He thought that he would discuss it with Mma Ramotswe. It was impossible to imagine her ever doing anything that was wrong or shabby, and if she said that in this case the end justified the means, then he would be satisfied. But then he thought again: the whole point about this investigation was that he was doing it himself; he should not run off to Mma Ramotswe the moment anything difficult arose. No, he would have the film developed and he would show the photograph to Mma Botumile. But first he would find out who lived in that house so that he might reveal to her the chapter and verse of her husband’s infidelity. He did not envy Mr. Botumile after that, but then it was really not for him, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, to pass judgement on a client’s marriage, other than to come to the conclusion, privately, that if Mma Botumile were the last woman in Botswana and he were the last man, he would stay resolutely single.

WHILE MR J.L.B. MATEKONI wrestled with his conscience, Mma Makutsi was preparing a meal for Phuti Radiphuti in her house in Extension Two. The previous evening had been one of his days to eat at his aunt’s house, and this meant that he would be looking forward to Mma Makutsi’s cooking. Mma Makutsi cooked what Phuti Radiphuti wanted, whereas his aunt cooked what she thought he should eat. That evening, she had prepared fried chicken with rice into which sultanas had been sprinkled. There was also fried banana, which always seemed to go so well with chicken, and a small jar of Mozambiquan peri-peri sauce which gave a kick to everything. Phuti Radiphuti had revealed a taste for hot food, which Mma Makutsi was trying to acquire herself. She was making some progress in that, but it was slow, and frequent glasses of water were required.

Their conversation ranged over the events of the past few days. Mma Makutsi had debated with herself whether to reveal her abortive resignation, and had eventually decided that she would do so. She did not come out of the episode very well, she thought, but she had never concealed anything from him, and she did not want to start doing so now.

“I made a fool of myself yesterday,” she said to him, as she stirred the fried chicken in the pan. “I thought I would go and get another job.” That was all she said. She had thought that she would tell him everything, but now, in the end, she did not. There was no mention of the encounter with Violet and of the humiliation that had entailed; there was no mention of the broken shoe, nor of the ignominious barefoot walk, nor the thorn.

She was surprised by the strength of his reaction to the news. “But you can’t do that!” he exploded. “What about Mma Ramotswe! You can’t leave Mma Ramotswe!”