“That is a big claim, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“We are confident of it, Mma,” said the woman, somewhat formally. “We don’t make such a claim lightly.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I’m sure you’re right, Mma. But I would like to ask you something: Is Rosie in? I’ve been told she works here.”

For a moment the woman hesitated, and Mma Ramotswe thought that perhaps she had come to the wrong place altogether. But then the woman nodded towards the back of the bakery. “She’s back there. Would you like to speak to her?”

“I would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If you could fetch her, Mma. I will not take up much of her time.”

The woman disappeared, leaving Mma Ramotswe contemplating the tray of fat cakes. There were other delights too: on a shelf near the window several richly iced birthday cakes sat ready for purchase—a generic cake for a boy, decorated with icing-sugar footballs and cars, and one for girls, all pink and frilly. Mma Ramotswe smiled: Mma Makutsi would take strong exception to that if she told her about it. And there was a sense, too, in which she herself objected to the forcing of children into such roles; boys should be allowed to be frilly if they wanted, and girls to play football and play with cars; it was just that there were so few boys and girls who wanted to follow such independent instincts. Puso would never agree to wear anything too colourful—khaki was his preferred colour—and Motholeli showed no interest in football, in spite of her brother’s attempt to invoke her support for the Botswana Zebras team. “They’re silly” was all she had said. “Don’t waste my time with silly football things.” Of course cars were different; she loved cars and was on course to be a mechanic in the fullness of time, apprenticed, she hoped, to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.

Rosie appeared quite suddenly, wearing a voluminous set of white overalls and dusting the flour off her hands. For a few moments she looked confused, as she evidently tried to place Mma Ramotswe. But then she remembered, and her brow knitted into a frown. It was not a good sign, thought Mma Ramotswe.

“I am sorry to disturb you here,” Mma Ramotswe began. “I would have visited you at home, but I do not know where that is.”

Mma Rosie pursed her lips. “It is not here,” she said. “It’s somewhere else.”

“Of course, Mma. I know this is where you work. And may I say, those fat cakes smell very, very good.”

She had not expected that to work, but it was worth trying. And for a brief moment a smile of satisfaction crossed Rosie’s face. Almost everybody, thought Mma Ramotswe, likes to be complimented on their work—there were few exceptions to that.

“Yes, they are very good,” said Rosie. “They’re very popular.”