Date Published: 14th March 2021

Mma Ramotswe talks to Mma Makutsi about mothers and Mother’s Day.

It was Mother’s Day, or not quite, but Mother’s Day was just a few days away. At the first tea break that morning in the No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mma Makutsi mentioned to Mma Ramotswe that she had seen a notice in a shop window advertising flowers for Mother’s Day. The wording of the notice had been rather direct: “If you have a mother,” it said, “then you must buy her flowers for Mothers’ day – available here”. And to that advice, had been added the additional admonition, “No excuses, please!”

“I think it is a bit rude,” said Mma Makutsi, “to speak to your customers like that.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Sometimes it is best for an advertisement to be straightforward,” she said. “I have always thought that the best advertisement for any soap would be, “Do you want not to smell? Then use our soap!”

Mma Makutsi wrinkled her nose. “That is not very subtle, Mma. People do not like to talk about smells.” She paused. “At least, that is what I think, Mma Ramotswe. It is only one view, I know – but that is what I think about advertisements like that.”

“You’re probably right,” conceded Mma Ramotswe. “And I haven’t ever seen an advertisement that actually says that, Mma. I was merely thinking about it.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “Mind you, I think that many people will go and buy flowers if they read that sign. Many people feel guilty about Mothers’ Day. They think: Oh, my goodness, I must do something about my mother. That is what they think, Mma.”

“And so they should,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is important to do things for your mother. That is well-known, Mma Makutsi.”

Mma Makutsi was looking at her. Her large round spectacles flashed in the light that filtered through the small window behind her desk. “Your mother, Mma?” she asked. “You don’t remember her, do you, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. “I do not, Mma. She is late. She is very late, in fact, because I was only a baby when …” She did not finish. She never talked about the accident – never. Perhaps it would be better to do so – people had said that she should – but she found it too painful. Just as she found it too painful to talk about the loss of her baby. The memory of that lay deep within her, and again there had been people who said that she might delve into those parts of her where that memory was and bring it out into the sunlight, but she could not. Perhaps one day she might feel differently about, but that day had not yet arrived.

Mma Makutsi lowered her gaze. You should not look directly at other people when they were thinking about late people – she understood that. “I am very sorry,” she said.

Mma Ramotswe took another sip of her tea. “Thank you, Mma.” That was all she needed to say, she felt.

Mma Makutsi looked up. “Do you know much about her, Mma? Have people spoken to you about her?”

Mma Ramotswe thought about this. Her father – her Daddy, as he called him – he had not said very much about her. Perhaps that was because it was painful for him, too, just as it was for her. Now she tried to remember what he had said … That she liked to eat bread with syrup on it; that she cooked a very fine stew; that she knew the names of all the plants, and what each plant was good for – if you were feeling ill. That she was a good dressmaker. That she had a good memory. Now that she thought about it, he had said rather a lot.

“He told me some things,” she said to Mm Makutsi. And she told her what she remembered, and Mma Makutsi listened attentively.

“She must have been a very good woman,” said Mma Makutsi eventually.

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. “I think she was.”

But now she was thinking of her late Daddy, because not a day went past – not one – but that she thought about Obed Ramotswe, that fine man, that great judge of cattle, that representative of all the old Botswana values. She thought of him and remembered his smile and the way he called her “My Precious” and how he wanted her to make something of her life. And she thought about how proud he would be if he could come back today, just briefly, from that place wherever he was, and see her here sitting in the office of the No 1 Ladies; Detective Agency, and if he could see, too, the country he loved so much, Botswana, and all that it had done since that day when he became late.

She looked at Mma Makutsi, and then said, “You know, Mma, I have said it before, but I will say it again; late people are still with us, Mma. Our late mothers and our late fathers are still with us, Mma. They are still with us.”

Mma Makutsi looked back at her, and then nodded. “That is very true, Mma.”

“And so, on Mothers’ Day it does not matter if your mother is late,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “It does not matter because she is still with you, and you can still think about her.”

“That is very true,” Mma Makutsi repeated.

They looked at one another. Outside, on the branch of the acacia tree behind the office, a Cape dove alighted. Above it, the sky was high and empty. Mma Ramotswe thought of Africa, and of mothers, late and otherwise, and of all that she had, and all that she was grateful for. And there was nothing more to be said, she thought.