WHENEVER SHE walked past the Botswana Secretarial College, Mma Makutsi felt a surge of pride. She had spent six months of her life at the college, during which time she had scraped an existence, working part-time as a night waitress in a hotel (a job which she hated) and struggling to stay awake during the day. Her resolve and her persistence had paid off, and she would never forget the strength of the applause at the graduation ceremony when, before the proud eyes of her parents, who had sold a sheep to pay for the journey down to Gaborone, she had crossed the stage to receive her secretarial diploma as the leading graduate of the year. Her life, she suspected, would involve no greater triumph than that.

“Do you see that?” she said to the elder apprentice, whom Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had instructed to help her in the task of fetching the typewriters. “That motto on the notice board up there? Be accurate. That’s the motto of the college.”

“Yes,” said the apprentice. “That’s a good motto. You don’t want to be inaccurate if you are a typist. Otherwise you have to do everything twice. That would not be good.”

Mma Makutsi looked at him sideways. “A good motto for every walk of life, would you not think?”

The apprentice said nothing, and they continued to walk down the corridor that led to the office.

“All the students here are girls, are they not, Mma?” asked the apprentice.

“Yes,” she said. “There is no reason why that should be. But that is how it was in my day.”

“I would like to study here, then,” said the apprentice. “That would suit me. I should like to sit in a classroom with all those girls.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “Some of them would like that, too, I think. The wrong sort of girl.”

“There are no wrong sort of girls,” countered the apprentice. “All girls have their uses. All girls are welcome.”

They had arrived at the office, and Mma Makutsi was announcing herself to the assistant principal’s receptionist.

“Mma Manapotsi will be pleased to see you, Mma,” said the receptionist, glancing appreciatively at the apprentice, who was smiling at her. “She remembers you well.”

Mma Makutsi was shown into Mma Manapotsi’s office while the apprentice remained outside, perched on the edge of the receptionist’s desk. He was amusing her by pressing a finger on a blank sheet of paper and leaving a fingerprint of black grease outlined on the surface.

“My trademark,” he said. “If I hold hands with a pretty girl-like you-I leave a trademark! It says: My property! Keep off!”

Inside, Mma Manapotsi greeted Mma Makutsi warmly. There were enquiries about her current job, and a delicate question as to the salary she was commanding.

“It sounds very important being an assistant detective and assistant manager,” said Mma Manapotsi. “I hope that they are paying you what you deserve. We like our graduates to be properly rewarded.”

“They are paying me as much as they can,” said Mma Makutsi. “Very few people get paid what they really deserve, though, do they? Even the president does not get the salary he deserves, I think. We should pay him more, I think.”

“That may be so,” said Mma Manapotsi. “I have always thought that the assistant principals of colleges should get more, too. But we must not complain, must we, Mma? If everybody complained all the time, then there would be no time for anything else but complaints. We do not complain here at the Botswana Secretarial College. We get on with the job.”

“That is what I think, too,” said Mma Makutsi.

The conversation continued in this way for a few minutes. From beyond the door that led into the receptionist’s room, there was a murmur of voices and an occasional giggle. At length, they reached the subject of the old typewriters, and Mma Manapotsi confirmed her offer.

“We can fetch them now,” she said. “Your young man out there can carry them for you, if he is not too busy with that girl of mine.”

“He is always like that with girls,” said Mma Makutsi. “Every girl he meets. It is a sad thing, but that is the way he is.”

“We would not want men to ignore us altogether,” said Mma Manapotsi. “But sometimes it would be better if they ignored us a bit.”

They made their way to the storeroom where, amid piles of papers and books, the disused typewriters were stacked.

“They are very old,” said Mma Manapotsi, “but most of them could probably be made to work, or almost work. They will need oiling.”

“Plenty of that in the garage,” remarked the apprentice, turning a roller experimentally.

“Perhaps,” said Mma Manapotsi. “But remember, these machines are not like cars. They are much more delicate.”

They returned to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, where Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had agreed the typewriters could be stored and worked upon until Mma Makutsi had found a place for the classes to be held. Mma Ramotswe, who had endorsed the plan in spite of some misgivings about whether there would be enough pupils, offered to pay for the placing of a press advertisement drawing attention to the classes, and also expressed an interest in helping with the restoration of the typewriters.

“Motholeli would like to help, too,” she said. “She is very keen on machines, that girl, and she has very nimble fingers.”

“This business will be a great success,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have a feeling for businesses. I think that this one will do well.”

Mma Makutsi was buoyed by his prediction. She was awed by the thought that she was about to embark on a venture of her own, and the warm words of her employers encouraged her greatly. “Do you really think so, Rra?”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

IT WAS, it transpired, a time of mutual support. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency supported Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, providing secretarial and bookkeeping services in the shape of Mma Makutsi, who still occasionally helped with the servicing of cars as well. In return, Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors paid most of Mma Makutsi’s salary, thus making it possible for her to serve as assistant detective. For her part, Mma Ramotswe supported Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, making his evening meal for him and laundering his overalls and those of the apprentices as well. The apprentices, nurtured and trained by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was tolerant of their foibles as most employers would not be, repaid in their own way. When it came to the restoration of the typewriters, it was they who did most of the work, giving up a great deal of their spare time over the next two weeks in an effort to coax the old machines into serviceability.

It was in this spirit of mutual assistance that everybody agreed to attend a religious meeting at which the younger apprentice was speaking. He had asked them whether they would care to come and hear him speak, as it would be the first time that he had addressed the entire brotherhood of his church, and it was, he said, a very important occasion for him.

“We shall have to go,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I don’t think we can refuse.”

“You are right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is very important to him. It is a bit like a prize-giving. If he were getting a prize, we would have to go.”

“These things can go on for many hours,” warned Mma Makutsi. “Don’t expect to get away in less than three hours. You must eat a big piece of meat before you go, otherwise you will feel weak.”

The meeting took place the following Sunday, in a small church near the diamond-sorting building. Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni arrived in good time and had been sitting there, contemplating the ceiling, for at least twenty minutes before Mma Makutsi arrived.

“Now we are all here,” whispered Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Only his brother, Charlie, is not coming.”