MR. POLOPETSI did not live very far from Zebra Drive and so he walked rather than drove to see Mma Ramotswe that evening. It had looked as if more rain was due, but the clouds that had built up over the horizon had dispersed, leaving the cloudless sky a soft shade of blue. A cushion of cool air had floated in from the south-west, refreshing the land, providing at least some relief from the heat of the afternoon. Mr. Polopetsi, who had embarked on a programme of exercise, was trying to take ten thousand steps a day; so far that day he calculated that he had walked only one thousand, and some of those, he thought, had been very small steps.
“I am walking for the sake of my heart,” he said to Mma Ramotswe as he arrived. “It is a very good thing for the heart if you do a lot of walking.”
She had been standing on the verandah when she saw him arrive, and had gone out into the garden to greet him. “I should walk more,” she said. “But in this hot weather it is very difficult. It may be good for your heart to walk, but if you die of heatstroke, then that is not too good. The doctors would say, ‘A healthy heart, but now it has stopped because of heatstroke.’ ”
Mr. Polopetsi laughed. “If it is not one thing that will kill you, Mma, it is another. There is no way round it. We all become late some day.”
“I am planning to become late in my bed,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall be very old—I hope—and I shall be lying in my bed when they suddenly realise that I am late. Either that, or I shall be sitting under a tree and they will see that I have stopped moving. That is one of the best ways to become late, I think. You’re sitting under a tree looking out at the cattle and suddenly—whoosh—you go up.”
“I hope that is not for a long time yet,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I cannot imagine Botswana without you, Mma Ramotswe.”
She was touched by his remark. Mr. Polopetsi was not a flatterer—what he said was sincerely meant—and this was an example of the kind things he said.
“You are very kind, Rra,” she said. “I suppose the truth of the matter is that none of us can imagine the world without ourselves in it, but it always carries on, doesn’t it, even after we’ve left?”
She gestured towards the verandah. “There is a place to sit there, Rra. And there is a pot of tea.”
He followed her and sat down on one of the verandah chairs. “We do not have a verandah,” he said. “I have often thought I would build one, but I have never got round to it.”
“I am sorry that you have no verandah, Rra,” she said as she poured him a cup of tea. It was time, though, to stop this talk of walking and becoming late and verandahs and get down to the real reason for his visit. “But now, Mr. Polopetsi, you might like to tell me what’s going on.”
He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mma, I was not trying to conceal anything from you. It’s just that Mma Makutsi is a bit…”
She held up a hand. “You don’t need to apologise, Rra. I know that Mma Makutsi is a bit…” She paused. “Tell me: What’s happening? Who is this client?”
He drained his teacup in a single swig. “I shall tell you, Mma, and I shall begin with that very first day of your holiday. We were in the office and a lady came in. She had not made an appointment, but we were all there—Mma Makutsi, me, and Charlie. I was sitting in Mma Makutsi’s chair—at her desk.”
She nodded politely, willing him to continue. “And Mma Makutsi at mine?”
“Yes, she was sitting at your desk. Charlie has no desk.”
“No.” And she thought: Please, Rra, get to the point!
“There is no room for a desk for him.”
She sighed; she had not intended it, but a sigh escaped.
He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, Mma Ramotswe?”
“I am perfectly all right, Rra. I just feel that it is as if we are walking around in the dark and not getting anywhere. You know those dreams we have—those dreams where we are trying to get somewhere and we can’t get there because for some reason we can’t move? It is a bit like that.”
His expression brightened. “Oh, I have those dreams, Mma; I know what you’re talking about. Last night, for instance, my wife woke me up and said that I was kicking about in the bed and she thought—”
She had to interrupt. “Mr. Polopetsi! We are not talking about dreams.”
He was a picture of injured innocence. “But you raised the subject, Mma. You’re the one who mentioned dreams.”
She sighed again. “Yes, you are right, Rra. I raised the subject of dreams. But I feel that we need to get back to what you were saying about the office. This woman came in…Carry on from there.”
He became businesslike. “She came in. We were all there—as I have said. She came in and said: ‘I am Mma Potokwane.’ ”
Mma Ramotswe gave a start. This was the last thing she had expected. She could not imagine Mma Potokwane as a client—it simply made no sense. And why would she need to introduce herself: even if Mr. Polopetsi had not come across Mma Potokwane, then Mma Makutsi and Charlie had; they knew exactly who Mma Potokwane was.
