Mma Makutsi nodded. “Of course.”

“But they are now being worn in Gaborone too,” went on the assistant. “By our own more fashionable ladies.”

Mma Makutsi sat down silently on one of the chairs while the assistant, having given her the other shoe, fetched small nylon socks. The decision to try the shoes had been made wordlessly, but everything was well understood. The assistant knew what was going on in Mma Makutsi's mind and would leave her to conduct the internal struggle by herself; no help was needed from her. Other than to remark, perhaps, that the shoes were made of a leather which looked very like crocodile, but which was not. It was crocodile-look, apparently, which was not the same thing. “It is better for the crocodiles,” explained the assistant. “And it is just as beautiful. Many people would think that you are wearing crocodile if they saw those shoes. That is what they would think, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi slipped the shoes onto her feet. They were exactly the right size and fitted perfectly. She glanced at the assistant, who nodded encouragingly. She stood up.

“I am not sure when I would wear these shoes,” she said as she took a tentative step.

The assistant spread her hands. “Oh, Mma, you could wear them to all sorts of parties. They are ideal party shoes.”

Mma Makutsi looked down at the shoes. “I do not go to many parties,” she said. “In fact, I go to none.” This was true. Mma Makutsi was not a party-goer, and Phuti had never so much as suggested going to one.

“Or not,” the assistant added hurriedly. “These shoes do not need to go to parties. You can wear these to work. When you are entertaining a client. Or even for ordinary wear—when you feel that you want to look smart, even if you are doing nothing special. You could wear these shoes all the time, you know.”

“They are very pretty,” said Mma Makutsi. “Very elegant.”

The assistant nodded. “That is what I thought when I first saw them. I thought that these are the most elegant shoes we have had in the shop for a long time.”

Mma Makutsi asked the price. It was steep, but then she told herself: I am the fiancée of a wealthy man—still—and he has often said that he would buy me shoes and clothes. And I have never taken advantage of that; never. She looked into her purse. She had been to the bank to draw money and there was just enough for the shoes, even if nothing would be left over for the food.

It was a stark choice: shoes or food; beauty or sustenance; the sensible or the self-indulgent.

“I'll take these shoes,” she said firmly.

The assistant smiled broadly. “You'll never regret it, Mma,” she said. “Never. Not once.”

MMA MAKUTSI CAUGHT a minibus home. She was empty-handed, apart from the shoes, which had been placed in their elegant box and then in a plastic carrier bag. This bag sat on her lap where, had she not thrown caution to the winds, her shopping bag of groceries would have been. But had she bought groceries, she would not be experiencing that extraordinary feeling of renewal that an exciting purchase can bring. And did she really need groceries? There were some potatoes at home, and some spinach. There were also a couple of eggs and some bread. With a little ingenuity, what food there was could be combined to produce a tasty enough morsel for Phuti Radiphuti's dinner—a potato and spinach omelette perhaps, or fried egg and chips, a simple meal, but one which was exactly the sort of thing that men liked to eat.