“I’m afraid they don’t,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Or if they do, they don’t care, or they even admire qualities like that.”

“Selfishness? Wickedness? Is that what you’re saying, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe thought for a few moments. “They might not see them as that. They might think that people who are flashy—”

“She’s definitely that,” interrupted Mma Makutsi.

“…or shallow—”

“And that too,” said Mma Makutsi forcefully. “She’s as shallow as the far end of Gaborone Dam after a long drought. That’s how shallow she is, Mma.”

“And so people might vote for somebody like that because they think that’s what a woman of the year should be—ruthless, Mma. They think that a woman of the year should be a real go-getter, determined to succeed.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head again. “How can this be, Mma? How can people be so wrong?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Fortunately nobody will pay much attention. I don’t think that Violet will be remembered for long.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets Woman of the Year painted on the side of her car.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I hope she does that, Mma. Imagine how we’ll all laugh when we see that car go by.”

Mma Makutsi looked outraged, but only for a short time. Then she started to grin. “It is quite funny, isn’t it, Mma? Violet Sephotho elected Woman of the Year because she probably paid people to vote for her. And all those officials being fooled into thinking she deserves it. There is a funny side to it, isn’t there?”

“Just,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But even when there’s a very small funny side to something—very small in this case—it makes it easier to bear, don’t you think, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi did think that, and her mood lifted.

They walked towards the van, so small and shabby alongside all the official cars parked in front of the hotel that night. But there was not one of those cars—not one—that Mma Ramotswe would have accepted in exchange for her van. Not one.

—