That led to further mirth. Then Mma Ramotswe asked if the house-mother had seen Mma Potokwane. “She has gone over to her house, Mma,” came the reply. And then, after a short pause, “She is not happy, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. That was very unlike Mma Potokwane, who had a reputation for a certain breeziness and optimism. “Not happy? Are you sure, Mma?”

The woman nodded. “I spoke to her about my fridge and told her that it was not working very well. I told her that some of the meat I had for the children had turned bad, and that this was a waste. You should not waste good meat, Mma.”

“And?” pressed Mma Ramotswe.

“And she said something that was really nothing. You know how it is when a person says something but it is really nothing very much at all?”

“I do, Mma. But, tell me, why should Mma Potokwane be unhappy?”

The house-mother said that she did not know. She agreed that it was unusual; perhaps she was not feeling well—there had been a few cases of flu recently, and when you had flu you did not feel inclined to be cheerful.

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is hard to smile when your head is splitting.”

The house-mother nodded. “She was like a balloon with all the air taken out of it,” she said. “You know how that looks, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe did. She exchanged a few more comments with the house-mother, and then took her leave. Mma Potokwane’s house was at the far end of the orphan-farm grounds, beyond the vegetable patches that the children worked, beyond the scrap of ground that the smaller boys used as their soccer pitch: a square of dusty, baked earth devoid of so much as a blade of grass, but the scene of many a tiny sporting triumph, a ball sent shooting past the goalkeeper, a clever pass—things that were in their transience quickly forgotten but for a short time meant so much in a young life that had not known much triumph or even, until now, much love.

SHE STOOD AT the door of the Potokwane house and called out Ko, ko! Inside, somewhere within the cool interior of the house, the voice of Radio Botswana broke the silence: a discussion about a new power station and the problems of building it. Was that the sort of thing that Mma Potokwane listened to, or was she dozing somewhere, catching up on lost sleep, having left the radio on? Discussion of power stations could easily send people off to sleep, although some people—mostly men, she imagined—might be woken up by such things.

She repeated the traditional request for admission. “Ko, ko, Mma! Ko, ko!”