It will be marriage, thought Mma Ramotswe. The real mother would have been a young girl, perhaps, the father maybe even unknown. That would have been an issue in the past, but not now, not any more. She began to reassure Mma Mapoi that this would probably not disturb Mma Sebina, but the older woman cut her short.

“No, no, Mma. It’s not that. No. That is nothing.”

Mma Ramotswe waited.

“It is something very bad, Mma,” said Mma Mapoi. “I don’t know if I should tell you.” She paused. “If I do, will you tell her? Will you tell the daughter?”

Mma Ramotswe was uncertain how to deal with this. She had been asked by Mma Sebina to find out about her real family and she did not know how she could agree not to pass on any information she came by. And yet, if it was something terrible, then how could she be sure that Mma Sebina would want to know? Mma Ramotswe began to explain to Mma Mapoi about her duty to her client. She could not undertake to keep anything from her; did Mma Mapoi understand? Rather to her surprise, Mma Mapoi said that she did understand; she understood perfectly well.

“I leave it up to you,” Mma Mapoi said. “You can decide. But do not tell her until you have thought about it very carefully, Mma. You do not want her to be unhappy, do you?”

“No. Of course not.” Mma Ramotswe waited. Mma Mapoi had poured the tea now and was cradling her cup in her hands. Then she looked up at Mma Ramotswe.

“The mother—the real mother—was a very young woman, Mma. She was just sixteen, I think. And she already had one child before she had this girl. Her first-born was a boy. Then she had a daughter.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded her encouragement. “I see. Two children.”

“Yes, two children. And then…then, Mma, this young woman killed her husband with a hoe. That is what happened.”

Mma Ramotswe had not been prepared for this. Botswana was a peaceful place, and people did not kill their husbands, or not very often. That happened elsewhere, she thought.

Mma Mapoi was watching her intently. “I can see that you are shocked, Mma,” she said quietly. “It was a terrible thing. I think that he was a very bad man, that husband—he beat her, I think, and she decided that she had had enough. That sometimes happens.”

Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe, it did. And she understood. There were men who beat women; she had been married to one, to Note Mokoti, all those years ago. Had she stayed with him, might she have ended up disposing of him? It seemed inconceivable, but in a moment of utter desperation anybody, she imagined, might do anything.