Mma Ramotswe listened to this gravely. She understood the point that Mma Potokwane was making; she had seen the children eating in their houses with their house-mother; she had smelled the rich stews bubbling away in the tiny kitchens of the individual houses; she knew what all of that meant. And now they were planning to have the children sit all together in one great dining hall, served by a kitchen into which they would never be allowed to wander. What chance would a child have of sticking a finger into some dish to taste what was being made? Or of standing beside a house-mother while she made a meal and sang, as some of those women did? Who would teach the children the cooking songs? Not some anonymous chef, she thought, hired to produce large quantities of food with efficiency rather than love. And food made with love, she thought, tasted better—everybody knew that. It just did.

“I’m very sorry to hear all this, Mma Potokwane,” she said. “But I’m not sure if we can do anything to help. If you haven’t been able to persuade your board to change its mind, then I can’t see what any of us can do. They will just say, ‘You mind your own business, Mma Ramotswe.’ That is what I fear they will say, Mma.”

“I know that, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have tried, and I have failed. I cannot expect you to do any better. But …”

I should have known she would not be so easily defeated, thought Mma Ramotswe. Not Mma Potokwane … “But?”

Mma Potokwane leaned forward in her chair. Mma Makutsi did so too. “I have had an idea, Mma Ramotswe. It’s just an idea. I have no proof of anything.”

Mma Ramotswe waited. “An idea?”

“More of a suspicion.” She paused. “What if we found out that Mr. Ditso was in favour of this project for the wrong reason?”

“I do not think the board would accept it.”

Mma Potokwane was triumphant. “Exactly!”

Mma Ramotswe brought her down to earth. “But is there any reason to think that he is behaving dishonestly?”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “How do you get as much money as he has? By working? I really don’t see, Mma, how one man could do so much work that he would end up with so much money. No, there’s something else there—something that we don’t know about but that must be there, Mma—it must.”

THAT EVENING, Mma Ramotswe fed the children early so that they could both tackle homework that had taken second place to more attractive afternoon activities—to football, in Puso’s case, and to talking to friends in Motholeli’s. Both of the foster children were bright, although Puso showed a tendency to be easily distracted.