Mma Ramotswe thought it would be improper to let out a cry of delight. It could be misinterpreted, she felt, and she would not want Moripe Moripe to think that she took pleasure in the plight of his future uncle-in-law.

“So you have to pay the lobola for your future wife to Tebogo?”

Moripe Moripe looked glum, but almost immediately brightened. “Yes, and I was going to find it very difficult, Mma. I have asked him whether we can defer the payment. My sister has been ill and has many children. I have had to support them.”

“So you have been able to pay nothing?”

“Yes. But now … Well, now I can give him the money.”

“He thinks he already has it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And in a way, he has.”

She shivered. The sun had disappeared now, and the air had become cooler. It was a very good end to the day, she thought. A debt had disappeared. A mistake had been made, and been rectified by an extraordinary coincidence. No, she thought, nothing is extraordinary. Such things have happened before, and will happen again. There were probably numerous Mrs. Grants, travelling the world and causing confusion. It was nothing unusual.

THE TRIP BACK by boat was uneventful. Mma Ramotswe sat in the bow, sweeping the river ahead of them with the beam of Mighty’s powerful yellow torch. On one or two occasions she thought that she saw eyes shining back at her, but it was only a trick of the water, a stone on the bank, a leaf on the surface, and there was no sign of any hippo. When they reached the camp, Mighty took her to the kitchen, where she was given a plate of food. Mma Makutsi had already eaten, she was told, and had gone back to their room with a paraffin lamp. Mighty stayed with her while she ate, and then conducted her back to the staff quarters, his torch again sweeping the darkness for animal hazards. “We have an old elephant who comes into the camp,” he said. “He is not aggressive, but we wouldn’t like to bump into him at night.” She agreed. She would not like to bump into anything at night, unless it was a meerkat, perhaps, or a dassie. Even then …

Mma Makutsi had settled on her sleeping mat, the paraffin lamp still burning in a corner of the room. Mma Ramotswe told her of the meeting with Moripe Moripe and of the unexpected, but welcome, outcome. “We made a bad mistake,” she said. “I was dreading telling Tebogo that it was not him after all who would get the money. Now I can tell him the truth. I can tell him about the mistake, but reassure him that he will be getting most of it, if not all, as the lobola that Moripe Moripe owes him. So everybody should be happy enough.”