Now, parking the tiny white van in front of the sign that announced the clinic of Dr Eustace Lubega, MB, ChB (Makerere), she made her way through the front door and into the waiting room. The clinic had been a private house before—one of those old Botswana Housing Corporation houses with a small verandah, not unlike her own house in Zebra Drive—and the living room was now used as the reception area. The fireplace, in which many wood fires would have burned in the cold nights of winter, was still there, but filled now with an arrangement of dried flowers and seed pods. And on one wall a large noticeboard had been mounted, on which were pinned notices about immunisation and several large warnings about the care that people should take now in their personal lives. And then there was a picture of a mosquito and a warning to remain vigilant about stagnant water.

There was another patient waiting to see the doctor, a pregnant woman, who nodded politely to Mma Ramotswe as she came in. Boitelo gave no sign of recognising Mma Ramotswe and invited her to take a seat. The pregnant woman did not seem to need long with the doctor, and so now it was Mma Ramotswe’s turn to go in.

Dr Lubega looked up from his desk. Gesturing for Mma Ramotswe to sit down beside his desk, he held out a card in front of him.

“I don’t have any records for you,” he said.

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I have not seen a doctor for a long time, Dr Lubega. My records would be very old.”

The doctor shrugged. “Well, Mma Ramotswe, what can I do for you today?”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “My friends have been talking to me about my health,” she said. “You know how people are. They said that I should have my blood pressure taken. They say that because I am a bit traditionally built …”

Dr Lubega looked puzzled. “Traditionally built, Mma?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am the shape that African ladies are traditionally meant to be.”

Dr Lubega started to smile, but his professional manner took over and he became grave. “They are right about blood pressure. Overweight people need to be a little careful of that. I will check that for you, Mma, and give you a general physical examination.”

Mma Ramotswe sat on the examination couch while Dr Lubega conducted a cursory examination. She glanced at him quickly as he listened to her heart; she saw the spotless white shirt with its starched collar, the tie with a university crest, the small line of hair beneath the side of his chin that his razor had missed.

“Your heart sounds strong enough,” he said. “You must be a big-hearted lady, Mma.”

She smiled weakly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Now, then,” he said. “Your blood pressure.”

He started to wrap the cuff of the sphygmomanometer around her upper arm, but stopped.