Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni fingered the crease on his trousers. He had changed out of his garage clothes into freshly ironed khaki trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt. “She is called Motholeli,” he said. “She…” He tailed off. He was awed by the doctor’s presence, which was a powerful one; by his big hands; by the gold-rimmed glasses he wore; and by the fact that he was a man of education, a graduate of a university somewhere, the beneficiary of years of training.

“Come inside,” said the doctor. “This way.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni pushed the wheelchair round to the front of the house and with the help of the doctor lifted it up the three low steps onto the verandah. Then they followed the doctor through the front door and down a short corridor. The floor of the corridor was lined with wide planks which had been recently varnished and reflected the little light that penetrated the gloom of the interior.

“This is a fine house,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nervously.

“It is too old,” said the doctor. “But it will last me out. Then the white ants will finish their job of eating it. They are waiting for that.”

“They will eat the whole country one day,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “They are waiting for us to let them.”

The doctor laughed. “They do not like the creosote I use,” he said. “That spoils their appetite.”

He opened a door and led them into a large room furnished with a desk and a few chairs; a bookcase under the window was stuffed with yellowing journals and papers. There was a kitchen table of some sort, raised up by the positioning of bricks beneath its legs so that it was high enough to be an examination couch. A sheet had been draped over this; a sheet with a red line through it, signifying hospital ownership.

Suddenly Motholeli started to cry. The doctor became aware of it first and bent down to comfort her. “You mustn’t be frightened,” he said. “There is nothing to be frightened of.” He turned to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Perhaps it might have been better if the mother…”

“The mother is late. There is just my wife, and she…”

The doctor nodded. “The child will be all right,” he said. And with that he leaned over and lifted Motholeli out of the chair and placed her on the table. She reached out and held on to the sleeve of his shirt. Her head was bent.

“Maybe…” began Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Maybe…” He did not know what to do. He could not bear her sobbing, which was louder now.

“Hush,” said Dr. Mwata. “There is nothing to cry about. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“No,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “This will not hurt.”

Motholeli looked at him. She was trying to stifle her sobs, and was succeeding now.