Mma Mapoi continued with her story. “The police came and took her away. She did not deny that she had killed this man, and they took her to the High Court in Lobatse. Mma Sebina—the mother—told me all about this. They knew why she had done it, and I think that the judge felt sorry for her, but she still had to go to prison. But she became late there after a year, I think—she was ill. And that made those children orphans.”

“Where did they go? Was there a grandmother?”

Mma Mapoi shook her head. “No. There was nobody. Nobody knew where that woman was from, and the late husband’s family would have nothing to do with the children of the woman who had killed their son.”

Mma Ramotswe made a sympathetic clicking with her tongue. Without a grandmother, children in that position would be the responsibility of a village—if they had a village.

“So they took them to that place at Tlokweng,” said Mma Mapoi. “That is where they went. Then Mma Sebina took the girl. She could not take the brother. She could not feed two more mouths, she said.”

Mma Mapoi went on to say something about the cost of food and how difficult it was to feed growing children, with their appetites. Boys were worse than girls, she said, and they always wanted meat, and meat was so expensive these days, unless you had your own chickens, of course…But Mma Ramotswe had stopped listening. The orphan farm at Tlokweng; and there was a boy. I’ve found your brother, she thought.

“Thank you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have told me something very important. And I don’t think we need to tell Mma Sebina about what her mother did. We can keep that a secret, as long as we can tell her that she has a brother.”

Mma Mapoi seemed relieved. “It would be better that way,” she said. “My friend never wanted her daughter to know. I am sure of that.”

“Then we can respect her wishes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is always better to respect the wishes of somebody who is late.”

“Oh yes,” said Mma Mapoi. “That is much better. Otherwise they might punish us from up there.”

Mma Ramotswe sipped at her tea. “Possibly,” she said. But there was disbelief in her voice; she did not think that those who were late, or the ancestors themselves, would wish punishment upon us, no matter what our transgressions. It was far more likely that there would be love, falling like rain from above, changing the hearts of the wicked; transforming them.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

ABOUT A BED