MR J.L.B. MATEKONI was late coming home for dinner that evening. Normally he came back to the house at about six o’clock, which was almost an hour later than Mma Ramotswe. She would leave the office at five, or thereabouts, although she sometimes came back even earlier. If there was nothing particular happening at the agency, she would look at Mma Makutsi and ask her if there was any reason why they should stay in the office. Sometimes she did not even have to say anything, but would give a look that said, “I’ve had enough; it’s a hot afternoon and it would be so much better being at home.” And Mma Makutsi would return the look with a look of her own which said, “You’re right, as usual, Mma Ramotswe.” And with that unspoken exchange, Mma Ramotswe would pick up her bag and close the window that looked out to the side of the garage. Then she would give Mma Makutsi a ride into town, or back to her house in Extension Two, before she went home to Zebra Drive.

One advantage of getting home early was that she would be there for the children when they returned from school. Motholeli always came back a little later than Puso, as her wheelchair had to be pushed all the way from the school. The girls in her class had arranged a rota for this, and took it in turns, week and week about, to wheel their classmate home. The boys had been involved in this too, and had vied with one another for the privilege, but they had, on the whole, been found to be unsatisfactory. Several of the boys—indeed most of them—had been unable to resist the temptation of pushing the wheelchair too fast and there had been an unfortunate incident when one of them had lost control of the chair and Motholeli had careered into a ditch and tumbled out. She had been unharmed by this fall, but the boy had run away in fright and a passer-by, a cook at one of the large houses on Nyerere Drive, had come to her rescue and had helped her back into the chair and pushed her back, at reasonable speed, to the house.

“That boy is very stupid,” said the cook.

“He is usually a nice boy,” Motholeli replied. “He became frightened. Maybe he thought that he had killed me or something.”

“He should not have run away,” said the cook. “That is what they call a hit and run. It is very bad.”