Hansi’s father was one of a tribe of Afrikaaners that had trekked there in the nineteenth century and had stayed. They were tough people, burned dry by the sun, leather-hard in their determination to eke out a living from the land, followers of a Calvinist church, a long way from their Dutch roots—so long a way as to have become African in their souls. This father of his had produced Hansi by a local woman, a Motswana, and then disowned his tiny son, sending the woman away with a pittance. Hansi knew who he was, and knew his farm, but knew too that he was not welcome there. Yet he was, for some complex reason, proud of this farmer who denied him, and of his lineage, and spoke of his father with the same air of pride as Mma Ramotswe spoke of hers. She thought, though, If I could speak to that man and tell him how much his son loves him, and shake him until he acknowledged this love and how stupid he was to turn his heart against it. If I could speak to him … But some of us cannot see love, she said to herself, even when it is there, right before us, asking us to invite it in.

After her conversation with Hansi, Mma Ramotswe returned to the office. There she found Mr. Polopetsi sitting in Mma Makutsi’s chair. “Just trying it, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “And it is important to have somebody here to answer the telephone.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at the explanation. She understood: Mr. Polopetsi would never get promotion as long as Mma Makutsi was there; it was understandable, then, that he might wish to enjoy the thought of being in her position.

“The lady whose chair that is,” she said, “is a very determined lady. You know that, don’t you, Rra?”

Mr. Polopetsi nodded ruefully. “She is a very strong lady.”

“And I’m afraid that she is showing no signs of giving up her job,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “Which means …”

Mr. Polopetsi interrupted her. “I know, Mma. There is no chance for me.” He paused and looked up, hoping to read encouragement in Mma Ramotswe’s expression. “I just wondered whether poor Radiphuti’s accident will make any difference. I thought that maybe with him being crippled now, she would need to stay at home.”

“I don’t think that he would like you to say that he is crippled,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He has lost a leg—or a bit of a leg—but they will fix him up with something and he will be able to walk. Maybe more or less the same as before.”