Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath, momentarily shocked by Mma Makutsi’s claim. She might be marrying into the Double Comfort Furniture Shop, but she was not yet the Double Comfort Furniture Shop itself. Indeed, technically the store still belonged to Phuti’s father, even if the old man spent most of his time these days sleeping. You still own something when you are asleep, she felt like pointing out to Mma Makutsi, but did not. Mma Ramotswe was generous; if it meant so much to Mma Makutsi that she should be thought of as the owner of a store, then what harm was there in that? Her assistant had started life with nothing, or next to nothing, and if she now had something, then that was entirely due to hard work on her part. There had been the Botswana Secretarial College, where she had performed at a stellar level, and then there had been the dancing classes at which she had persisted with Phuti, a most unpromising dance partner, even when he trod on her toes and stammered so badly that she could hardly make out what he was trying to say. No, Mma Makutsi deserved every bit of status to which she laid claim; she deserved this far more than many of those more glamorous people did, those glamorous people who found that everything tumbled into their laps simply because they were good-looking or knew people who would help them. She knew of so many cases like that: the nephew of a chief finding a good job in Gaborone above those better qualified than he was; the son of a mining manager being given a job with a company that made parts for the mining industry; and so on. It had never been like that for Mma Makutsi.

Mma Sebina nodded. “And it is a very fine store, Mma.” She turned back to face Mma Ramotswe. “No, I wouldn’t mind it at all if some cousins were to get in touch,” she continued. “Even if they were greedy and just wanted money from me. I would still like to have some cousins. You see, Mma, I have no family.”

She spoke without self-pity, as one might observe that one had run out of tea, or small change, or something of that nature.

Mma Ramotswe put the pencil down on her desk. “They are all late? That is terrible, Mma. That is very sad. These days—”

Mma Sebina raised a hand to stop her. “No, it is not that. They are not late—or some of them are, but the others may or may not be. I don’t know.” She paused. “I should tell you my story, Mma Ramotswe. Then you will understand.”

Mma Ramotswe signalled to Mma Makutsi to put on the kettle. The telling of a story, like virtually everything in this life, was always made all the easier by a cup of tea.