Mma Ramotswe fetched her a plate of food from the buffet, but she simply toyed with it. After twenty minutes, during which they sat in morose isolation, Mma Ramotswe suggested that it was time to go.

“We can slip out,” she said. “All these people are too busy admiring one another.”

They made their way towards the door, and it was there that they met Violet Sephotho, her scroll under one arm and wearing the Woman of the Year ribbon.

Violet seemed surprised to see them. “I had not expected you two,” she said. “But it is very kind of you to come and share my evening. Thank you.”

Mma Makutsi swallowed hard. Mma Ramotswe, though, bowed her head politely. “It is a very great evening for you, Violet. Congratulations. I am very happy for you.”

She nudged Mma Makutsi, who looked up slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I am happy too, Violet.”

If there was any irony in Mma Makutsi’s words, Violet did not notice it. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I hope you have had a good meal too.”

Mma Ramotswe extended a hand to Violet, and Violet shook it. Then, after only a few seconds of hesitation, Mma Makutsi did the same.

They left, and outside in the car park, under the high sky of stars, they stood for a moment to breathe in the cool night air.

“You did the right thing back there,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “There is nobody—nobody—whose hand you should refuse to shake.”

“Even the Devil’s?” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. Then she gave her answer. “I used to believe in the Devil, you know, Mma. Now I don’t. So there can be no question of shaking a hand that doesn’t exist.”

Mma Makutsi awaited an explanation.

“You see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He’s not a separate person. He’s inside us. He’s there inside people—as part of what they are.”

“I’m not sure,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Well, I am,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi shook her head in disbelief—not about what Mma Ramotswe had just said, but about what had happened. How could it be that Botswana of all countries—the country that paid more attention to doing what was right than so many other countries—how could Botswana, of all places, choose as its Woman of the Year a person as self-seeking as Violet Sephotho? Did people not realise? Were people such poor judges of character as to be unable to see Violet for what she was?

She expressed these thoughts to Mma Ramotswe, who listened carefully.

“Mma Makutsi,” she said, her voice quiet and even, “there are many things in this world that are not right. You only have to look about you and you see them.”

“But, Mma, everybody should know about Violet Sephotho.”