She bent down to examine a large four-seater covered in a gold-coloured material to which a fringe had been attached. She hardly dared look at the price tag, but did so and recoiled in shock. Surely no single sofa could cost anything like that? How many cattle did that represent? She did a quick calculation. Were there people who would actually pay such a price, and if they did, would they not feel permanently uncomfortable knowing that they were sitting on so expensive a piece of furniture? Would one simply admire such an item and not sit on it? Could one perhaps leave the price tag on it after purchase, so that visitors to the house could see what you had paid for it and marvel? An ostentatious person would probably do that, but she, Mma Makutsi, would never want to flaunt her wealth. Or Phuti’s wealth, she reminded herself; for I am still Mma Makutsi from Bobonong, and I shall never—never—indulge myself in a sofa like that when there are people in villages in the country for whom even a chair, a modest wooden chair, is a luxury, well nigh unaffordable.

Phuti noticed her examining the gold-coloured sofa. “Do you like that one, Grace?” he said. “Why don’t you try sitting on it? See if it’s comfortable.”

Mma Makutsi hesitated. “Oh, I was just looking, Phuti. We do not need a gold-coloured sofa …”

“Try it out,” he said. “Sit on it.”

She moved round to the front of the sofa and very slowly lowered herself onto it. She felt the cushion beneath her, at once firm and soft, supportive but yielding. She leaned back, and it was like giving oneself into the arms of a gentle, comforting lover. “Oh,” she muttered, and then, “oh,” again.

“You look very good on that,” said Phuti. “That sofa is the right colour for you. Gold. That is your colour, Grace.”

She felt the fabric with her fingers. It was as smooth as satin. Gold? Was that really her colour? She had always thought that red suited her very well, but perhaps gold was also suitable for people who looked good in red. If they bought this sofa, which of course they would not—not at that price—then she might perhaps buy a pair of gold-coloured shoes that she could wear when she was sitting on her sofa. She had seen a pair in the shoe shop at Riverwalk, and she could go back and see whether they were still available. “Would you like that one?” Phuti asked. “We can get it if you like.”

She sat up and propelled herself off the sofa. “No,” she said. “It is very nice, Phuti, but it is not right for us.”

He frowned. “Are you sure? You looked so comfortable.”

“I am sure. And I can already see one over there—that brown one—that I think might be right for us.”