She had known several centenarians, and they had struck her as markedly content. One lived just outside Mochudi, and could be seen every morning, sitting in front of her daughter’s house, enjoying the sun, still exchanging good-natured banter with passers-by. Another was a man who had served in the Second World War with the troops who had gone from the Bechuanaland Protectorate, as Botswana then was, to serve alongside the British in Italy, who had done so without question and without complaint, out of loyalty that today some might find naïve or misplaced, but had been for them something not to be questioned. People forgot about them, the African troops who had contributed to the defeat of evil, and that seemed to her to be so unjust, but then where would one end if one started to compose a list of the wrongs that this world had seen? Better perhaps, thought Mma Ramotswe, to make a list of those things that were right with the world, of people who had made life better for other people, or who had done what they had been called to do with honour and without complaint. Her list would start with the late Seretse Khama and would include Nelson Mandela and Bishop Tutu and Queen Elizabeth and President Carter, whom Mma Ramotswe had always admired. Then there was David Livingstone, and Moffat, his father-in-law, who had been such a friend of the Batswana and their language, and Mr. Gandhi…There were so many of these people, and one day she would update her list and see what new names should be added to it.

“I’m not sure that I’ll live to one hundred,” she said. “But if I do, you’ll be over eighty, Charlie.”

Charlie whistled. “I can’t see myself being that old, Mma.”

“Neither can I, Charlie.” But for a moment she saw him in her mind’s eye, an eighty-year-old, relying on a walking stick, chasing an elderly woman along a road, amorous to the last.

“Why are you smiling, Mma?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, no reason, Charlie.” She pointed to a turning in the road ahead. “We should start there, Charlie. There are some old houses down there. We could look at them.”

—

IN THE OFFICE of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mma Makutsi had just received a copy of that day’s Botswana Daily News, delivered by Phuti’s driver from the Double Comfort Furniture Store. Pinned to the front was a note in Phuti’s handwriting drawing her attention to page six. A very good photograph, Grace! Phuti had written. And a first-class article.

Fanwell looked over her shoulder as she opened the paper. Then, as she reached page six, he emitted a cry of delight. It was utterly unforced—a shout of joy.