Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling. She had recently read an article about this sort of problem and she was trying to remember the word which was used to describe it. Whistle-blowing! Yes, that was it. The article had described how difficult it was for whistle-blowers when they saw something illegal being done at work. In some countries, it had said, there were laws to protect the whistle-blower—in some countries, but she was not sure whether this was true of Botswana. There was very little corruption in Botswana, but she was still not sure whether life was made any easier for whistle-blowers.

“Whistle-blowing,” she said aloud. “That’s what it is—whistle-blowing.”

Poppy looked at her blankly. “Who is blowing a whistle?” she asked.

“You are,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Or you could blow a whistle.”

“I do not see what whistles have to do with it,” said Poppy.

“If you went to the police you would be a whistle-blower,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “It’s a way of describing a person who lets others know about what is going on behind the scenes.”

“Behind what scenes?” asked Poppy.

Mma Ramotswe decided to change tack. There were some people who were rather literal in their understanding of things, and Poppy, it seemed, was one of these.

“Well, let us not think too much about whistles and such things,” she said. “The important thing is this: you want us to do something about this woman and her stealing. Is that right?”

The suggestion seemed to alarm Poppy. “No,” she said. “I do not want that, Mma. You must wait until I finish telling you my story.”

Mma Ramotswe made an apologetic gesture, and Poppy began to speak again.

“I was frightened, Mma. I could not face losing my job and so I did nothing. I did not like the thought of that man eating all that government food, but then I thought of what it would be like not to have a house, and so I just bit my tongue. But then, three days ago, Mma Tsau came to me just as I was about to leave work to go home. My husband has a car and was waiting for me at the end of the road. I could see him sitting in the car, looking up at the sky, as he likes to do. When you are a chef all you see is the kitchen ceiling and clouds of steam. When you are outside, you like to look at the sky.

“Mma Tsau drew me aside. She was shaking with anger and I thought that I had made some very bad mistake in my work. But it was not that. She gripped me by the arm and leaned forward to speak to me. ‘You think you’re clever,’ she said. ‘You think that you can get me to give you money not to say anything about my husband. You think that, don’t you?’

“I had no idea what she was talking about. I told her that, but she just laughed at me. She said that she had torn up the letter I had written. Then she said that on the very first opportunity that she could find, she would get rid of me. She said that it might take a few months, but she would make very sure that I would lose my job.”