Botswana's No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency

A few weeks back when a teacher of mine recommended me to read some of Alexander Mccall Smith’s writings, I set out to look for a book which will be best for me to step into his oeuvre with. So, I picked his 1998 released novel, The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Precious Ramotswe’s intelligence and affability combined with McCall Smith’s witty narrative got me hooked so much that by the end of this book I was itching to read the next instalment of the series.

Set in Botswana, The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is one of its kind in the entire country. Following her father’s death, Mma Ramotswe used her inheritance to set up a detective agency because she unwaveringly believes that ‘women understand what’s happening. They are the ones with the eyes.’ Ramotswe along with her assistant Mma Makutsi and a small white van set out to solve cases and help people ‘solve the mysteries in their lives’. Though business starts off slow with small cases involving con men, embezzlers and rebellious kids, it does not take too long to pick up momentum as the perceptive and quick-witted Mma Ramotswe bags important and high-profile cases in her kitty. Through the tribulations of the ingenious cases, cups of bush tea and Mr JLB Matekoni remain as constant friends to Mma Ramotswe.

Precious Ramotswe with her easy and patient demeanour and a keen understanding of the human psyche comes across as a detective, au naturel. Her progressive and feminist ideals does not come in conflict with her traditional African values, compassion and grace. She is a patient feminist who puts an arrogant man in his place with her intelligence and sharp wit and her amicable disposition. Mma Ramotswe is a confident woman who is not only sure of her looks and her colour, but also of her self and her identity as a feminist. She is unlike the stereotyped sleuths who are endowed with atypical qualities, for her judgement is tempered with compassion and human understanding—the Moretsi case for instance.

If Mma Ramotswe’s character is instrumental in keeping the readers glued to the book, McCall Smith's
narrative is no less in making the novel such a success. The narrative’s inspection of human character, foibles and pressing issues of the society is deceptively covert by Smith’s lucid language and easy humour. McCall Smith let’s his protagonist use sly humour to cut through chauvinism, patriarchy and superstition. The narrative is interspersed with actions from Mma Ramotswe’s curiously interesting present and thoughtful ruminations from flashes of her painful past, thus, striking a delicate balance of wit and philosophy, of humour and pathos.

While some may dismiss McCall Smith’s handling of the pressing social issues as trivial, it is undeniable that his protagonist, nonetheless, comes across as a nosy realist who hesitates for no two seconds before plunging headlong to address such issues in her own capacity. The plot doesn’t follow the whoddunnit genre, nor does it involve sensational crimes, indomitable criminals or the maddening chases. McCall Smith’s novel relishes the slow-paced life of Gabarone, the challenges that form the kernel of the mundane, and studies the foibles of human character in a different light, unlike most detective novels. The novel, at best, stands out as a optimistic and humorous commentary on human life, character and society. 

Those Summer Morning Walks

                 

The quaint little town of Andul was inhabited by a few hundred people who knew each other all too well. They were friends or neighbours, acquaintances or relatives. There were the old men who trudged along for morning walks, young chaps who flocked around at the market place or the ladies troop who gathered around the puchkawala.

One such simpleton was old Mr Manna. He was one among the old residents of this town. Every morning at the crack of dawn he and his friends would take the mile-long walk to the railway station. This summer the old men had the company of a little sprightly girl and her tiny white furball, Jimmy. Five-year-old Dona was Mr Manna’s granddaughter and Jimmy was her pet spitz. This year she was spending her summer vacation with her grandparents. 

‘Come now little one, don’t wander away’ Mr Manna would often call out to Dona and her pup. 

The old men were thrilled to have this little girl for company. Her abundant energy kept them rattling tale after tale to her. Dona was an eager listener and couldn’t get enough of stories.

‘Grandpa Mitter, would you tell me the story of the mango tree Giant again? I won’t be scared today, I promise’, Dona said pleadingly.  

Mr Mitter rubbed his chin and said, ‘hmm…so you see little one, there was once a giant who lived in the mango tree that stood behind my house…’

As the story followed Dona and Jimmy trotted along the path collecting wildflowers and greeting the townsfolk.

‘You’re late today, Kanai uncle’, Dona chirped as Kanai smirked and cycled past her with his cart full of bread.

Then as they neared the field, there was no stopping Jimmy and Dona from running amuck among the dewy wet grasses.

