“You can sit down,” she said. “I will put on some music if you would like that.”

Mma Makutsi picked up her glass of cola. “You join us, Mma. It has been a hot day and I think that you might like a beer. You can charge it to us. We will buy you a beer.”

The woman accepted readily. “That is kind of you, Mma. I will fetch it and come back.”

Once she had left the room, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned to Mma Makutsi. “Is this …” he began.

“Yes,” Mma Makutsi interrupted. “This is a shebeen. Your house, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, has been turned into an illegal bar!”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat down heavily on the sofa. “This is very bad,” he said. “Everybody will think that I am involved in it. They will say that man is running a shebeen while he pretends to be a respectable person. And what will Mma Ramotswe think?”

“She’ll understand that it has nothing to do with you,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I’m sure that other people will think the same.”

“I do not like such places,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, shaking his head. “They let people run up big bills and spend all their money on drink.”

Mma Makutsi agreed. She was amused by the discovery, which she had not expected to make, but she knew that there was nothing very funny about shebeens. Although people could easily go to legitimate bars, there were those who needed to drink on credit, and shebeens exploited such people. They encouraged people to spend too much and then, every month, they would end up taking a larger and larger portion of the drinker’s salary. And there were other things too: shebeens were associated with gambling and again in this respect they preyed on human weakness.

The woman returned, an opened bottle of beer in her hand. She raised the bottle in a toast, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni half-heartedly reciprocated, although Mma Makutsi’s response was more convincing.

“So, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi brightly, “this is a nice place you have. Very nice!”

The woman laughed. “No, Mma. It is not my place. I am just somebody who works here. There is another woman who runs this place.”

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. Of course: a woman like that, a woman who drove a large Mercedes-Benz, would not go to a shebeen as a mere customer—she was the shebeen queen herself.

“Oh yes,” Mma Makutsi said. “I know that woman. She is the one who drives that big Mercedes-Benz and has that young boyfriend, the new one. I think he’s called Charlie.”

“That is her,” said the woman. “Charlie is her boyfriend. He comes here with her sometimes. But there’s a husband too. He is in Johannesburg. He’s a big man there. He has some bars, I think.”