Mr. Polopetsi realised that an explanation was needed. “Oh no, Mma—not that Mma Potokwane. Not the Mma Potokwane who’s a friend of yours. Not the matron at that place for orphans. That very big lady.”
Mma Ramotswe did not think of Mma Potokwane as being particularly large; she was not small, of course, but then Mr. Polopetsi was a very slight man. She imagined that in his eyes just about everybody would look big, perhaps even intimidatingly so, and that might explain Mr. Polopetsi’s rather diffident manner. “Another Potokwane?” she asked.
“Yes, precisely that, Mma. Another Potokwane.”
She reached for the teapot. “So this Potokwane lady,” she said, “this different Potokwane lady, came into the office. What then, Rra?”
Mr. Polopetsi leaned forward in his seat. “It is a very delicate story, Mma. Some of these matters, as you well know, are very delicate indeed.”
She assured him that her years of experience as a private detective had already taught her that. “Ours is a very delicate profession, Rra. It really is.”
Mr. Polopetsi appeared pleased by the reference to our profession. “Yes,” he said, beaming with the pleasure that comes with inclusion in a club. “Yes, we have to be very careful. We have to tread like mice.”
For a moment Mma Ramotswe saw Mr. Polopetsi as a mouse. He would suit the role, she thought, with his rather small nose and his dainty feet; he would be a very convincing mouse. She, by contrast, would not be much of a mouse; more of a cat, perhaps—a traditionally built cat.
Mr. Polopetsi continued with his story. “This Mma Potokwane explained that it was a family matter. She said that she is the wife of a man called Pound Potokwane. Her own name—before she got married—was Keboneng.”
Mr. Polopetsi waited for her reaction.
“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a well-known name, isn’t it?”
Mr. Polopetsi nodded. “That man—the well-known Keboneng—was her brother. It was a small family, with just those two—Mma Potokwane, as she now is, and her brother, Government Keboneng.”
“Of course he’s late, isn’t he? Government Keboneng was bitten by a snake, wasn’t he? It was all over the papers.”
Mr. Polopetsi recalled the story. “I remember it very well. I read all about it. It was a very shocking thing. He was at a church picnic out near the dam. He went into the bush to obey a call of nature and he was bitten by a mamba. They rushed him into the Princess Marina, but it was too late—those snakes are too poisonous. He was already late by the time they arrived in Gaborone.”
“It was very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was a very popular man. He was a politician, wasn’t he?”
“He was.” Mr. Polopetsi paused. “It was a good name for a politician. I wonder if it was his real name or whether he just took it when he went into politics. Do you know, Mma Ramotswe?”
She did not. “It would not have suited him when he was a boy, I think. But I agree with you, Rra. If you have a name like that on the ballot paper—Government—then you surely are going to think, This man is destined for power. And if you think that, then you may well put your cross right there, opposite the good name.”
“There are some very odd names,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “People seem to like these odd names for some strange reason.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled; she had encountered strange names on many occasions. “But this lady, Rra, this Mma Potokwane—what had brought her to the agency? Is she in trouble of some sort?”
Mr. Polopetsi thought for a moment. “I’m not sure that one would describe it as trouble, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be expecting her to say something.
“Well,” she said, “if she is not in trouble, then is somebody else in trouble?” Many people, she knew, felt too embarrassed to cross the threshold of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and sent friends or relatives in their stead. That could complicate matters, with a layer of misunderstanding, or sometimes embellishment, being added to the account of the facts.
But this was not the case. “No,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “She is the one who wants our help. Her trouble, though, could be imagined rather than real.”
“You must explain, Rra.”
He drew a deep breath. “You see, Mma Ramotswe,” he began, “this Mma Potokwane’s brother, this Mr. Government Keboneng, had many people who were in his party. These people were very upset when he died, Mma—it was a very sad blow for them. Not only had they lost a friend—somebody they admired very much—but they had lost their leader. He was very good at making a speech.”
