MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI had been in Lobatse and was late home. By the time he arrived, Mma Ramotswe had fed the children and was chatting with Motholeli in her room. The young girl had been in an argument with another girl in school and had been on the verge of tears over dinner. Now it was all coming out and the story, punctuated by copious weeping, was being pieced together by Mma Ramotswe. This is what I do, she thought. During the day I sort out the problems of adults; at night I sort out the problems of children.

Mma Ramotswe dabbed at Motholeli’s tears. “Oh, my darling,” she said, “you mustn’t cry. Who is this girl, anyway? How can I help you if I don’t know her name?”

“She’s a girl in my class,” said Motholeli. “She’s called Kagiso.”

“There are many Kagisos,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What is her other name?”

“It is Nnunu. Kagiso Nnunu. She’s horrid and I hate her. I hate her more than snakes.”

Mma Ramotswe put an arm around Motholeli’s shoulder. It is so small, she thought, and fragile, as if too great a hug might break it: the shoulder of a small person. And there was the illness, too; the illness that confined her to the wheelchair took its toll elsewhere—made it difficult for the body to grow at the rate that it should.

“It doesn’t help to hate somebody,” she said quietly. “I understand why you want to, but it doesn’t help. Not really.”

Motholeli looked at her incredulously. “But it does, Mma. If you hate somebody hard enough, then they can die.”

Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. Where had the child learned that? Was that the sort of thing that was being peddled around the playground?

“Who said that?” she asked. “Did somebody tell you that?”

Motholeli’s answer came quickly. “The teacher told us. She said that if you hate somebody hard enough then they can die. She said that it can happen.”