Men don’t wear pink
It was generally agreed by all right-thinking people – which meant that both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi were of one mind on the issue – that it was best for men not to get involved in women’s business.
Of course every rule has its exceptions, and the exception here was that if a woman asked a man to get involved in some decision or scheme, then that would be all right – up to a point. The difficulty, though, was that once you invited a man to get involved, then he would tend to exceed his authority and take over. And that, as everybody knew, could lead to problems.
One might have expected that a rule of this nature would work both ways. Curiously enough, thought Mma Ramotswe, this was not the case, and just as everybody agreed that men should keep out of women’s affairs, so too did they agree – with equal vigour – that there were few items of men’s business that were not more efficiently dealt with by a woman.
Banks, for example, would be much better run, according to Mma Makutsi, if women were in charge. There was a bank in Gaborone that had recently appointed a woman manager and which had promptly won a newspaper award for best business of the year.
“There you are, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi, cutting out the report from the paper and passing it across to her employer. “You see this. That bank run by that lady has been chosen as No 1 business of the year. That is very good.”
Mma Ramotswe read the news report. “Yes, that is interesting news, Mma. I have been in that bank and I could tell that it was well run. It was very clean, for a start. No paper lying round.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “That is because that lady knows how to keep a house clean,” she said. “Men are very untidy, Mma. Look at those apprentices out there. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is always having to tell them to pick things up. All the time. They have never learned.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. Mma Makutsi was a bit harsh on the apprentices, she felt. And there were some very neat men, but then again there were many rather messy ones. Perhaps the truth lay where it was so often to be found – somewhere in-between.
She looked at the picture in the news report. The bank manager in question, a tall woman in a rather smart business suit, was shaking hands with the editor of the newspaper, also a woman. It was a picture that said a great deal about how things were changing in Botswana as women assumed their rightful place in the economy. She felt pride in this; this was happening all over the world – in enlightened countries – and it seemed that Botswana was leading the way.
The whole subject of men, of course, was a difficult one, and there were some tea breaks at the No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency when a good half hour was devoted entirely to the subject. Such conversations sometimes dealt with the affairs of their wider families – the engagement of a remote female cousin, for instance, might require careful consideration and analysis of the merits, or otherwise, of the new fiancé – or they might touch on something said or done by the men in their own lives. These were Mma Ramotswe’s husband, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, a kind and patient man about whom there would seldom be any complaint, and Mma Makutsi’s fiancé, Mr Phuti Radiphuti, the proprietor of the Double Comfort Furniture Store and a man of many merits and strengths behind his rather shy exterior and occasional stammer.
It was something done by Phuti Radiphuti, in fact, that illustrated in a rather dramatic way the rule that men should not try to get involved in women’s business. And it all started when Mma Makutsi arrived for work one morning in a rather startling red dress.
As a general rule, Mma Makutsi would arrive at work 20 minutes or so before Mma Ramotswe herself. That was because Mma Ramotswe had the two foster children to get off to school as well as having to make Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s sandwich lunch. Mma Makutsi, by contrast, lived alone in a small house that required very little upkeep and she had nobody to get out in the morning except herself.
That morning, when she was the first to arrive at the office, Mma Ramotswe wondered whether there might be some problem with the minibus that Mma Makutsi caught at her road end. These buses were generally very reliable, but, like all mortal machines, broke down from time to time under the sheer burden imposed upon them. If that had happened, then it could be another half hour or so before Mma Makutsi turned up.
It was only ten minutes or so, and when Mma Makutsi arrived Mma Ramotswe was still sipping on the cup of red bush tea she had prepared for herself. At first the older woman said nothing when her assistant came in the door, but she soon recovered.
“Good morning, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I hope that you did not have to walk in to work today. It is already very hot and…” As she spoke, Mma Ramotswe’s gaze moved over her assistant’s garb. It was a most peculiar dress. It was… well, it was difficult to describe. Rather like a tent? A tent that had collapsed in the wind? And that red? It was not a colour that one normally saw in a dress – or in anything really, except, perhaps, overripe tomatoes.
In general, Mma Makutsi had reasonable dress sense, thought Mma Ramotswe, even if you would not exactly describe her as fashionable, and there was always the question of those rather intimidating glasses that she wore. She could not help that, of course, but Mma Ramotswe wondered whether the glasses had to be quite so large. Would it not have been possible to see quite as much of the world as one needed to see – through smaller, more focused glasses?
Mma Ramotswe took another sip of tea to cover her surprise. She was a polite woman, and it would not do to show astonishment over the outfit of another woman, even a dress of this sort.
“I have boiled the kettle,” she said. “The water is hot. You might like a cup of tea after your walk, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi crossed the room to her desk and put down her handbag. “I am sorry I am late today, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “I do not like being late in to work. But I was driven in today by Phuti, and he was held up at his aunt’s place. That is why.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “It doesn’t matter, Mma,” she said. “You are always early and so it doesn’t matter if you are sometimes late. I would only complain if you were always late – and you are not. So I am not complaining.”
As she spoke, Mma Ramotswe’s eye remained fixed to the new dress. Was there some special occasion that Mma Makutsi was going to today? She had not said anything about that, and yet surely she would never wear a dress like that unless something was happening? And even then, what sort of occasion would prompt one to put on something like that?
Mma Makutsi moved over to the shelf at the side of the room where they kept the kettle. As she ladled tea into the teapot that was kept specially for her, the door that led from the office of the agency into Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s garage next door opened. Charlie, the older apprentice, looked in.
