Mma Ramotswe accompanied Mma Potokwani into the office. It was a room that she particularly liked because of its clear association with children. There were children’s drawings on the wall alongside group photographs; there were boxes of battered toys donated by schools for more fortunate children; there were recipe books and accounts and bottles of those curious iron tonics that Mma Potokwani thought of as a panacea for all the ills of childhood.

Cake was produced. ‘A new recipe,’ Mma Potokwani announced. ‘More sultanas.’

Mma Ramotswe loved sultanas and was urged to take two large pieces so that the tin need not be opened again. ‘I like to keep air out,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘Air can make a cake go stale very quickly.’

As they set about the serious business of tackling the cake, they exchanged day-to-day news. Mma Potokwani’s husband had developed a frozen shoulder and was finding it difficult to drive. Mma Ramotswe remembered having this problem herself many years previously and said it had taken a long time to get better. Mma Potokwani then asked after Mma Makutsi’s baby and was told about the disagreement with the aunt about the proper time at which to expose a baby to visits from others.

‘I am very much in favour of the modern approach,’ she said. ‘One or two of the housemothers here, though, are very conservative about these things.’

They moved on to the latest price increases, and from there they went on to the issue of traffic jams. There would have to be more roads, they concluded, but roads cost money.

‘Everything costs money,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘That’s why people borrow so much.’

Mma Ramotswe agreed that this was a problem. ‘And yet there are people who say that we shouldn’t worry about borrowing,’ she said. ‘I do not understand how you can borrow to get out of debt.’

‘You cannot,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘You cannot get uphill by walking downhill.’

‘Or downhill by walking uphill,’ suggested Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwani, whose mouth was full of cake at the time that this observation was made, simply nodded. There are times when it is better to concentrate on the cake in one’s mouth than to contribute to a debate.

There was then a short silence before Mma Ramotswe spoke again. ‘I have been to see some people called Molapo,’ she said. ‘Do you know that family, Mma?’

Mma Potokwani brushed a few fragments of cake from her lips. ‘It is a common name, Mma. I have known some people called that. There are some Molapos at Kanye, I think. I met them a long time ago.’

‘This family has a farm not far from the Gaborone Dam,’ Mma Ramotswe said. ‘They have been there for a long time.’

Mma Potokwani gave a nod of recognition. ‘Oh yes, I have heard of those people. The old man was a politician, I think.’

‘He was. Yes, that’s the family.’