Alexander McCall Smith

Once upon a time in Africa

The year before I got married, in 1980, I was asked to go out to Botswana University to help set up a new law programme — I had done the same thing in Swaziland the year before. Botswana is a dry country; there is a slight dustiness and a dry smell to the place. I found it utterly enticing. It is a great cattle-owning democracy and they produce very fine diamonds Initially, I was given a rather large, desolate house, in the capital, Gaborone, in a part called “the Village”, which has great character. I rattled around this house on my own, but was then offered another one — a bit smaller and nicer — in the same area.

The house was a bungalow; you went from the veranda into the sitting room, and it had three bedrooms, a dining room and a kitchen. There was a fireplace in the sitting room. In an attempt to decorate, I hung an African wooden sculpture above it — but holes started appearing in it. It had some dreadful tropical beetle in the wood, some borer, so I consigned it to the fire. In the garden were some discouraged-looking plants, an acacia and some quite nice thorn trees. At the end of the garden, there were servants’ quarters.

As a bachelor, I didn’t need any staff, but it was expected of you to play a part in the local economy. A maid of mature age turned up and asked for work; she got the job and came every day.

As I had only a couple of chairs, a sofa, a table and a bed in each bedroom, there wasn’t much for her to do: the red polished-cement floors were so well polished, I had to be careful I didn’t slip.

I was also under strong moral pressure to get a gardener. I was told about a terribly keen young man, Felix, who lived at a small Catholic mission station to the south of Gaborone, and was ideal for the job. A puny chap in his early twenties, Felix set himself up in the quarters.

The first night, after I’d retired to bed, I heard a cough floating across the garden. First thing in the morning, I looked up the Setswanan word for tuberculosis, went down and pointed at his chest. He coughed and nodded. I immediately phoned my good friend Howard Moffat, a doctor, the great-great-grandson of Robert Moffat, the Scottish missionary whose daughter married David Livingstone. Moffat took him to Machudi hospital and put him on their TB programme. Felix made good progress, and in due course he came back, the picture of health. Though I never saw him do a stroke of work, I eventually paid him off, and he returned to his people. I think he was pretty pleased.

In the meantime, I had acquired a Siamese cat, whom I called Gordon — I was gradually acquiring responsibilities! He was a fine cat, and had that telepathic ability cats have to know when you are coming back. Gordon would wait out the front of the house, then, as I drove in, leap onto the bonnet and sit there all the way down the drive. I thought this was terrific.

My neighbour, Norman, was probably the only man in Botswana at the time who could fix false teeth. A dental mechanic from Hampshire, he and his wife, Bunny, were very friendly, and I would have sundowners on their veranda at six o’clock. We would stay there until the mosquitos began to make one uncomfortable, listening to the couple’s library of old BBC comedy shows, such as Round the Horne, until the African night descended.

Norman and Bunny were very keen on Gordon, and would feed him cream and fish fingers. But he was still loyal. His basic job was me. But he was running their house, too. A few years after I’d left Botswana, I visited them, and Gordon was still on duty — it was natural that Gordon moved in with them. One night, they returned home to discover that a burglar had broken into their home. Nothing had been stolen, so they retired to bed. Gordon was on the bed, prowling around, his little claws going in and out. They turned off the light, then the bed began to move. The burglar was under the bed. He ran out, fortunately, and didn’t harm them.

All the time, I was falling in love with the country. The more I got to know it, the more I liked it. I enjoyed my engaging colleagues and wonderful students. It was a period of great happiness. In the evenings, I would walk around the neighbourhood. There is a comfortable feel to African towns — the sounds of families coming home, the cooking smells — and it was perfectly safe.

I would often go to the President Hotel, in town, where Precious Ramotswe [star of the No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series] goes to have tea with Mma Makutsi [her assistant]. I enjoyed sitting on the veranda and looking out at the people on the square.

I went back to Britain the following year, to the University of Edinburgh, but I go back every year to Botswana and stay with the Moffats, who live a 10-minute walk from my old house. They have a lovely house with a beautiful big jacaranda tree, and they are always very kind to me.

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