Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni told them. There were holes in his account of what was said, but the Botumiles seemed ready to fill these in. At the end, smiling with satisfaction at what he had discovered, Mr. Botumile explained to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about share manipulation; about insider information; about having that precious advantage of advance knowledge. Charlie Gotso could have made a large profit on the company’s shares, because he knew what was coming before anybody else did. And some of that profit, Mr. Botumile explained, would go back to Baleseng.

“You’ve been an extremely good detective,” said Mr. Botumile at last. “You really have, Rra.”

“Oh,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He did not think that was true. Could one be good at something without knowing it? Could one accept the credit for an accidental result? Whatever the answers to these questions were, though, he had already made his decision. The things that we do best, he thought, are the things that we have always done best.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WE DECEIVE OURSELVES, OR ARE DECEIVED

NOW MMA MAKUTSI,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I want you to tell me about your case. That small woman…”

“Teenie.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I suppose she doesn’t mind. But why do people put up with names like that? Sometimes we Batswana are not very kind in the names we give ourselves.”

Mma Makutsi agreed. There had been a boy in Bobonong whose name meant the one with ears that stick out. He had lived with this and had seemed unconcerned. It was also true; his ears did stick out, almost at right angles to his head. But why land a child with that? And then there was that man who worked in the supermarket whose name when translated from Setswana meant large nose. His nose was large, but there were people with much larger noses than his and it was only because of his name that Mma Makutsi felt her eyes drawn inexorably to that dominating feature. It was tactless and unkind.

“I don’t think she minds being called that, Mma,” she said. “And she is very small. She’s also…” She trailed off. There was something indefinably sad about Teenie, with her pleading look. She wanted something, she felt, but she was unsure what it was. Love? Friendship? There was a loneliness about her, as there was about some people who just did not seem to belong, who fitted in—to an extent—but who never seemed quite at home.

“She is an unhappy one,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have seen that woman. I do not know her, but I have seen her.”

“Yes, she is unhappy,” said Mma Makutsi. “But we cannot do anything about that, can we, Mma?”