Mma Ramotswe remembered that. “Oh yes, Rra, I can vouch for that. I went to hear him one day and we were laughing so much that we cried. He told some very funny stories and then, when we were all in a very good mood, he told us that there was bad economic news and we would all just have to accept it and pay more tax. But because we had been laughing so much, when he finished his speech we all felt very cheerful, and nobody mentioned the tax.”
Mr. Polopetsi raised a finger in the air. “People do not like to pay too much tax,” he said. “I have always said that, Mma. They like to hold on to their money.”
“I think they do,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Yet they like the government to give them as much as possible,” Mr. Polopetsi went on. “They think that the government has a big pot of money somewhere that is always full. That is what they think.”
“Yes,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “People like to be given things.”
“If I stood for election,” said Mr. Polopetsi, “and I said, ‘Free sunglasses for everybody, and free—’ ”
“—mobile phones,” interrupted Mma Ramotswe. “And free sandwiches. If you said those things, then you would get many, many votes.”
“It’s called bribery,” said Mr. Polopetsi, shaking his head sadly.
“Or politics,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “You could call it politics. But let’s get back to Mma Potokwane.”
Mr. Polopetsi took another deep breath. “The people who liked this Keboneng, Mma, did not know what to do, we were told. They ran this way and that. They were looking for a man who was just like Government Keboneng, but the truth of the matter is that there was nobody else in Botswana who was at all like him. His shoes were empty, yes, but there was nobody to step into them.”
Mma Ramotswe understood that. There were some empty shoes that she could never imagine being filled—the shoes of the late Seretse Khama, for instance: How could anyone ever occupy those? Or the shoes of her late daddy, Obed Ramotswe, that great judge of cattle who embodied everything that was finest in Botswana; there was not love or decency or compassion enough in all the land to fill that particular pair of shoes—there simply was not. And all those years ago, when she had said farewell to him on his final afternoon, when she knew that so much would die with him, she had thought there would never be enough tears to weep for him and what he stood for.
She looked at Mr. Polopetsi, who had known sadness in his life, and for a moment they were both silent. What had started as a straightforward account had suddenly become something else: a reflection on how we believe in people, how we need them, and how their loss diminishes us.
He broke the spell. “So these people—the supporters of Mr. Keboneng—were always writing to the newspapers to remind people of what he had done and of how much Botswana owed to him. Some people said that they exaggerated, that, yes, he had been a good man, but there were many other good men whose followers were not always speaking about what they had done and were prepared to start talking about other people—people who were not yet late and who were anxious for people to vote for them and allow them to start doing good things for the benefit of the entire community.”
She did not wish to break the flow, but she felt that she had to say something. So she said, “I see,” and left it at that.
Mr. Polopetsi drew a deep breath. “These people—these Kebonengites, as some people called them—were very persistent, Mma. They were not the sort of people to give up, and they pestered and pestered the mayor. There were more letters to the papers—you probably saw them—and they even said that there should be some new building named after Mr. Government Keboneng. But the mayor said to them that he could do nothing about that, as it was up to the people who built buildings to choose what they called them and nobody had offered to give their new building this name. They even suggested that some new airport building might be called after him.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. She thought that was going too far, as the airport already had a name, Sir Seretse Khama Airport, and to call one of its buildings something different would not only cause confusion, but could well be considered disrespectful.
“What about a bridge?” she asked. “Could they not call a bridge after him? They are always building bridges, these people, even if this is meant to be a dry country. Sometimes I think they are like little boys with a toy bulldozer.”
“Or a new drain?” suggested Mr. Polopetsi, smirking at the suggestion. “Government Keboneng Drainpipe? How about that?”
“That would be a bit unkind,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We must remember that Government Keboneng was a good man.”
Mr. Polopetsi looked apologetic. “Of course,” he said. “So, anyway, all this discussion went on and on, and then the city council said that they would name a street after him. The supporters were very pleased, although some of them were concerned that the new street was on the very edge of town and was not important enough for their hero. They wanted them to change the name of one of the streets in the middle of town and give him that.”
