The Joy and Light Bus Company

CHAPTER ONE
Past Tense Men


IT WAS A QUESTION to which Mma Ramotswe, like many women in Botswana, and indeed like many women in so many other places, gave more than occasional thought. It was not that she dwelt on it all the time; it was not even that it occupied her mind much of the time, but it was certainly something that she thought about now and then, especially when she was sitting on her verandah in the first light of the morning, looking out at the acacia tree on the other side of the road, in which two Cape doves, long in love, cooed endearments to one another, while for her part she sipped at her first cup of red bush tea, not in any hurry to do whatever it was that she had to do next. That, of course, is always a good time to think—when you know that you are going to have to do something, but you know that you do not have to do it just yet.
 
The question she occasionally thought about—the question in question, so to speak—was not a particularly complicated one, and could be expressed in a few simple words, namely: How do you keep men happy? Of course, Mma Ramotswe knew that there were those who considered this to be a very old-fashioned question, almost laughable, and there were even those who became markedly indig­nant at the assumptions that lurked behind such an enquiry. Mma Ramotswe, although a traditional woman in some respects, also considered herself modern in others, and understood very well that women were not placed on this earth simply to look after men. There were unfortunately still men who seemed to hold that view—they had not entirely disappeared—but they were fewer in number, she was happy to observe, and nobody paid much attention to them any longer. These men were called past-tense men by Mma Makutsi, Mma Ramotswe’s friend and colleague—a vivid, if perhaps slightly unkind expression. If any man expressed such sentiments today, Mma Ramotswe reflected, he would have to face phalanxes of angry women challenging him in no uncertain terms. Mma Makutsi would not tolerate attitudes like that, and no man would get away with speaking like that within her earshot. And Mma Makutsi’s hearing, for this and other purposes, was known to be particularly acute.
 
“Grace Makutsi can hear an ant walking across the ground,” Mma Ramotswe had once observed to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “At least, I am told she can.”
 
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had looked incredulous. “I do not think so, Mma,” he said. “Ants do not make much noise when they are walk­ing. I think that even other ants do not hear them all that well. I’m not even sure if ants have ears, Mma.”
 
Mma Ramotswe had smiled. She had not meant her remark to be taken literally, but Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni often took things at face value and was not as receptive to metaphor as he might be. This could be owing to the fact that he was a mechanic, and mechanics tended to think in a practical way, or it could just be the way his particular mind worked—it was hard to tell. But even as she smiled at his response, she found herself wondering whether it was true that ants made no noise. She had always imagined that they did—at least when there were enough of them engaged in the sort of joint activity that ants sometimes embarked upon, when they moved in an orderly column, like an army on the march, shifting any blades of dry grass or grains of sand that got in their way. Even tiny ants, acting together in such numbers, could be heard to make a rustling sound, as they went about their unfathomable business. And of course there were enough monuments to that business in those places where ants erected their extraordinary mud towers. Those were astonishing creations—high, tapering piles of hardened mud, red-brown on fresh creation but, when old and weathered, as grey as a long-felled branch or tree-trunk. There must have been some noise in the making of those strange, vertical ant cities, even if there was usually nobody to hear it.
 
But now she was thinking of that other question—that of how to keep men contented. It was, she thought, a good idea to keep men happy, just as it was a good idea to keep women happy. Both sexes, she thought, might give some thought to the happiness of the other. She knew that there were some women who did not care much about men, and who would not be bothered too much if there were large numbers of discontented men, but she did not think that way herself. Such women, she thought, were every bit as selfish as those men who seemed not to care about the happiness of women. We should all care about each other, she felt, and it made no difference whether an unhappy person was a man or a woman. Any unhappiness, in anybody at all, was a shame. It was as simple as that: it was a shame.
 
If you were to think about the happiness of men, and if you were to decide that it would be better for any men in your life to be happy rather than unhappy, then what could you do to achieve that goal? One answer, of course, was to say that it was up to men to make themselves happy—that this was not something that women should have to worry about too much, that men should be respon­sible for themselves. There was some truth in that, Mma Ramotswe thought—men could not expect women to run around after them like nursemaids, but, even then, there were things that women could do to help them to look after themselves and to make their lives a little bit better.
 
The first thing to do, perhaps, was to look at men and try to work out what it was that men wanted. All of us, Mma Ramotswe thought, wanted something, even if we were unable to tell anybody exactly what it was that we wanted. If you went up to somebody in the street and said, “Excuse me, but what is it that you want?” you might be rewarded with a look of surprise, perhaps even of alarm. But the question was not as odd as it might seem, because there were many people who were not at all sure what they wanted in life, and might do well to ask themselves that unsettling question from time to time.
 
There were, it was true, some men who looked as if they knew exactly what they wanted. These were the men you saw moving quickly about the place, walking in a purposeful manner, or driving their cars with every indication of wanting to get somewhere as quickly as possible. These were men who were busy, who were going somewhere in order to do something they had already identified as needing to be done. But then there were many men who did not have that air about them. There were many men who just stood about, not going anywhere in particular, or, if they were, not going any­where with any great appearance of purpose. Were you to ask some of these men what they wanted, they might answer that what they really wanted to do was to sit down. And that, Mma Ramotswe had to admit, was not a bad ambition to have in this life. Many people who were not currently sitting down wanted to do so at some stage in the future—and why not? There was nothing essentially wrong in sitting down and doing nothing in particular. If more people sat down, there would probably be less turmoil in the world—there would certainly be less discomfort.
 
