Again, Phuti did not protest. Mr. Putumelo knew what he was talking about—the horn-rimmed spectacles spoke to that, as did the pile of brochures and the certificate on the wall informing the public at large that Mr. Clarkson Putumelo was a member in good standing of the Botswana Federation of Master Builders. One could not argue with that, and if such a person said that one only needed one cooker, and that any floor tile he chose would most certainly not be too slippery, then such assurances should be accepted. Phuti realised that Mr. Putumelo was not perhaps the most charming of men, but did one necessarily want a charming builder? What one needed of a builder was an understanding of technical matters—it was clear that Mr. Putumelo had that. One expected, too, a sense of organisation and logistical skill—and it was equally clear from his orderly yard that Mr. Putumelo was endowed with these qualities. If he was also arrogant and dismissive of women, then these failings were to be regretted, but did not necessarily affect his ability as a builder. Or so Phuti told himself as he left the premises of the This Way Up Building Company, although he somehow felt guilty about this concession. It was as if he had failed in some way to stand up for his wife, as if he had been cowardly. Perhaps I am a coward, perhaps that is what I am. The bitter thought brought back something that had not troubled him for many months—his stammer. C … c … c … coward, he muttered in unhappy self-reproach. F … f … frightened of a b … b … builder. You should be a … a … ashamed of yourself, Ph … ph … ph … uti R … r … r … r … adiphuti.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MMA RAMOTSWE DRIVES CLOVIS ANDERSEN TO MOCHUDI, AND THINKS