I enjoyed this! I thought the male, English author got a very good perspective of the female African hero and all the other African characters. This is one of those books that make one fall in love with Africa all over again. And a very good detective book, too. It could be a good step up for the Nancy Drew readers, though it does have a small amount of adult content in it.
A sly look at the foibles and small evils of daily life, which includes the recognition that much more serious evil still lurks just beyond: “You can buy bones in Johannesburg. Did you not know that? They are not expensive.”
Quotes:
MMA RAMOTSWE had a detective agency in Africa, at the foot of Kgale Hill. These were its assets: a tiny white van, two desks, two chairs, a telephone, and an old typewriter. Then there was a teapot, in which Mma Ramotswe—the only lady private detective in Botswana—brewed redbush tea. And three mugs—one for herself, one for her secretary, and one for the client. What else does a detective agency really need?
Maybe you will find the real Daddy one day. Maybe not. But in the meantime, you can be happy again.
Some people think of God as a white man, which is an idea which the missionaries brought with them all those years ago and which seems to have stuck in people’s mind. I do not think this is so, because there is no difference between white men and black men; we are all the same; we are just people. And God was here anyway, before the missionaries came.
They kept us apart, because that is how they worked, these white men. The Swazis were all in one gang, and the Zulus in another, and the Malawians in another.
there are many sadnesses in the hearts of men who are far away from their countries.
He looked at me and nodded. Then he took my hand and shook it, which is the first time a white man had done that to me. So I called him my brother, which is the first time I had done that to a white man.
“We are the ones who first ploughed the earth when Modise (God) made it,” ran an old Setswana poem. “We were the ones who made the food. We are the ones who look after the men when they are little boys, when they are young men, and when they are old and about to die. We are always there. But we are just women, and nobody sees us.”
The Reverend looked down at the ground, which, in her experience, was where people usually looked if they felt truly sorry. The shamelessly unrepentant, she found, always looked up at the sky.
But Mma Malatsi was extraordinarily calm. “Well at least I know that he’s with the Lord,” she said. “And that’s much better than knowing that he’s in the arms of some other woman, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to be rude. You’ve lost your husband and you must be very sorry.” “A bit,” said Mma Malatsi. “But I have lots to do.”
To lose a child, like that, was something that could end one’s world. One could never get back to how it was before. The stars went out. The moon disappeared. The birds became silent.
It was curious how some people had a highly developed sense of guilt, she thought, while others had none. Some people would agonise over minor slips or mistakes on their part, while others would feel quite unmoved by their own gross acts of betrayal or dishonesty.
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Do men really think they can fool us that easily?” she said. “Do they think we’re fools?” “I think they do,” said Mma Pekwane.
Yes—that was the difference between them. She was a fixer of lives—as so many women are—whereas he was a fixer of machines.
Lies are quite all right if you are lying for a good cause.
Hospitals were to her a memento mori in bricks and mortar; an awful reminder of the inevitable end that was coming to all of us but which she felt was best ignored while one got on with the business of life.
“If more women were in power, they wouldn’t let wars break out,” she said. “Women can’t be bothered with all this fighting. We see war for what it is—a matter of broken bodies and crying mothers.”
Dr Maketsi thought for a moment. He was thinking of Mrs Ghandi, who had a war, and Mrs Golda Meir, who also had a war, and then there was … “Most of the time,” he conceded. “Women are gentle most of the time, but they can be tough when they need to be.”
Mma Ramotswe did not want Africa to change. She did not want her people to become like everybody else, soulless, selfish, forgetful of what it means to be an African, or, worse still, ashamed of Africa. She would not be anything but an African, never, even if somebody came up to her and said “Here is a pill, the very latest thing. Take it and it will make you into an American.” She would say no. Never. No thank you.
There was so much suffering in Africa that it was tempting just to shrug your shoulders and walk away. But you can’t do that, she thought. You just can’t.
The woman looked at her scornfully “You can buy bones in Johannesburg. Did you not know that? They are not expensive.”
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