Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the huge international phenomenon, The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, and The Sunday Philosophy Club series. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and he was a law professor at the University of Botswana and at Edinburgh University. He lives in Scotland, where in his spare time he is a bassoonist in the RTO (Really Terrible Orchestra).

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency 5-Book Boxed Set

Anchor Books

Chapter One

Mma Ramotswe had a detective agency in Africa, at the foot of KgaleHill. These were its assets: a tiny white van, two desks, twochairs, a telephone, and an old typewriter. Then there was a teapot,in which Mma Ramotswe-the only lady private detective inBotswana-brewed redbush tea. And three mugs-one for herself, onefor her secretary, and one for the client. What else does adetective agency really need? Detective agencies rely on humanintuition and intelligence, both of which Mma Ramotswe had inabundance. No inventory would ever include those, of course.

But there was also the view, which again could appear on noinventory. How could any such list describe what one saw when onelooked out from Mma Ramotswe's door? To the front, an acacia tree,the thorn tree which dots the wide edges of the Kalahari; the greatwhite thorns, a warning; the olive-grey leaves, by contrast, sodelicate. In its branches, in the late afternoon, or in the cool ofthe early morning, one might see a Go-Away Bird, or hear it, rather.And beyond the acacia, over the dusty road, the roofs of the townunder a cover of trees and scrub bush; on the horizon, in a blueshimmer of heat, the hills, like improbable, overgrown termitemounds.

Everybody called her Mma Ramotswe, although if people had wanted tobe formal, they would have addressed her as Mme Mma Ramotswe. Thisis the right thing for a person of stature, but which she had neverused of herself. So it was always Mma Ramotswe, rather than PreciousRamotswe, a name which very few people employed.

She was a good detective, and a good woman. A good woman in a goodcountry, one might say. She loved her country, Botswana, which is aplace of peace, and she loved Africa, for all its trials. I am notashamed to be called an African patriot, said Mma Ramotswe. I loveall the people whom God made, but I especially know how to love thepeople who live in this place. They are my people, my brothers andsisters. It is my duty to help them to solve the mysteries in theirlives. That is what I am called to do.

In idle moments, when there were no pressing matters to be dealtwith, and when everybody seemed to be sleepy from the heat, shewould sit under her acacia tree. It was a dusty place to sit, andthe chickens would occasionally come and peck about her feet, but itwas a place which seemed to encourage thought. It was here that MmaRamotswe would contemplate some of the issues which, in everydaylife, may so easily be pushed to one side.

Everything, thought Mma Ramotswe, has been something before. Here Iam, the only lady private detective in the whole of Botswana,sitting in front of my detective agency. But only a few years agothere was no detective agency, and before that, before there wereeven any buildings here, there were just the acacia trees, and theriverbed in the distance, and the Kalahari over there, so close.

In those days there was no Botswana even, just the BechuanalandProtectorate, and before that again there was Khama's Country, andlions with the dry wind in their manes. But look at it now: adetective agency, right here in Gaborone, with me, the fat ladydetective, sitting outside and thinking these thoughts about howwhat is one thing today becomes quite another thing tomorrow.

Mma Ramotswe set up the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency with theproceeds of the sale of her father's cattle. He had owned a bigherd, and had no other children; so every single beast, all onehundred and eighty of them, including the white Brahmin bulls whosegrandparents he had bred himself, went to her. The cattle were movedfrom the cattle post, back to Mochudi where they waited, in thedust, under the eyes of the chattering herd boys, until thelivestock agent came.

They fetched a good price, as there had been heavy rains that year,and the grass had been lush. Had it been the year before, when mostof that southern part of Africa had been wracked by drought, itwould have been a different matter. People had dithered then,wanting to hold on to their cattle, as without your cattle you werenaked; others, feeling more desperate, sold, because the rains hadfailed year after year and they had seen the animals become thinnerand thinner. Mma Ramotswe was pleased that her father's illness hadprevented his making any decision, as now the price had gone up andthose who had held on were well rewarded.

"I want you to have your own business," he said to her on his deathbed. "You'll get a good price for the cattle now. Sell them and buya business. A butchery maybe. A bottle store. Whatever you like."

She held her father's hand and looked into the eyes of the man sheloved beyond all others, her Daddy, her wise Daddy, whose lungs hadbeen filled with dust in those mines and who had scrimped and savedto make life good for her.

It was difficult to talk through her tears, but she managed to say:"I'm going to set up a detective agency. Down in Gaborone. It willbe the best one in Botswana. The No. 1 Agency."

For a moment her father's eyes opened wide and it seemed as if hewas struggling to speak.

"But ... but ..."

But he died before he could say anything more, and Mma Ramotswe fellon his chest and wept for all the dignity, love and suffering thatdied with him.

She had a sign painted in bright colours, which was then set up justoff the Lobatse Road, on the edge of town, pointing to the smallbuilding she had purchased: the no. 1 ladies' detective agency forall confidential matters and enquiries, satisfaction guaranteed forall parties under personal management.

There was considerable public interest in the setting up of heragency. There was an interview on Radio Botswana, in which shethought she was rather rudely pressed to reveal her qualifications,and a rather more satisfactory article in The Botswana News, whichdrew attention to the fact that she was the only lady privatedetective in the country. This article was cut out, copied, andplaced prominently on a small board beside the front door of theagency.

After a slow start, she was rather surprised to find that herservices were in considerable demand. She was consulted aboutmissing husbands, about the creditworthiness of potential businesspartners, and about suspected fraud by employees. In almost everycase, she was able to come up with at least some information for theclient; when she could not, she waived her fee, which meant thatvirtually nobody who consulted her was dissatisfied. People inBotswana liked to talk, she discovered, and the mere mention of thefact that she was a private detective would let loose a positiveoutpouring of information on all sorts of subjects. It flatteredpeople, she concluded, to be approached by a private detective, andthis effectively loosened their tongues. This happened with HappyBapetsi, one of her earlier clients. Poor Happy! To have lost yourdaddy and then found him, and then lost him again ...

"I used to have a happy life," said Happy Bapetsi. "A very happylife. Then this thing happened, and I can't say that anymore."

Mma Ramotswe watched her client as she sipped her bush tea.Everything you wanted to know about a person was written in theface, she believed. It's not that she believed that the shape of thehead was what counted-even if there were many who still clung tothat belief; it was more a question of taking care to scrutinise thelines and the general look. And the eyes, of course; they were veryimportant. The eyes allowed you to see right into a person, topenetrate their very essence, and that was why people with somethingto...