“Football,” said Mr. Molofololo. “Or you can call it soccer, if you like. The beautiful game. You know that it is called that, Mma? That is what they call football.”

Mma Ramotswe did not know that. She had never been to a football match, although she had seen boys, including Puso, playing it and had watched for a few minutes here and there. Was it beautiful? She supposed that it was—in a manner of speaking. They were always very skilful, those soccer players, as the nicknames they often bore revealed. She had seen these mentioned recently in the newspaper, when a football player called Fast-Dancer Galeboe had been pictured at a function talking to another player called High-Jump Boseja. Those nicknames at least gave some indication of the talents of the player in question; others seemed less obvious. She had read about Joel “Twelve Volts” Koko of the Township Rollers, and Sekhana “Fried Chicken” Molwantwa of the Extension Gunners. She could not imagine why Mr. Koko should be called Twelve Volts, although she could presume that Mr. Molwantwa had a taste for fried chicken. Perhaps the whole thing was to do with the way men got on with one another; they often laughed and slapped each other on the back or pretended to kick one another. Perhaps it was to do with all that.

“I am afraid that I do not know much about football, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe said. “But I can understand why it should be called the beautiful game—with all that running around and dodging in and out. That might be called beautiful, I suppose.”

“I have never understood the attraction myself,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “Why make such a fuss about kicking a ball up and down a field?”

Mr. Molofololo appeared to take this in good humour. “It is because you ladies are women,” he said. “It is not something that women understand.” He paused, and then added hurriedly, “Of course there are many things that men do not understand. They do not understand some of the things that women understand. Such as …” He trailed off.

“Yes, Rra?” prompted Mma Ramotswe.

Mr. Molofololo waved a hand in the air. “There are many things. Women's business. Shoes maybe. That sort of thing.”

Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances. He is right, thought Mma Ramotswe; men do not understand shoes— not completely, not in the deep way in which women understand them. For men, shoes were simply things you put on your feet; for women, shoes were … well, there was no time to go into that.

Mr. Molofololo moved on. “Perhaps it would be best, Mma, if I told you a little bit about myself. Then you will understand why this problem that I have come to see you about is such a big one.” He paused, and put a hand over his heart. Mma Ramotswe noticed the starched cuff of his shirt and the heavy gold cuff-links. It was a strange thing about rich men, she reflected. If they have made the money themselves, then they are usually keen to let you know just how much money they have; if they had got it from their father, or even their grandfather, then they often never mentioned it. Mr. Molofololo had obviously made his money himself.