Again Mma Makutsi smiled broadly. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe? How was Mma Potokwane yesterday? Still very bossy?”

It was well known that Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi, although civil enough to one another, did not see eye to eye on everything. In fact, they saw eye to eye on nothing. But now was not the time to go into that particular issue; now was the time to work out what it was that was so different about Mma Makutsi.

“Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “New glasses!”

Mma Makutsi reached up self-consciously and took off her glasses, examined them, polished them quickly on a small piece of cloth which she had taken out of a drawer, and then donned them again. “Yes,” she said.

Mma Ramotswe was initially at a loss for words, her emotions mixed. Her assistant had several defining characteristics. One was the fact that she had achieved that ninety-seven per cent mark in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College—an unequalled achievement in the annals of the college. Another was the fact that she came from Bobonong, which was in the middle of nowhere from the perspective of those who lived in Gaborone, if not of those who lived in Bobonong. And a further characteristic was that she wore extremely large, round glasses. All of these characteristics were quintessentially Mma Makutsi, to the extent that Mma Ramotswe felt that if the police were ever to need to issue a wanted description of Mma Makutsi—for some unimaginable secretarial offence—they would say, “Wanted: woman from Bobonong, average height, ninety-seven per cent, large round glasses.” That would say everything and surely lead to her rapid detention. But now, without her round glasses, Mma Makutsi could walk with impunity through any police roadblock.

The new glasses were small. As Mma Ramotswe peered across the room at them she saw that whereas the previous glasses had reflected the surrounding light, this pair seemed to absorb it. And the frames were as different as could be imagined. The old frames had been made of a mock-tortoiseshell, predominantly brown; these were light blue, not far from the colour of one panel of Botswana’s national flag, the blue which appeared on government buildings, at the gates of schools, or on the walls of more patriotically minded citizens.

“They are blue, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, struggling to find something to say. “Botswana blue.”

“That is why I like them,” said Mma Makutsi. “Or one of the reasons. The other reason is that they are very fashionable.”

Mma Ramotswe was quick to agree. She was uncertain what the current mode in glasses might be, but given that the requirements of fashion seemed to dictate that everything should become smaller, then these glasses were definitely following the trend. But the old glasses had character; they made Mma Makutsi what she was.

“I liked your old glasses, of course, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They served you very well, I thought.”