Mma Ramotswe was not in favour of this. “You cannot change the name of a street,” she said. “People would get very confused. They become used to a name for the place they live and they do not like to find that they are living in a new place.” She imagined what would happen if Zebra Drive suddenly became Mr. Government Keboneng Drive or even The Late Mr. Government Keboneng Drive. She did not think that she would like to put “The Late” in her address. Of course they did change street names from time to time—she had seen a notice saying “formerly Wilson Road” or something like that. This happened when some of the names from the old Protectorate days were abandoned, which was understandable enough, as people wanted something that reflected themselves rather than those who had a less rooted connection with the country. But it should be done sparingly, she thought: some of the people from those very old days had a memory that should be cherished. There was more than one Moffat Road in Botswana, and rightly so, because Robert Moffat had been such a great man. He had been a friend of the Batswana people; he had been the first to put the Setswana language into writing; and he had done so much to help those in need. And then there was Livingstone himself, who had married Moffat’s daughter and been attacked by a lion out by Molelopole, not far away.
“Livingstone,” she said to Mr. Polopetsi.
He looked at her blankly.
“I thought of Livingstone,” she explained, “when I was thinking of changes in names. They have not changed the name of Livingstone up in Zambia, have they? That place is still called Livingstone.”
Mr. Polopetsi prided himself on his knowledge of history. “He was a very good man,” he said. “You would not want to change anything named after a man like Livingstone.” He paused. “He was a very brave man, Mma Ramotswe. He was one of those who brought slavery to an end.” He paused, and looked at her intently. “Many terrible things have happened in Africa, Mma.”
She returned his gaze. So much had occurred, and so many of the things that had happened were bad. And yet there had been good things—acts of kindness, acts of loyalty and generosity of spirit; why did we forget these and remember only the bad? She had always preferred to remember the positive points in a person’s life, but she knew that there were those who thought less of her for that. To dwell on such things was said by some to be a sign that you were not aware of how things really were; but she was, she was. She knew as well as anyone that the world could be a place of trial and sorrow, that there was injustice and suffering and heartlessness—there was enough of all that to fill the great Kalahari twice over, but what good did it do to ponder that and that alone? None, she thought.
Even Clovis Andersen, who was mostly concerned with practical matters of detection, referred to this in his great work. He wrote: Do not allow the profession of which you are a member to induce you to take a bleak view of humanity. You will encounter all sorts of bad behavior but do not judge everybody by the standards of the lowest. If you did that, he pointed out, you would misjudge humanity in general and that would be fatal to discerning judgement. If everybody is a villain, then nobody is a villain, he wrote. That simple expression had intrigued her, even if it was some time before its full meaning—and the wisdom that lay behind it—became apparent.
She returned to the subject of Mr. Government Keboneng. “So the city council said that they would have to be content with a new street?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “They said that they would not change the name of one of the streets in the middle of town because people would become confused.”
“They would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They would wonder what was happening.”
“And so Mr. Keboneng’s supporters grumbled a bit, apparently, but they realised that they would have to make do with what they were offered. They felt that they had won a bit of a victory, even if not the full victory they would have liked.”
“Very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Second prize is often better than first prize.”
She was not sure why she said that, and she was not even sure that it was true. Why would second prize sometimes be preferable? Perhaps it was because being at the top brought unwelcome attention or onerous responsibilities. That must be it. It was surely better to be Deputy Chief than Chief. A disturbing thought came to her unbidden: Was it better to be Mma Makutsi rather than Mma Ramotswe? She thought that Mma Makutsi might perhaps take the view that being Head of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was better than being Deputy Head—the position that she currently occupied. Now, of course, she was Acting Head, which had its compensations, as being “Acting” anything meant that there would come a time when you could simply hand the reins back to the permanent Head no matter how complicated and difficult the situation had become. She asked herself whether Mma Makutsi would do that. “Here is your desk back, Mma Ramotswe,” she might say. “And here is a list of all the outstanding cases that we have been unable to solve during your absence. We are very sorry about those. You can solve them now, Mma.” She could just hear that.
Mr. Polopetsi had said something that she missed. “I’m sorry, Rra,” she said. “I was thinking about Mma Makutsi. What did you say just then?”
“I said that the supporters planned a party to celebrate the naming of the street. They even bought a large amount of food, which was a pity.”
She asked him why.
“Because the council’s decision was suspended.”
