Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “But, Motholeli, that is just not true. That is not true. And …” She was about to say that no teacher would express such a thought, but then she stopped herself. Teachers seemed a different breed these days, more like everybody else; when she had been a pupil at the government school in Mochudi, the teacher had been a figure of authority in the village. People respected teachers and listened to what they had to say. She remembered walking with her late father on the road to Pilane when a cart had gone past, a donkey cart, and there had been a man sitting on the back holding a case of some sort and her father had raised his hat as the man passed. She had asked why he had done this, and he had replied that the man was a teacher and he would always raise his hat to a teacher. She did not think that happened today.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure, Mma. She said that if you hate somebody then they can die. She told us that. I’m sure about that, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She did not want to further undermine the authority of a teacher—there were enough people doing that anyway—and so she decided to say no more, at least about that side of it.

“But why do you hate this girl, this Kagiso?”

“Because she said I should stay outside in the parking place—in the place for cars. She said I should have my lessons out there.”

Mma Ramotswe was accustomed to receiving shocking confidences, and to receiving them with equanimity; now, however, she gasped. “But why … why would she say something like that, Motholeli? What did she mean?”

“She said that my wheelchair is like a car and that it should not be brought inside the school. She said there is no place for cars inside the school. She said I am just like a car.”

Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes. It was only too easy to imagine a child saying such a thing; children showed endless inventiveness when it came to devising torment for other children. She opened her eyes and made an effort to smile. “That is the silliest thing I have ever heard, Motholeli. It is so silly that … well, I think you should just laugh at that girl. Laugh, and say how silly she is.”

Motholeli remained silent.

“Well?” prompted Mma Ramotswe. “Don’t you think that’s the best thing to do? Don’t you think that would be better than hating her?”

“No. I think it would be better to hate her. Then she might die, and she wouldn’t be able to say these things about me.”

Mma Ramotswe tried another tack. “Would you like me to have a word with the teacher?”

This brought an immediate reaction. “No, Mma. It is not the teacher’s business.”