“He has always been a kind man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is what he is like. And Charlie will turn out all right in the end.” Then she added, “I do not know when the end will be, though.”

The subject of Bishop Mwamba was raised. The bishop had been to visit the orphan farm and the children had sung very nicely for him, Mma Potokwane reported. Mma Ramotswe replied that she had heard him give a sermon in the Anglican cathedral that had been very impressive and that even Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was known to sleep through sermons, had remained awake.

Then Mma Ramotswe left. As she drove away, she listened carefully to the noise that her van made. It was difficult to tell, as the road was bumpy and cars always squeaked and protested on bumpy roads, but she thought that she could hear it. It was, as Mma Potokwane had suggested, a knocking sound. For a moment she imagined that the engine was sending her a signal, as prisoners will knock on the wall of a cell to make contact with unseen others. But what was the tiny white van trying to tell her with its knocking? That it was tired? That it had had enough?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN THE COLOUR OF THE NATIONAL FLAG

MMA RAMOTSWE could not contain herself, but had to. The moment she arrived back at the office after her meeting with Mma Potokwane, she picked up the telephone and dialled Mma Sebina’s number. All the way back from the orphan farm she had wondered whether she should tell her on the telephone, and had decided that it would be better for her to meet her client and give her the news in person, face-to-face; there were, after all, delicate aspects to this case. Although the news of her brother’s existence, right here in Gaborone, was undoubtedly good news, there was also the issue of the mother and her unfortunate fate. She had told Mma Mapoi that the daughter need not know what had happened to the mother, and that she would not raise it with her. But what if she asked? Mma Ramotswe was not sure whether it would be right to keep this knowledge from her, even though it might be difficult for her to accept that her mother had been sent to prison and had died there. And how much more difficult would it be to accept the reason for her having been sent to prison in the first place? All of that, thought Mma Ramotswe, would have to be handled tactfully.