5

On one occasion when I was staying in Mochudi, Fiona and I went down into the village to see a woman who had said that she wished to give us a chicken we could cook for lunch the next day, which was the anniversary of Botswana ’s independence. Botswana had been a British Protectorate until 1966, when it ceased to be Bechuana-land and became Botswana under the presidency of that great and good man Sir Seretse Khama, paramount chief of the Bamangwato people.

As a young man studying in London, Seretse Khama had met a secretary, Ruth Wilson, with whom he fell in love and whom he married. This marriage was very much opposed by the British government and by the tribal authorities back home. The British government, under strong pressure from the nationalist government in South Africa, exiled Seretse from his homeland. He returned home, however, and triumphed over those in the tribe who had opposed his marriage. Ruth Khama proved to be very popular. Eventually Seretse Khama went into politics and led the party that took Botswana to independence.

In spite of the shabby way in which he had been treated by the British government, Khama was not one to nurse a grudge. He set the moral tone of the new country, insisting that nonracial democracy was the only way forward. Under his government, Botswana prospered. Diamonds were discovered, and the revenues from this were put to good use. Whereas in many other African countries mineral wealth was pillaged by dictators and their retinues, in Botswana such funds were used for the benefit of the whole society.

The Mochudi woman who that day was to give us the chicken lived in a small house with a beautifully kept yard. The sweeping of the yard is one of the most important symbolic tasks women in Botswana traditionally perform. A house with a well-swept yard would be a well-run establishment. An unhappy, chaotic house would not have a well-swept yard.

I remember the woman greeting us at her gate. She was wearing a red dress and had the naturally courteous manner one finds so often in that country. Walking about in the yard, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited it, was a chicken.

After a few niceties had been exchanged, the woman started to pursue the chicken, which ran here and there, squawking in alarm but unable to escape. Once she had caught it, she dispatched it with a flick of the wrist and handed it to Fiona. I remember thinking: What a remarkable woman. And then I thought: I wonder what her history is? And finally I thought: One day perhaps I should write a story about a woman like this who lives in this village.

That was the beginning of the story of Mma Ramotswe.