The people too seemed diminished. Her favourite aunt was still her favourite, of course, but whereas she had always been impressed by the wisdom of what her aunt said, now her words seemed no more than trite. And what was worse, she had actually felt embarrassed at some of her pronouncements, thinking that such observations would seem quaint in Gaborone. That had made her feel guilty, and she had tried to smile appreciatively at her aunt’s remarks, but somehow the effort seemed too great. She knew this was wrong; she knew that you should never forget what you owed to home, and to family, and to the place that nurtured you, but sometimes it was difficult to put this into practice.

Mma Makutsi had always been impressed by the way in which Mma Ramotswe seemed to be completely at ease with who she was and where she came from. She was clearly very attached to Mochudi, and when she spoke of her childhood there it was always with fondness. This was great good fortune: to love the place in which you were brought up; not everybody could do that. And even greater good fortune would be to have a father like Obed Ramotswe, about whom Mma Makutsi had heard so much from Mma Ramotswe. Mma Makutsi almost felt as if she knew him now, and that at any moment she herself would start quoting things he had said, although of course she had never met him. She could just imagine that happening. She would say to Mma Ramotswe, “As your father used to say, Mma …” and Mma Ramotswe would smile and say, “Yes, he always said that, didn’t he?”

Of course she would not be the only one to do that sort of thing. Mma Ramotswe was always talking about Seretse Khama and quoting the things that he had said, but Mma Makutsi was a bit suspicious of this. It was not that Seretse Khama had not said a great number of wise things—he had—it was just that she felt that Mma Ramotswe had a slight tendency to express a view—her own view—and then attribute it to Seretse Khama, even if Sir Seretse had never expressed an opinion on the matter in question. There had been an example of this recently when Mma Ramotswe had told her that you should never drive a goat across water and that Seretse Khama himself had said something to that effect. Mma Makutsi was very doubtful about this; Seretse Khama had never said anything about goats, as far as she could remember—and she had studied his speeches when she was at school—and in her view this was merely Mma Ramotswe giving authority to a peculiar view of her own.

“When did he say that?” she had challenged.

Mma Ramotswe had looked vague. “A long time ago, I think,” she said. “I read it somewhere or other.”