Mma Ramotswe looked at her visitor. She, too, was having difficulty placing him. With her detective’s eye, always ready to pick up visual clues, she took in the expensive shoes and the gold buckle on his belt. These were not items that one could buy locally; they came from over the border – from Johannesburg, at the least, possibly from somewhere even more exotic such as London or New York. Was he a businessman? There was a number of prosperous businessmen in Gaborone these days, but most of them were reasonably well known because they had their photographs in the papers from time to time doing things like attending charity concerts or giving prizes. She could not remember seeing this man before in any such photographs, and yet …

‘You are wondering who I am, Mma,’ the visitor said. ‘You are thinking, who is this man? That is what you are thinking, is it not?’

Mma Ramotswe was momentarily taken aback. She glanced at Mma Makutsi, who was busying herself with the kettle. Mma Makutsi grinned.

‘Well, yes, Rra,’ Mma Ramotswe said. ‘I think that I know you, but I don’t, if you see what I mean. You have one of those faces …’

‘Which are very common,’ said the man. ‘Yes, that is true. I have a very ordinary face.’

‘That is not what I was going to say, Rra,’ Mma Ramotswe said quickly. ‘You are a very elegant man.’

The visitor took the compliment with a nod of his head. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Motalhodi Gefeli.’ He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. But the name meant nothing to Mma Ramotswe, who smiled at him politely.

‘Of the Gaborone Comets,’ he continued.

At this, Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands together. ‘Of course, Rra! Of course!’

Mr Gefeli smiled. ‘I am glad to see that you are a football fan, Mma,’ he said. ‘Some women …’ He shrugged, as if to comment on the inability of women to understand a male mystery.

‘Oh, I am not a football fan,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘In fact, Rra, I know nothing about football. Nothing at all!’

Mr Gefeli raised an eyebrow. ‘But you know about me?’

Mma Makutsi had made a pot of red-bush tea, and now she brought two cups on a tea tray and offered one to Mr Gefeli. ‘I know about you, Rra,’ she said. ‘I have read all about you in the newspapers. You are the man who bought the Comets and have been making them so strong.’

Mr Gefeli accepted the cup of tea. ‘You are very kind to say that, Mma,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am the man who bought the Comets. I am that man.’

Mma Makutsi handed the other cup of tea to Mma Ramotswe. ‘Yes, and everybody,’ she continued, ‘is happy with what you did, because the Comets are doing so well now. You have that very good goalkeeper, don’t you?’

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi. This was strange. Mma Makutsi had never before expressed any interest in football, and here she was talking about a goalkeeper with none other than Mr Motalhodi Gefeli of the Gaborone Comets. She had once told Mma Makutsi that a good detective should be able to merge with his surroundings, and this involved being able to talk about the things that other people talked about. Surely the opposite effect would be achieved by a woman talking about football? Women simply did not talk about a thing like that, Mma Ramotswe reflected. But then the thought struck her: am I being old-fashioned?