But there was more to the needs of men than that, thought Mma Ramotswe. At heart, men wanted other people, and in particular women, to like them. Men wanted to be loved. They wanted women to look at them and think, “What a nice-looking man that is.” Even men who were unfortunately not at all nice-looking—and there were men who could do with some improvement in that department—wanted women to think that of them. And they wanted women to think that the things they did were worthwhile, were important, and would not be done if they were not around to do them. Men needed to be needed. That was a simple and easily grasped way of expressing what it was that most men were after, in one way or another.
 
On that particular day, a day in the hot season before the coming of the rains, Mma Ramotswe happened to have been thinking about these things, and raised the matter with Mma Makutsi as they sat in their office, drinking their mid-afternoon cup of tea, and rather feeling the heat. The conversation had started with a sigh from Mma Makutsi, a way in which she often signalled that she was in a mood to discuss a big and important issue rather than engage in small talk. Small talk had its place, of course—discussion of who had said what about whom, or about what one was going to have for dinner that night, or about what sales were on in what shops—these were all worthy topics of conversation, but had their limits and occasionally made one wish for more substantial conversational fare.
 
And so it was that after a rather loud and drawn-out sigh from Mma Makutsi’s side of the room, Mma Ramotswe announced, “I’ve been thinking, Mma, about what makes men happy.”
 
Mma Makutsi took a sip of her tea. “That is a very big question, Mma, and I am glad that you raised it. I am certainly very glad.”
 
Mma Ramotswe waited. Mma Makutsi had a way of preceding important observations with a general prologue, rather as a politi­cian might announce a plan to build a new road or excavate a new dam only after making some high-flown remarks on the importance of roads and dams, and about how some political parties are perhaps less aware of this than others. Now, having prepared the ground, Mma Makutsi continued, “I have thought of that in the past, and although I wasn’t thinking about it right now, I am certainly prepared to think about it.”
 
Mma Ramotswe digested this quickly, and went on to say, “I know that we women have other things to think about—in some cases we have a list of things as long as your arm.”
 
Mma Makutsi interrupted her. “Oh, that is very true, Mma. If there is any worrying to be done—and there always is—who is doing the worrying? It is the women. We are the ones who do all the worry­ing. All of it. One hundred per cent. That has always been the case.”
 
Mma Ramotswe nodded. She was not sure that this was entirely true. She knew a number of men who appeared to shoulder more than their fair share of worrying—that man at the supermarket, for instance, whose job it was to make sure that the tinned food shelves were always fully stocked—he invariably looked worried as he sur­veyed the aisles of his domain. And one of her near neighbours seemed to be permanently worried, even when she saw him walking his dog in the evening. The dog looked worried too, she thought, although it was sometimes hard to tell with dogs.
 
She returned to the topic in hand. “But we cannot think about ourselves all the time—every so often we should think about men.”
 
Mma Makutsi weighed this suggestion gravely. “That is certainly true, Mma Ramotswe. Women must think about themselves and make sure that they get their fair share of everything . . .”
 
“. . . because if they don’t, men will not necessarily give them their due,” prompted Mma Ramotswe.
 
It was exactly what Mma Makutsi had been going to say, and she nodded her approval. “We women have so much to do,” she said. And then she sighed again. It was not the sort of sigh that was intended to stop a conversation from proceeding further—it was a sigh that sug­gested that there were deep issues yet to be plumbed.
 
“I suppose one way of looking at it is to think of when it is that men seem to be happiest,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If you can work out when they are happy, then you should know what it is that is making them happy.”
 
Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. “Phuti Radiphuti always looks happy when he sits down at the table,” she said. “He looks happy when his food is in front of him—particularly if it’s something he likes.” She paused. “And that’s everything, actually, Mma. My Phuti eats everything that is put in front of him.” She paused again, before adding, “Without exception.” And then adding, further, “Except cer­tain things that he does not eat.”
 
Mma Ramotswe knew from experience that this was true of most men. She knew very few men who were fussy eaters—in fact, she knew none—and it was certainly true of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that a joint of Botswana beef would produce a look of sublime contentment on his face.

And yet she was uncomfortable about any conclusion that men were concerned only with their stomachs. That was unfair on men, she thought, as most men had other things in which they were inter­ested and that could gladden their spirits. Many men enjoyed foot­ball, and were happy talking about it for hours on end. Charlie and Fanwell were a bit like that, and could be found sitting outside the garage at slack times, endlessly discussing the prospects of various football teams. Charlie occasionally demonstrated a tactical point to Fanwell, expertly sending an imaginary ball in the desired direc­tion, watched with admiration by Fanwell, who was not quite as light on his feet as his friend. They were happy at such times, there was no doubt about it, and so that was one thing—football—that lay at the heart of male happiness. And yet there were men who did not take much of an interest in football—Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was one of them—and they must have things that filled the spaces between work and meals. She now asked Mma Makutsi what she thought these things might be, and Mma Makutsi, looking up at the ceiling for inspiration, as she often did, was able to come up with an answer.