She knew the ways of councillors. There was even one known popularly as Mma Stop-Start, and another as Mr. Green-Light-Red-Light. “They changed their minds?”
“They told the Keboneng people that somebody had raised an issue with them confidentially. This issue, they said, was all to do with the suitability of Mr. Keboneng to have a road named after him.” He paused, as if savouring the dramatic revelation. “There was a scandal in the background, they said. And because of this they were unwilling to go ahead.”
“They said he was not quite the hero people thought he was? Was that it?”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. Nobody was perfect—every one of us, she thought, has done something of which we are ashamed. If that were not so, then we would hardly be human. And even if we had not done it, then we had at least thought of how we might do it if given half the chance. The important thing was that such things were few and far between in our lives, and kept that way. We could be weak, of course, but one would not want to be weak all the time.
Mma Ramotswe now guessed why it was that Mma Potokwane had sought the agency’s help. “They want us to refute this allegation? Is that it?”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Mma Potokwane had come on her own behalf, as his sister, but she was also representing his supporters. They all want to find out what this allegation is and prove that it is false. That is what they want, Mma.”
That was reasonable enough, she felt: a reputation, even a posthumous one, was a precious thing and people could go to some lengths to protect it.
“Do they know anything about what is being said against him?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. The council will not tell them. They said that it is confidential and that they cannot reveal what the issue is.”
She understood why this should be so. Yet it would be extremely frustrating for the relatives and the friends of the late Mr. Government Keboneng to know that there was something besmirching his memory but not to be able to get to grips with it. It would be like wrestling with smoke.
“I can see that this must be a rather difficult case for Mma Makutsi,” she said. “There’s not much to go on, is there?”
Mr. Polopetsi suddenly looked morose. “That’s why she’s passed it over to me,” he said. “She started to look into it and then she stopped—just like that, Mma—she stopped and said, ‘You must take this case, Mr. Polopetsi. I am far too busy, I’m afraid. You must sort this out.’ That is what she said to me, Mma. She said, ‘You must sort this out.’ ”
Mma Ramotswe found herself at a loss. Why on earth should Mma Makutsi wash her hands of an important case like this? Surely this was exactly the sort of case that she would want to solve herself in a glare of publicity, incurring in the process the gratitude of the client. And yet here she was, passing it over to Mr. Polopetsi, who, although undoubtedly a good man, was only part-time—and a volunteer at that. It did not make sense.
“I can see how it must be very difficult for you, Rra.”
He seemed relieved to know that his plight was understood. “It is very difficult, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “And that is why I’ve come to hand it over to you.”
She had not expected this. “But Mma Makutsi is running the agency,” she said. “I am on holiday. You know what she’s like, Rra. She does not want me to interfere while she is running things. I must respect that.”
“But she need not know,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I will do all the investigations. All I need is for you to tell me what to do.” He hesitated, his morose expression now replaced by something much brighter.
“Oh, Rra, I don’t know…”
“But you must help me, Mma. I do not want to look stupid in Mma Makutsi’s eyes, and that is how I’ll look if I go to her and say that I cannot do this thing. She will laugh at me, Mma—you know what she’s like. You have yourself just said that, I think. Those were your very words, Mma.”
SHE TALKED TO MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI about it because she felt that when one is faced with a problem quite so delicate there is nothing better than a heart-to-heart conversation with one’s spouse, particularly if one’s spouse knows the other parties involved.
She raised the subject that evening, when they were sitting opposite one another at the kitchen table, the evening meal ready on the plates before them.
“So,” concluded Mma Ramotswe as she finished, “that is where matters stand at present. I have this request from Mr. Polopetsi—actually, it is more of a plea than a request—and frankly, Rra, I am torn. I do not know what to do.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate. “I am worried that my food will get cold,” he said. “This is such a big problem that my food will get cold if I try to deal with it straightaway.”
“But of course,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “You must eat your food, Rra. First things first.”
He picked up his fork. “While I am eating, I shall think. I find that it is sometimes easier to think when one is eating. Eating and thinking go together.”
She reached for her own fork. “That is certainly true, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.” She was not sure if that was really so; she felt that she did not do her best thinking while eating—that came, in her case, at least, when she was drinking a cup of tea. Had Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said that drinking tea and thinking went hand in hand, then she would have been the first to agree; but he had not said that—he had said something quite different, as husbands and wives often will do: they say the opposite of what they should say.
