Mma Tafa rolled her eyes upwards. “It is very bad, Mma. When did the boys last win a game? I have almost forgotten.”

Mma Ramotswe looked into her tea cup. She did not want Mma Tafa to think that she was prying, but she sensed that a few direct questions might yield valuable results. “What's your view, Mma? Do you know why this is happening?”

She had chosen her words carefully. She had not asked Mma Tafa to tell her what Big Man Tafa himself felt, but she suspected that is what she would learn anyway.

And she was right. “Big Man thinks that the problem is Mr. Molofololo,” said Mma Tafa. “He says that the boss doesn't know anything about football. He says this is always the problem with these rich men who own football teams. They think they can play but they cannot.”

Mma Ramotswe listened intently. “He does not like Mr. Molofololo?”

Mma Tafa hesitated. “I wouldn't say that.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe, uncertain as to whether to trust her; but trust won. “No, maybe I would. Molofololo is very impatient, my husband thinks. He says that he is always telling the players what to do. He says that this is the job of the coach, or the captain. But he says that the coach is weak, and the captain used to be good but no longer is. He says that the captain should go out to the cattle post and look after his cattle rather than trying to play football any more.”

The reference to cattle struck Mma Ramotswe as significant. Sooner or later, in any issue in Botswana, cattle nudged their way in, as they will nose their way into a feeding trough. It was as if in the resolution of any dispute, people had to ask themselves the question: What do the cattle think about this? She knew, of course, what cattle thought: cattle wanted rain, and the sweet green grass that rain brought, and apart from that they liked Botswana exactly as it was.

Mma Tafa looked at Mma Ramotswe's tea cup to see if it needed refreshing. “Mind you, Mma,” she continued, “it's interesting that Mr. Molofololo gets somebody else to talk to his players about their problems. I mean no disrespect to you, Mma, but why ask a woman to go and speak to the men about football?”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Some people find it difficult to talk. Sometimes it's easier to get somebody else to talk for you.”

Mma Tafa let out a hoot of laughter. “But that man is always talking! My husband says that he never stops. Do this, do that. Talking all the time.” She shook her head. “No, the problem is that he cannot listen. That is his problem. So maybe he has chosen you to be his ears.”

Mma Ramotswe took her cue. “And what do you think these ears should be hearing, Mma? What words would you like to put into these ears?”