‘Look at those munchkins!’ the women piped as they queued around the squeaky tubewell to fill their pitchers.

When they reached the railway station, the old men ordered tea from Bishu’s tea stall at the platform. Dona and Jimmy carefully sneaked away and climbed the foot-over bridge to visit the town on the other side. But hardly had the reached the middle of the bridge than the train came rumbling and shot its loud whistle. Dona and Jimmy trembled and crouched low in fear. The burst of laughter made Dona look up with wide eyes.

‘Want to sneak away alone anymore?’ Pintu dada asked as Dona shook her head vigorously.

When Pintu took Dona and Jimmy to the old men, they all chuckled and asked, ‘How was the trip Dona?’ 

‘I-I’m sorry’, Dona mumbled tearfully before her grandpa wrapped her in his arms and soothingly said, ‘It’s okay. Next time we will take the trip to the other side together.’

Today, Dona is a grown woman and lives in a lifeless city. Her Grandpa and Jimmy had died. But the memories of these early mornings and the simpletons of Andul have brought her closer to life and have taught her to cherish the simple joys of life.

Rain...

As the water trellised down the windscreen and a hundred white feet of bodiless birds splish-splashed on the road ahead, a silent vacuum filled in as I sat in the rear seat of the cab. All those billowy clouds of multitudinous thoughts floated away, as my senses, soaking in the apparent surrounding, hypnotically suspended the banalities of humdrum thoughts. I allowed the splinters of rain to prick at my face as I slumped back and slowly rested my head on the seat; nonchalant to where the cabbie was taking me. Over the past five years I have travelled this stretch of road so frequently that even a stolid inert gaze at any part of it would be a satisfying assurance. The faint darkness of the damp air had cast a silent tranquillity on an otherwise cautious and involved passenger, as I am, and on the busy bustling road of incessant honking and unending traffic congestion. The old cabbie drove on the empty Sunday-road, but I could see the meandering trail of tyre tracks that the preceding car was leaving ahead of us. I looked up at the dark sky through the cab window and felt the grey smoke and dampness around me. I wanted to write something. No, I'm not a poet or a story teller. It was just about the weather, about the drive and I tried capturing in my mind the feeling that was impressed upon my countenance, but I failed in finding the words that would adequately express them. I wondered why it is the rains that inspire me most. Why the bright sunny morning didn't appeal me better? The faint darkness of the rains is as cool as the pleasant winter winds of tropical lands that ignite the warmth of passion, but its dampness reminds me of a suppressed melancholy, somewhere in the distant corner. I heard the rumbling train pass-by in a whiff below. I saw the miniature suns, formed of the water drops, upon the windscreen. But I didn't smell the parched earth. I missed him. I thought of our meeting that was a while back. I longed to feel that presence again. It, however, suddenly crossed my mind that a friend of mine is bereaving the loss of her father. I thought of aunty, at her loss, her startling change in life; but I also thought of a friend who had just settled in for a conjugal life. I wondered if the rains moved all to their passions of love and pain. Would one, at the noon of one’s life, be moved to the passion of love when the dimness of rain approaches? Or does it just fume the passions of a young heart? The cab crossed the road by the lake. I saw the water swell to its brim. I saw the multi coloured umbrellas, with heads propped under them, lined around its bank. It started pouring rapidly. The splish-splashing and splattering increased, as I heard the raindrops dance on the roof of the car. Fog percolated in the windscreen and vision obscured. The wiper swished and squeaked and the cabbie wiped the screen to clear off the fog from within. An otherwise sunny afternoon seemed like an early twilight today, with street lamps all aglow. I thought of the street dwellers, the dogs and cats. Rats could creep through the tiny gaps but the dogs and cats and men couldn’t. I wondered if the rain washed all the leaves of a tree clean. Could a leaf, unwashed of its dust smear, belie of the rains? I was yards away from my home; I finally broke the silence and asked the cabbie to stop right up. It was raining as one would say with a conventional idiom “like cats and dogs”. I got off the cab, ready with an open umbrella which was evidently insufficient to keep me dry. Mud and dirt reached up above my ankles as the rain splintered them on me. Later, sitting by the window in my room, as I saw the smoke float pass below the bright yellow street lamps as rain drizzled down like flecks of gold!