‘Indeed they are not,’ said Mma Sheba. ‘One of my partners handles insolvencies. He’s very busy these days.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘People who have built up a good business over the years, who have worked hard all their lives, suddenly find that the economic climate is very different.’

‘It is very sad for them,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi had now made the tea and brought two mugs that she placed before Mma Ramotswe and Mma Sheba. ‘These are both redbush,’ she said. ‘I shall be drinking ordinary tea myself.’

Mma Sheba thanked her, and Mma Ramotswe was pleased to see that some of Mma Makutsi’s prickliness disappeared.

Mma Sheba continued with her tale. ‘I drew up a will about four years ago,’ she said. ‘It was for a man who had been a client of my firm for some time – a farmer called Rra Molapo.’

‘I know that family,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Or rather, I know of them. Was his father not one of Seretse Khama’s ministers?’

Mma Sheba nodded. ‘Yes, he was in the government then. The Khamas and the Molapos were good friends, but I think the old man – that’s the father of my client – became a bit bored with politics and so he bought a farm down on the other side of the Gaborone Dam. It was quite a good farm, and of course land was cheaper in those days. He was a skilled farmer, and the land was in good order when my client, that’s Edgar Molapo, took over. The old man died and Rra Edgar took on the running of the farm. He did quite well: he won prizes for his Brahman bulls and I think they even used some of them for breeding on the other side of the border. He made a fair amount of money out of cattle.’

Mma Ramotswe thought of her own father, Obed Ramotswe, whom she referred to as her ‘late daddy’. Whenever anybody mentioned cattle, memories of him came back to her, and she was at his side again, at the cattle post, admiring the herd that he had built up through being able to judge them so well. She heard their lowing, and she smelled the sweet smell that always hung in the air above them – the smell of forage and dust, the smell of their hides when wet, the very smell of her country.

‘There is nothing like a good herd of cattle,’ she mused.

Mma Sheba agreed. ‘No, there is nothing, Mma. And Rra Edgar was a happy man, I think. Except for one thing – he did not have any children of his own.’

Mma Ramotswe held Mma Sheba’s gaze. And that is me too, she thought, although she had Motholeli and Puso, and she was grateful, and she loved them.