It took a couple of minutes for the door to be opened by the aunt. She was clearly surprised, and for a moment she did not reply to Mma Makutsi’s greeting. Then, when she did, her tone was hostile. “I am sorry. You cannot see Phuti. He is sleeping now. I am very sorry that you have had a wasted journey.”

Mma Makutsi tried to look over the aunt’s shoulder into the room beyond. There was a radio playing somewhere in the background, Radio Botswana. Phuti listened to Radio Botswana—but so did everyone.

“I can wait until he wakes up,” said Mma Makutsi.

The aunt pursed her lips. “There is not room for you to wait. I am very sorry.”

Mma Makutsi glanced behind her. “I can wait on the veranda, Mma. There is a chair.”

The aunt indicated that this would not do. “That is a private chair, Mma. I’m very sorry. We can’t have anybody sitting in that chair.”

Mma Makutsi drew in her breath. “A private chair?”

The aunt nodded. “That is what I said.” She looked at her watch. “It is now time for me to do something else, Mma. I shall tell Phuti that you have called to see him, and I’m sure that he will be very happy to hear that.”

Mma Makutsi struggled to control herself. The lenses of the large glasses she wore were beginning to mist up. That did not happen very often, but it was a bad sign when it did.

“But I am his fiancée, Mma,” she said. “We are engaged to be married, as I think you know.”

The aunt stared at her. Mma Makutsi found it difficult to read the emotion in the other woman’s gaze. Was it hatred? It did not look quite like it. And then she realised: this was fear. It was just as Mma Ramotswe had said.

“So I think that I have the right to see him. I really think that, Mma. Not some time in the future, but now-now.” It was a bold statement, and she felt her heart pounding within her as she spoke.

The aunt shifted slightly on her feet. “You say you are engaged, Mma. That is very interesting. I do not recall any lobola being agreed, or maybe my memory is going. I do not think that this family has agreed to pay any lobola to …”—she paused, looking squarely at Mma Makutsi—“to any other family.”

Mma Makutsi recoiled at the way she said family, dwelling on the word, filling it with contempt. Mma Makutsi was not the only one being insulted here; this was an insult to her people in Bobonong, to her uncles; to the uncle with the broken nose, to the uncle who experienced difficulty in finding the right word.

The aunt now continued. “You are a secretary, I hear, Mma.”

“Assistant detective.”