“And about me,” added Mma Makutsi.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “About you too.”

Mma Makutsi was emboldened. “And would it not help if Mr J.L.B. Matekoni beat him?” she asked. “Just a bit. Would that not help him to behave better in the future?”

They both looked at her, Mma Ramotswe in astonishment, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in alarm.

“Those days are past,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is no longer possible, Mma.”

“Pity,” said Mma Makutsi.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT THE ACADEMY OF DANCE AND MOVEMENT

EVERYBODY’S SPIRITS were considerably lifted by the way in which a credible plan of action had emerged from a shocking and disagreeable row. Mma Makutsi was particularly pleased that she could go home that evening without a burden of worry and guilt over what had happened. For that evening she was due to embark on a new and exciting project—the most important thing that she had done since the founding of the Kalahari Typing School for Men. Unlike the typing school, however, this did not involve work for her, which would be a pleasant change. For as long as she could remember, her life had been a matter of work: as a girl she had worked at home in all the usual tasks of the household, unremittingly; she had walked six miles to school each morning and six miles back to acquire an education; and then, when her great opportunity had presented itself and she had taken up that place at the Botswana Secretarial College, paid for by the scrimping and saving of her entire family, she had worked harder than ever before. Of course she had been rewarded—with that glorious result of ninety-seven per cent—but it had all been such hard work. Now it was time to dance.

She had seen the advertisement in the newspaper and had been immediately intrigued by the name of the person who had placed the advertisement. Who was this Mr Fano Fanope? It was an unusual name, but its musical qualities seemed very suitable for one who offered classes in “dance and movement, and the social skills that go with those things.” As to the name, Fano Fanope was a bit like Spokes Spokesi, the famous radio disc jockey. These names had a forward lilt to them; they were the names of people who were going somewhere. She reflected on her own name: Grace Makutsi. There was nothing wrong with a name like that—she had certainly encountered stranger names in Botswana, where people seemed to like naming their children in an individual and sometimes rather strange way—but it was not a name which suggested much movement or ambition. Indeed, one might even describe it as a safe name, a rather stodgy name, the sort of name that might well be held by the leader of a knitting circle or a Sunday School teacher. Of course, it could have been much worse, and she could have been burdened with one of those names which children then spend the rest of their days in living down. At least she was not called, as one of the teachers at the Botswana Secretarial College had been called, a name which, when translated from Setswana, meant: This one makes a lot of noise. That was not a good name to give a child, but her parents still did it.