Mma Ramotswe took the piece of paper from the clerk and tucked it into the pocket of her dress. Then, having thanked him for his help, she went outside, reflecting on how bureaucracy was very rarely an obstruction, provided that one applied to it the insights of ordinary, everyday psychology, insights with which Mma Ramotswe, more than many, had always been well endowed.

LOOKING BACK, as she later would do, on the early days of the Kalahari Typing School for Men, Mma Makutsi, assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and formerly acting manager of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, would marvel at just how easy it was to start the school. If all businesses were as easy, she reflected, then the road to plutocracy would be simple indeed. What made it all so simple and so painless? The answers might form the kernel of a business school essay: a good idea; a niche in the market; low start-up costs; and, what is perhaps most important of all, a willingness to work hard. All of these were present in ample measure in the case of the Kalahari Typing School for Men.

The easiest task-potentially the most difficult-had been the finding of a place to hold the classes. This issue had been quickly resolved by the younger apprentice, who offered to speak to the minister about the possible use of the meeting room attached to his church.

“It is never used during the week,” he had said. “The minister is always saying that we must share. This is a chance for us to do just that.”

The minister was amenable, under the condition that the religious pamphlets be left in the hall so that those attending the classes might have the chance to be saved.

“There will be many sinners wishing to learn to type,” he said. “They will see the pamphlets and some of them will realise what sinners they are.”

Mma Makutsi had readily agreed and had taken the typewriters, most of which were now in basic working order even if not all the keys worked, over to the hall, where they were stored in two padlocked cupboards. There were already tables and chairs in the hall, and these could seat over thirty, although the number of pupils would be limited by the ten typewriters available.

Within a few days, everything was prepared. A small advertisement had been inserted in the Botswana Daily News, worded in such a way as to appeal to exactly the audience which Mma Makutsi had in mind.

Men: do you know that it is very important these days to be able to type? If you cannot type, you will be overtaken. There is no room in the modern world for those who cannot type. You can now learn, in confidential conditions, at the Kalahari Typing School for Men, under the supervision of Mma Grace Makutsi, Dip. Sec. (magna cum laude) (Bw. Sec. Coll.).

Prospective students were then referred to the telephone number of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and instructed to ask for the Typing School Department.

On the day of publication, Mma Makutsi was at work earlier than usual. She had obtained an early copy of the paper from the printers and had read and reread the text of the advertisement. It gave her considerable pleasure to see her name in print. It was the first time that she had ever seen this, and she sat and stared at it for some time, thinking, That’s me, that’s my name, in print, in the newspaper, me.

The first call came half an hour later, and one followed another throughout the day. By four o’clock in the afternoon, there were twenty-two firm bookings for a place in the class; ten would start that week, a further ten would be admitted to the second course some two months later, and two were placed on a waiting list.

Mma Ramotswe shared Mma Makutsi’s pleasure.

“You were right,” she said. “There must be many men who are desperate to learn how to type. It is very sad.”

“I told you it would work out,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I told you.”

THE FIRST class took place on a Wednesday evening. Mma Ramotswe had given Mma Makutsi the afternoon off so that she could prepare for the occasion, and Mma Makutsi had spent some time setting out sheets of paper at each desk and distributing the exercise booklet which she had herself typed out and duplicated. On a makeshift blackboard at one end of the room she had drawn, in chalk, the layout of the keyboard, dissected with wavy lines for the domain of each finger and each thumb. This was the basic knowledge of the typist, the foundation stone of the skill that would send the fingers racing across the keyboard and the keys clattering against the roller.

There had never been any doubt about the pedagogical philosophy which would underpin the efforts of the Kalahari Typing School for Men. This was the same as the philosophy of the Botswana Secretarial College, and it held that every finger must be taught to know its place. There would be no shortcuts; there would be no leeway for sloppy habits. The little finger must think q; the thumb must think space bar. That is how they had put it at the Botswana Secretarial College, and Mma Makutsi had never heard the philosophy of typing put so succinctly and so truly.

On the basis of this instinctive positioning of fingers, the students would be taught, by sheer repetition, to bridge the gap between perception of the word to be typed (or its imagination) and the movement of the muscles. That was something that could be acquired only through practice, and through the constant performance of standard exercises. Within a few weeks, if the student had any aptitude at all, words could be typed slowly but accurately, even making allowances for the fact that men have larger, more ungainly fingers.

The class was due to begin at six, which gave time for the students to make their way from their workplaces to the hall. Well before that time, however, they had all assembled, and Mma Makutsi found herself confronted with ten expectant faces. She looked at her watch, counted the students, and announced that the class would begin.

The hour went very quickly. The students were instructed in the insertion of sheets of paper and in the function of the various keys. Then they were asked to type, in unison, on the command of Mma Makutsi, the word “hat.”

“All together,” called out Mma Makutsi, “h and a and t. Now stop.”

A hand went up.

“My h does not work, Mma,” said a puzzled-looking, smartly dressed man. “I pressed it twice, but it has not worked. I have typed ‘at.’”

Mma Makutsi was prepared for this. “Some keys are not in working order,” she said. “This does not matter. You must still press them, because you will find that these keys will work in the office. It does not matter at this stage.”

She looked at the man, who had his hair parted down the middle and a neatly trimmed moustache. He was smiling up at her, his lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something. But he did not, and they moved on to new but equally unchallenging words.

“Cat,” shouted Mma Makutsi. “And mat. Hat cat mat.”

At the end of the hour, Mma Makutsi made her way round the desks and inspected the results. She had learned at the Botswana Secretarial College the importance of encouragement, and she made sure that she had a word of praise for each student.

“You will be a very good typist, Rra,” she would say. “You have good finger control.” Or: “You have typed ‘mat’ very clearly. That is very good.”

Once the class was over, the men made their way out of the hall, talking enthusiastically amongst themselves. Mma Makutsi, tidying up in the background, overheard a remark which one of the students passed to another.

“She is a good teacher, that woman,” he said. “She does not make me feel stupid. She is good at her job.”