“But then,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “how do we get Phuti to hear about this? That aunt of his has cut off all communication. She is like a dog at the door.”

Mma Potokwane let out another snort. “I will go and see him,” she said. “Mma Makutsi will come with me, and we will have a word with Mr. Radiphuti. We will ask him whether he would like to accept my invitation, and if he says yes—and I’m sure he will—then we shall bring him straight back. That aunt of his is no problem, Mma. She is no problem at all.” She paused. “And you come too, Mma Ramotswe. We shall all go.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, and knew that she had to go. And she wanted to, anyway, as she could hardly miss the spectacle of Mma Potokwane, one of the most formidable women in Botswana, coming face-to-face with one of the country’s nastiest senior aunts. It would be an encounter to remember, and talk about, for a long time. And she was sure who would win.

“You are very kind,” she said to Mma Potokwane. “This will make Mma Makutsi happy, and it will be best for Phuti. It is a very good idea, Mma, and we are all grateful to you.”

“I am not being kind,” said Mma Potokwane. “I am just helping my friends who have helped me. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni has done so much for us—he has fixed so many things over the years—that I am very happy to be able to repay the … the assistant to his wife.”

That was only partly true, thought Mma Ramotswe. It was probably the case that Mma Potokwane wanted to repay favours, but it was not true that she was not kind. Of course Mma Potokwane was kind—one only had to look at her life to see that. And what was also true, Mma Ramotswe thought, was this: Some kind people may not look kind. They may look severe, or strict, or even bossy, as Mma Potokwane sometimes did. But inside them there was a big dam of kindness, as there is inside so many people, like the great dam to the south of Gaborone, ready to release its healing waters.

MMA POTOKWANE drove them to the aunt’s house, parking directly outside her gate. The unpleasant brown car, with its small, mean-spirited windows, was there in the short driveway, and the aunt’s front door was slightly open. A man with a rake was standing in the yard, battered old hat perched on his head; a jobbing gardener, thought Mma Ramotswe. The man waved, and she returned his wave as they approached the house.

“She is not a nice woman,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “I am worried.”

“Nonsense!” said Mma Potokwane, not bothering to lower her voice. “She is a melon. That is all.”