Mma Ramotswe had been slightly irritated by this line of questioning. What about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? she might have asked. What about him? Phuti was not the only kind man in Botswana; Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was widely known for his generosity, and was often taken advantage of for precisely that reason. Mma Potokwane, for instance, was always asking him to fix things at the orphan farm—old vehicles, a tractor, the boilers, the water pump—the list seemed endless. And so too was the list of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s good works, done without complaint or thought of reward, but noted, she believed, by everybody. Perhaps she should start writing a list in a book: The Good Works of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; it was not an entirely fanciful idea, as she could give it to the children later on, when they were older, and they could remember what a fine man their foster father was. She wished that she had such a memento of her own father, the late Obed Ramotswe—a scrapbook, perhaps, with photographs and observations by people who knew him. But there was nothing like that; just memories, of a man looking at her and smiling in the way he did; of a voice that was gravelly and well used, but which contained all that wisdom, all that experience, of people, of cattle, of a country that he had loved so dearly. All that. All that.

People were standing up and had begun to sing. She had been thinking, allowing her mind to wander, and had not noticed that the choir had started to come in. She stood up and watched them as they walked past: Mma Mopoti in good voice, as usual, the head chorister and pillar of the Mothers’ Union. Mma Ramotswe would have to phone her and reply to the invitation to address the Mothers’ Union meeting next month on “The Life of a Private Detective in Botswana.” The title had been suggested by Mma Mopoti, who was widely known for her ability to recite family genealogy, navigating the intricate byways of cousinage that linked just about everyone with everyone else. Mma Ramotswe would accept the invitation; she had to, as Mma Mopoti had pointed out to her that they were distant cousins “way, way back,” and one could not say no to a distant cousin, no matter how far back the link was.