“Is there any tea?” he asked. “The boss is working on a very difficult gearbox and he…” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Mma Makutsi’s dress.
“I am making tea,” said Mma Makutsi, adding, “And why are you staring at me like that? Don’t you know that it’s rude to stare?”
Charlie smiled. “And it’s rude to wear things that make other people stare,” he said quickly. “Like that thing you’re wearing, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi spun round. “Have you never seen an expensive dress, Charlie? Maybe not. Maybe you think that everybody wears any old thing. Maybe you don’t know anything about fashion.”
Mma Ramotswe gave the young man a discouraging glance. “Tell Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that I will bring his tea through to him when it is ready,” she said. “We have work to do in here.”
Charlie gave a final exaggerated glance in Mma Makutsi’s direction and left.
“He is a very cheeky young man,” said Mma Makutsi.
“All young men are a bit like that,” said Mma Ramotswe soothingly. “And there is nothing wrong with your dress, Mma. It is a very fine dress. It…” She stopped. It was difficult to think what one might say about a dress like that.
Mma Makutsi sat down. “Oh, Mma. I know. I know. This dress is a present from Phuti. He bought it himself.”
This explanation made everything clear, and much easier.
“Phuti bought it himself?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I do not know why he suddenly decided to do it,” she said. “Dresses are very personal, aren’t they, Mma? And why would a man want to do something like that? Dresses are ladies’ business, Mma – even in these modern days. They are not for men to get involved in.” She paused, smoothing out the folds of the garish fabric. “Can you imagine Mr J.L.B. Matekoni getting it into his head to buy you a dress, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. Her husband was a kind man who often bought her little presents, but she could not picture him ever doing anything like that. She shook her head.
“There you are,” said Mma Makutsi. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would never do something like that. But Phuti went off and bought this… this outfit from one of those women who sell dresses in front of the President Hotel. He was very proud of it.”
“Oh dear,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Yes,” went on Mma Makutsi. “He brought it round last night and said that he would come and take me into work this morning. He asked me to wear the dress.”
“This is a very difficult situation,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I do not see what I can do, Mma,” she said. “I had to wear the dress this morning. And he was so pleased with it he asked me to wear it tonight when we go to the cinema. I think he is very proud of having bought it.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “This is very awkward, Mma,” she said. “And the more you tell me, the more awkward it becomes.”
Mma Makutsi needed no reminding of the delicacy of the situation. “Phuti is very easily upset,” she went on. “I cannot tell him that I do not like it. I just cannot.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed. It was one thing to upset a husband, who was safely in the bag, so to speak; it was quite another to upset a fiancé. She thought hard. No situation was so difficult as to be without a solution, and this one, surely, was no exception. Phuti was no doubt trying to show that he was one of these new men that one read about. These were men who took an interest in clothes and matters of that sort; who helped their wives in the kitchen; who were ready to speak about their emotions. Well, that was all very well – it was a very useful thing for a man to help in the kitchen, and a well-trained man could make a very good cook – but there had to be limits, and the choosing of dresses was surely one of them. If Phuti could only be taught – in the gentlest possible way – that clothes were very personal and that even a new man should refrain from involvement in such matters…
Mma Ramotswe had been staring down into her teacup while she thought. Now she looked up brightly. “I have had an idea, Mma,” she announced. “I think it is a very good idea.” She rose from her desk and crossed the room to the door that led into the garage.
“Charlie!” she called.
The apprentice appeared. “Is the boss’s tea ready, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe drew the young man into the office. “Charlie,” she began, “I have a little errand for you. You can take my van to do it.” She knew that Charlie liked driving, even as modest a vehicle as her tiny white van.
“I will do it, Mma,” said Charlie. “What do you want?”
“I want you to go to the shops,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You must know the best shop for men’s clothes. Very smart clothes.”
Charlie beamed with pleasure. “I am No 1 when it comes to fashion,” he said, glancing dubiously at Mma Makutsi’s dress. “That is what all the girls say. I am the man.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “So please will you go and see if you can find me a pink shirt. A man’s size – quite big. About the size of Mr Radiphuti.”
Charlie wrinkled his nose. “A pink shirt, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “That is right, Charlie. A pink shirt. Very bright pink.”
“But men…” Charlie began.
“See if you can do it, Charlie,” Mma Ramotswe insisted. “Regard it as a challenge.”
A few hours later, Charlie returned bearing a large, rather fancy shopping bag. “I have found one,” he said. “I had to go all over the place. But I have found you a pink shirt.”
After the young man had handed over the bag and gone back into the garage, Mma Ramotswe glanced at the neatly folded shirt and winced. “Now, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “Here is what you must do. You’re seeing Phuti this evening, aren’t you?”
Mma Makutsi nodded.
“Then you must give him this present,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Tell him that you wanted something that he could wear when you wore your new dress.”
Mma Makutsi smiled. “You are a very clever woman, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “That is widely known, you know.”
The next morning, when Mma Ramotswe came into work, Mma Makutsi was sitting at her desk. She was once again dressed in one of her normal dresses – and how well it suited her, thought Mma Ramotswe.
“Did it work, Mma?” she asked.
Mma Makutsi nodded. “It worked perfectly, Mma. And I do not think that Phuti will want me to wear that new dress very often.”
“And do you think he learned a lesson?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Again, Mma Makutsi nodded.
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Men are very good at many things. But there are some things they still need to learn. And they learn quickly, you know, Mma – provided that you teach them in a… gentle way, shall we say.”
“We shall,” said Mma Makutsi
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