“But I can tell that you are successful,” said the woman. “I can tell that you are a business lady. I can tell that you are doing well.”

Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. She prided herself on her ability to sum people up, but she wondered whether this was not something that many women had, as part of the intuitive gift.

“You tell me what I do,” she said. “Could you guess what my job is?”

The woman turned in her seat and looked Mma Ramotswe up and down.

“You are a detective, I think,” she said. “You are a person who looks into other people’s business.”

The tiny white van swerved momentarily. Mma Ramotswe was shocked that this woman had guessed. Her intuitive powers must be even better than mine, she thought.

“How did you know that? What did I do to give you this information?”

The other woman shifted her gaze. “It was simple,” she said. “I have seen you sitting outside your detective agency drinking tea with your secretary. She is that lady with very big glasses. The two of you sit there in the shade sometimes and I have been walking past on the other side of the road. That is how I knew.”

They travelled in comfortable companionship, talking about their daily lives. She was called Mma Tsbago, and she told Mma Ramotswe about her work in the furniture shop. The manager was a kind man, she said, who did not work his staff too hard and who was always honest with his customers. She had been offered a job by another firm, at a higher wage, but had refused it. Her manager found out and had rewarded her loyalty with a promotion.

Then there were her children. They were a girl of ten and a boy of eight. They were doing well at school and she hoped that she might be able to bring them to Gaborone for their secondary education. She had heard the Gaborone Government Secondary School was very good and she hoped that she might be able to get a place for them there. She had also heard that there were scholarships to even better schools, and perhaps they might have a chance of one of those.

Mma Ramotswe told her that she was engaged to be married, and she pointed to the diamond on her finger. Mma Tsbago admired it and asked who the fiancé was. It was a good thing to marry a mechanic, she said, as she had heard that they made the best husbands. You should try to marry a policeman, a mechanic or a minister of religion, she said, and you should never marry a politician, a barman, or a taxi driver. These people always caused a great deal of trouble for their wives.

“And you shouldn’t marry a trumpeter,” added Mma Ramotswe. “I made that mistake. I married a bad man called Note Mokoti. He played the trumpet.”

“I’m sure that they are not good people to marry,” said Mma Tsbago. “I shall add them to my list.”