It was while Mma Tafa was filling the kettle for a second pot of tea, and while Mma Ramotswe was thinking of unfulfilled ambitions, that the kitchen door opened and Big Man Tafa came in. Seeing him up close, Mma Ramotswe was struck by the goalkeeper's diminutive stature—he seemed far smaller here in the kitchen, surprisingly so, than when standing in the goal. Of course it might have had something to do with his juxtaposition to Mma Tafa, who, beside her husband, seemed even larger than before. She positively flowed, thought Mma Ramotswe, flowed from a comfortable, cushiony centre to the outposts of her well-padded fingers; a great river of a woman. And he, the tiny goalkeeper, looked as if he might drown in the arms of such a wife; drown and be lost altogether. Where is my husband? Mma Tafa might say. Has anybody seen him? And they would reply: In your arms, Mma, right there; be careful; he is right there, see.

Introductions were made and Big Man sat down. When his wife explained that Mma Ramotswe was here on behalf on Mr. Molofololo, a shadow crossed his face. He glanced at his wife, who responded with one of those looks that married couples can exchange; a look that conveyed far more than might any words. And then came the reassuring response that underlined the unspoken message: “There is no trouble,” she said. “Don't worry.”

Mma Ramotswe made a mental note of this comment. What trouble might Big Man Tafa expect from an emissary from Mr. Molofololo? In one view, such a remark suggested that Big Man Tafa had reason to fear Mr. Molofololo—and that, surely, is how a traitor to a football team might be expected to feel.

Big Man Tafa sat down opposite Mma Ramotswe at the table and listened attentively as she told him why she was there. “Mr. Molofololo wants to hear what is wrong,” she said. “That is why I am speaking to everybody.”

He relaxed visibly at the mention of everybody. “Not just me?” he said.

“Of course not, Rra. Why would it just be you?”

She was aware of the sting at the end of her reply, and she watched his reaction carefully.

“Because when a goal is scored, it is always the goalkeeper who gets the blame,” he said. “Always the poor goalie.”

That seemed understandable enough. And of course if anybody was in a position to give a match away, it was the goalkeeper.

Big Man Tafa clasped his hands together and settled back in his chair. “You want to know what's wrong, Mma? I can tell you. Free. I can tell you free. Our captain—Rops Thobega. Have you met him?”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I met him briefly, Rra. I have not talked to him properly yet, Rra. But I will.”

Big Man wrinkled his nose. “If he agrees to talk to you, that is. You will have to make an appointment, you know. The great Rops Thobega isn't one of those people you can just drop in on. Oh no. You have to phone and say to his wife, Please may I speak to Rops, Mma? Not for long. Just one minute, please. That's what you have to do.”