It was then that Mighty intervened. “You can trust this man, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “He is well known to us. I know him. And Tebogo knows him too.”

The mention of the name Tebogo appeared to amuse Moripe Moripe. “That is a good man,” he said.

“Moripe Moripe is going to marry Tebogo’s sister,” said Mighty. “They are good friends.”

They are good friends. It took a moment or two for the words to sink in, as is often the case when something is said that suddenly offers a way out of an impossible situation. They are good friends. As she repeated the words to herself, Mma Ramotswe felt an immense relief. Bride price, she thought. Lobola. It was often there in Botswana, in the background, playing an important role in people’s affairs, like a strong wind that always blew, or a strong current under the surface of water. Always there.

They had not yet told Moripe Moripe about the legacy, but now she felt she could. “I have a curious story to tell you, Rra,” she said. “But first, I think you should sit down.”

They sat down more or less where they were, under a tree, with the sun burning down over the swamps in a flourish of red. “This story is one of extraordinary coincidence, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe began. And she told him of the two Mrs. Grants arriving one shortly after the other, and of their going to nearby camps. It seemed unlikely, but one could see how it had happened. Unlikely things do happen, said Mma Ramotswe, and she knew, for she had seen many such things happen in her job, and had long since come to the conclusion that the extraordinary was often not quite as extraordinary as people imagined it to be. Then, after relating what had happened, she went on to tell him of the deathbed request by Mrs. Grant—the real Mrs. Grant. “And that is what I have come to tell you, Rra. You have been given twenty thousand pula. It is her way of saying thank you.”

Moripe Moripe took the news calmly. “That is very kind, Mma. Very kind.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mighty, who looked down at the ground in silent sympathy. How was she going to tell him that she had already promised the money to another, even if it was his future brother-in-law?

“Tell me, Rra,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You are going to marry Tebogo’s sister. Are the parents late—her parents?”

“They are. They are both sadly late.”

“So lobola will be payable to the uncles …” She hardly dared hope. But you had to hope; you had to. Not only about this, but about everything.

“To the brother. There is only one uncle and he is …” Moripe Moripe tapped the side of his head. “He is very happy, but he does not know what is going on. He thinks every day is Sunday. It is very strange.”