She tailed off. Mma Makutsi was staring at her now, and her eyes were wide with astonishment.

“He has sent his father to ask you whether you will marry him,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “And I have come as the messenger from the father. All you have to do is think very carefully. Do you like this man? Do you love him enough to marry him? Is that what you want? Do not say yes unless you are sure. Be very careful, Mma. This is a very important decision.”

As she finished her sentence, it seemed to her as if Mma Makutsi was unable to speak. She opened her mouth, but then she closed it again. Mma Ramotswe waited. A fly had landed on her shoulder and was tickling her, but she did not brush it off.

Mma Makutsi suddenly stood up, and looked at Mma Ramotswe. Then she sat down again, heavily, almost missing her chair. She took off her glasses, those large round glasses, and polished them quickly with her threadbare lace handkerchief, the handkerchief that she had treasured for so long and which, like the tiny white van, was near to the end of its life.

When she spoke, her voice was distant, almost a whisper. But Mma Ramotswe heard what she said, which was, “I will marry him, Mma. You can tell the father that. I will marry Phuti Radiphuti. My answer is yes.”

Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, I am happy, Mma Makutsi,” she shrieked. “I am happy, happy, happy. His father said that Phuti was one hundred per cent certain that he wanted to marry you. One hundred per cent, Mma. Not ninety-seven per cent—one hundred per cent!”

They went outside together, to the place where Mr Radiphuti was standing. He looked at them anxiously, but could tell from their expressions what answer they were bringing him. Then the three of them spoke together for a short time, but only a short time, as Mr Radiphuti was keen to get back to his son to tell him what Mma Makutsi’s response was.