But this was not the time for such reflections and so she waited—perhaps a little anxiously—until he had finished his beef and vegetables.
“So you have thought about it, Rra?” she asked.
He inclined his head gravely—as a judge might do before passing sentence. “I have thought about it very hard, Mma Ramotswe.”
“And?”
“And it is very clear to me that you must go and see Mma Makutsi,” he said. “You must go and put your cards on the table.” He looked at her for a moment or two before his gaze slipped back to his plate. “There wouldn’t be any more, would there, Mma?”
She fetched a pot from the top of the stove. “There is definitely more, Rra,” she said. “But before you eat, you must tell me why I should go to see Mma Makutsi.”
He repeated himself. “You must go and see your friend.”
“Yes, but why? Is there no other way of handling this?”
“No. You must go and see her and tell her that it is unfair to put Mr. Polopetsi under such strain. He is a thin man, that one, and he will not be able to bear much strain. That is why you must do it. He cannot deal with this—you can.”
Mma Ramotswe was not sure that weight and emotional robustness were that closely linked, but she knew what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni meant: Mr. Polopetsi was a vulnerable man who did not look as if he could tolerate a great deal of strain.
As she pondered, she found herself agreeing with him. “I think you are right, Rra. Although I must say that I’m a bit worried about her reaction: she will not be pleased. She does not want me to interfere while she is in charge.”
“But you’re not questioning her authority,” he parried. “All you are saying is that one of the agency staff appears to need help. That is quite different from saying that she is in any way rubbish. You are not saying that, Mma.”
She began to falter; perhaps it was not all that clear. “I hope that she will not be awkward, but I cannot be sure of that. She is famous for being difficult. If she thinks that I am trying to take over this case, then…” She left the sentence unfinished. She knew that there would be a reaction from Mma Makutsi, but she could not be sure of what it would be.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni held up a finger—his signal for silence and a sign, too, that a good idea was in the offing.
“The point is, Mma,” he began. “The point is that she will have no grounds to think you are trying to take the case away from her—in fact, quite the opposite. You will be encouraging her to fulfill her obligations rather than to try to offload them onto that poor, harmless Polopetsi.” He paused. “Putting Mr. Polopetsi in charge of the investigation is like putting a rabbit in charge of the airport.”
She was surprised by the analogy. Who would think of putting a rabbit in charge of the airport? And why was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni so dismissive of Mr. Polopetsi? But she wanted to be sure. “I should tell her to carry out her promise to look after things?”
He looked at his plate again. “Of course, Mma. You tell her that—just that.”
She ladled a helping of stew onto his plate.
“Very good stew,” muttered Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.
She did not hear the compliment—or not fully, as she was still thinking of his advice. Although she entirely understood the argument in favour of openness, there were limits to the extent to which one should speak frankly. She did not agree with the custom that was sometimes followed in Africa of avoiding direct confrontation with those with whom one disagreed—that led to all sorts of failures, she knew—but one should still be careful to avoid hurting feelings by challenging others too openly. Often it was better to be gentle—to say something in such a way that the person criticised did not feel too humiliated. It was all a question of face, she decided: you had to leave room for face to be saved.
She decided to speak to Mma Makutsi, but she would be careful to be gentle. After all, an acting head of anything could well be upset if openly censured.
She sighed. “Being on holiday is not as easy as I imagined,” she said, half to herself, half to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, should he be listening.
He looked up from his stew. “Mma Ramotswe,” he said, “you can do anything. Nothing is too hard for a person like you—nothing. You are very good at doing everything, Mma, and anything you do, Mma—anything at all—will always be the right thing as far as I am concerned.”
She gazed at her husband. Being loved and admired by a man like that—and she knew that this man, this mechanic, this fixer of machines with their broken hearts, did indeed love and admire her—was like walking in the sunshine; it gave the same feeling of warmth and pleasure to bask in the love of one who has promised it, publicly at a wedding ceremony, and who is constant in his promise that such love will be given for the rest of his days. What more could any woman ask? None of us, she thought, not one single one of us, could ask for anything more than that.