She started to wail, the wail of the bereaved, the widow, that heart-rending inimitable cry that signified the sudden, overwhelming onset of a grief. Mma Ramotswe reached forward and seized Mma Sebina by the arm, pulling her towards her. “No, Mma! It is not that! Mr. Sekape is all right. It is not that, Mma.”

Mma Sebina strangled her cries. She stared mutely at Mma Ramotswe. “Then…”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head, as if trying to make sense of some confusion within her. “It is all my fault. I should have checked up on what Mma Potokwane told me. She has too much to remember, Mma. She can get things mixed up.”

Mma Sebina frowned. “What is mixed up?”

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. Now, very suddenly, she felt herself acutely aware of where she was—standing in front of Mma Sebina’s house, under a sky from which the rain clouds had cleared and which was now empty, blue, limitless. And across which a bird of prey was describing huge, lazy circles. She thought it strange that at a moment like this one should notice such things, but she had heard that one did; as a person facing death may suddenly find that he is looking at some humdrum object in his room, and seeing its beauty.

“Mr. Sekape is not really your brother, I’m afraid, Mma. Mma Potokwane got things mixed up.” She would tell her in due course that there had been a brother and that he was late. Now was not the time, though, as she had caused Mma Sebina quite enough distress already.

Mma Ramotswe had half expected another wail, and was prepared for it. Instead she saw an expression of curiosity come over the other woman’s face. It was curiosity, but it was also a look of pleasurable discovery, as if the information that had just been given to her was not disappointing but welcome.

“So he is not my brother,” she said.

“No. He is not. I’m so sorry, Mma.”

Mma Sebina fingered the crumpled piece of kitchen towel that she had been carrying. “I am glad about that,” she said.

It took a moment or two, but then the realisation came to Mma Ramotswe. Of course, of course. “Oh, Mma,” she said. “I’m sorry that he proved to be one of those men who have a low opinion of women. I knew it was going to be difficult for you. I knew it. So, yes, you must be glad that such a man is not your brother.”

Mma Sebina looked at her in puzzlement. “But he does like women,” she said. “He said that he liked me very much. And…”

“Yes?”