“There is nothing wrong with my van,” she said. “There is nothing wrong.”

“But there is a big scratch here,” said Mma Makutsi. “And another one here. And a dent. Look. There it is. I am putting my finger on it. Look.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced in a cursory way at the side of the van and shook her head. “That is nothing,” she said dismissively. “That is just a bang that happened.”

Mma Makutsi had shown her surprise. “A bang?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “A bang. It is not a big thing. I was parking the van in town and there was a post. It had no business being there. Somebody had put this post in the wrong place and it hit the side of the van. There was a little bang. That is all.”

Mma Makutsi bit her lip. Posts did not move; vans moved. But a warning glance from Mma Ramotswe told her that it would be unwise to pursue the matter further, and she had not. Now at Mokolodi, as then, she thought that it would be best not to say anything on the subject of parking or vans in general, and so they walked together in silence towards the office. A woman came out to greet them, a woman who appeared to recognise Mma Ramotswe.

“He is expecting you, Mma,” said the woman. “Your fiancé telephoned to tell us that you were coming.”

“He is my husband now,” said Mma Ramotswe, smiling.

“Oh!” exclaimed the woman. “That is very good. You must be very happy, Mma. He is a good man, Mr L.J.B. Matekoni.”

“J.L.B.,” corrected Mma Ramotswe. “He is Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and thank you, Mma. He is a very good man.”

“I would like to find a man like that,” said the woman. “I have a husband down in Lobatse. He never comes to see me. And when I go down there, he is never in.”

Mma Ramotswe made a clucking sound of sympathy, and disapproval—sympathy for the woman in her plight, and disapproval of what she thought was only-too-common masculine behaviour. There were many good men in Botswana, but there were some who seemed to think that their women were only there to flatter them and give them a good time when they felt in need. These men did not think of what women themselves needed, which was comfort and support, and a bit of help in the hundred and one tasks which women had to perform if homes were to be kept going. Who did the cooking? Who kept the yard tidy? Who washed and fed the children and put them to bed at night? Who weeded the fields? Women did all these things, and it would be nice, thought Mma Ramotswe, if men could occasionally lend a hand.

It was particularly hard for women now, when there were so many children left without parents because of this cruel sickness. These children had to be looked after by somebody, and this task usually fell to the grandmothers. But in many cases the grandmothers were finding it difficult to cope because there were simply so many children coming to them. Mma Ramotswe had met one woman who had been looking after twelve grandchildren, all orphaned. And there this woman was at seventy-five, at a time when a person should be allowed to sit in the sun and look up at the sky, cooking and washing and scraping around for food for the hungry mouths of all those children. And if that grandmother should become late, she thought, what then?