEECHES,
mostly by relatives on either side. Weddings and speeches went together, and the guests listened patiently, knowing that there would be more food later on. That food kept the guests busy for the best part of two hours. Then there was music, provided by the Big Time Kalahari Jazz Band. This led to dancing, with Mma Makutsi and Phuti Radiphuti taking to the floor to general applause and whistles. The dance lessons they had both taken all that time ago came in useful, and Phuti, who had not been a particularly good dancer to begin with, proved competent enough now, even with his artificial foot. After that first dance, Mma Makutsi danced with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Mma Ramotswe was invited to dance with the uncle with the broken nose. She put on a brave face over this, managing to control her winces as the uncle trod heavily on her toes and pushed her clumsily about the floor of the tent. It was a great relief to her when the band stopped and she was able to make her way back to her chair.

Eventually it was time to leave, and Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni drove home in the white van, with Mma Ramotswe at the wheel. It was early evening now, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was feeling tired, went off to have his somewhat delayed Saturday afternoon nap. After the feast there would be no question of dinner, so she had no cooking to do. The children had gone to a friend’s house for the night; Mma Ramotswe was alone.

She went out into the garden. The sun had set, but there was still a faint glow in the west, above the Kalahari—enough to provide that half-light that makes everything seem so rounded, so perfect. She stood in her garden and looked about her. Against the gradually darkening sky, the branches of the trees traced a pattern of twigs and leaves—a pattern of such intricacy and delicacy that those standing below might look up and wonder why the world can be so beautiful and yet break the heart.

She stood still for a while, thinking about marriage. A wedding
was a strange ceremony, she thought, with all those formal words, those solemn vows made by one to another; whereas the real question that should be put to the two people involved was a very simple one.
Are you happy with each other?
was the only question that should be asked; to which they both should reply, preferably in unison,
Yes.
Simple questions—and simple answers—were what we needed in life. That was what Mma Ramotswe believed. Yes.

She went back into the house, as night had come over the town, the sky suddenly going from deep blue into black—and stars had appeared over Africa. She gave one last glance towards the horizon, to check whether the Southern Cross was where it should be. It was.

africa
africa africa
africa africa africa
africa africa
africa

“First on my list—every time—is any new Precious Ramotswe tale.”
—
The New Orleans Times-Pisayune

“The best, most charming, honest, hilarious and life-affirming books.”
—
The Cleveland Plains Dealer

Discussion Questions: