He decided that it would be best to go shortly after five one evening. Work would have stopped at that time of day, and he would be able to inspect the work without incurring the displeasure of Mr. Putumelo. So one afternoon, a few days after Fanwell’s arrest, he drove down to the road-end opposite his plot, parked his car, and walked up the rough track that the builders’ vehicles had made to the house.

It was that time of evening when the sun, although still in the sky, had given clear notice of its intentions. Shadows, lengthening, merged with one another; birds exchanged their late afternoon messages, reporting food here, shelter there, or drawing noisy attention to the presence of some predator, a snake perhaps, lurking in a treetop. The soft light seemed to paint everything with warm gold, and for a moment he imagined the scene that was likely to play out in a few months’ time; of him coming up the drive and seeing Mma Makutsi waiting for him on the verandah, a fine stew bubbling away in the kitchen and then, maybe a bit later—but not too late, he hoped—children running out to meet him and him holding them up to the sky, as children love to be lifted, to their squeals of delight.

As he approached the house, he felt a sudden rush of excitement. It really was happening; this really was his house—their house; the low brick walls were his, the expanses of cement, laid where the floor would be, were made up of his cement, bought with his money. He could not help smiling, and he even said, “Well, well, well,” although there was nobody to hear him.

Or so he thought. It was as he was stepping over one of the low walls in order to stand in what would in future be a bathroom that he heard the voice.

“Yes, Rra. Can I help you?”

Phuti Radiphuti spun round. A short man in a set of blue overalls, a battered grey hat atop his head, had appeared as if from nowhere.

“I am Radiphuti,” Phuti said. “This is my house.”

The man wiped his hands on a piece of grimy towelling. “I have heard of you,” he said, switching to English; they had started in Setswana, but the man spoke hesitantly and with an accent. “Mr. Putumelo has told us about you.” He folded the piece of towel and put it into his blue overalls. “Have you come to look at the house?”

It seemed to Phuti to be a rather superfluous question. Of course he had come to look at the house. Why else would he be climbing over these little walls and standing in the middle of the future bathroom? But he checked himself and simply nodded.

“We are making good progress,” said the man. “I am one of the carpenters, but I also do bricklaying and other things. My name is Thomas.”