Phuti reached out to shake the man’s hand, which was rough to the touch, like sandpaper. That was the effect of lime; he had heard about how it pitted the skin. Lime and bricks.

“You are not from here,” said Phuti.

The man pointed. “Up there.”

“The other side?”

“Yes.”

There was hardship on the other side of the border; people crossed over to earn a living, to survive. It was not easy for them; those who stayed, or were sent back, had little to look forward to.

The man rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot. “I have been here for three years now. I have managed to be in work all that time. I have worked every day.”

Phuti frowned. “Every day for three years? Even Sundays?”

The man nodded. “Especially Sundays. I have not had one day off. Three years.”

Phuti was silent. It was not all that surprising, he supposed. Every thebe this man earned would be doing some important work up there; perhaps even paying for the drugs that kept some relative alive through the illness that stalked Africa, that could be kept at bay but only if you had the money, or somebody had the money, to pay.

“This will be a very good house,” said the man. “Lots of room. It is good to see a house with as much room as this.”

Phuti acknowledged the compliment. “I designed it myself. There was a draughtsman who drew the plans, but I designed it.”

“You have designed it very well,” said Thomas. “Everything will be in the right place. Perfect.”

They walked into what would be the living room. The walls there were slightly higher—two or three feet by now—and the bricklayer showed Phuti how they were constructed.

“I have asked for very good-quality bricks,” said Phuti, examining the outer layer. “These are the ones. They come from South Africa, I think. Mr. Putumelo ordered them specially.”

“They are very expensive,” said Thomas. “Good bricks always are.”

“And I’m very pleased,” said Phuti, “that they are being laid by a good tradesman like you, Rra. I’m very pleased.”

Thomas looked at him. There was something in his expression that disturbed Phuti, but he was unsure as to what it was. Distrust? But why should this man distrust him, or even feel uneasy? Was he working illegally? That was perfectly possible, but then if it were the case that he did not have a work permit it would have been unlikely that he would have spoken so openly. Those who worked illegally kept to the shadows, claimed to be from the north of the country, protested that they had a Motswana parent; did anything but talk too openly about their necessarily clandestine lives.

Thomas held Phuti’s gaze for a few moments, and then looked away.

“Is there something wrong?” asked Phuti.