Half the medicine, thought Mma Ramotswe. Now for the other half. She looked out of the window. The apprentice had left shortly before nine o’clock, and allowing for delays at the roundabouts and for one or two wrong turnings, he should be back very soon. She could start, though, by telling him of how she had found Mma Tsolamosese.

“The father died,” she said. “He retired from prison service and then he died. But Mma Tsolamosese herself is well, and she is living on her widow’s pension from the department. I think that she has enough. Her house seemed comfortable, and she is with her people. I think she is happy.”

“That is very good,” said Mr. Molefelo. “But was she also cross with me when you told her what had happened?”

“She was very surprised,” said Mma Ramotswe. “At first she did not believe that you could have done it. I had to persuade her that it was true. Then she said that she thought that you were very brave to confess what had happened. That’s what she said.”

Mr. Molefelo, who had looked cheerful before, now looked miserable again. “She must think I am very bad. She must think that I abused her hospitality. That is a very bad thing to do.”

“She understands,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She is a woman who has lived quite a long time. She understands that young men can behave like that. Do not think that she is filled with anger, or anything like that.”

“She is not?”

“No. And she is also happy that you should apologise in person. She is prepared for that.”

“Then I must go out there,” said Mr. Molefelo.

Mma Ramotswe glanced out of her window. The tiny white van was being driven up to the back of the garage.

“No need to go out there, Rra,” she said. “Mma Tsolamosese has just arrived. She will be here in a moment.” She paused. “Are you all right, Rra?”

Mr. Molefelo gulped. “I am very embarrassed, Mma. I feel very bad. But I think I am ready.”

– -

MMA TSOLAMOSESE looked at the man standing before her.

“You are looking very well,” she said. “You were thinner in those days. You were a boy.”

“You were my mother, Mma. You looked after me well.”

She smiled at him. “I was your mother in Gaborone. You were my son while you were here. Now I am proud of you. Mma Ramotswe has told me how well you have done.”

“But I did a very bad thing to you,” said Mr. Molefelo. “Your radio-”

Mma Tsolamosese interrupted him. “A radio is a small thing. A man is a big thing.”

“I am sorry, Mma,” said Mr. Molefelo. “I am sorry for what I did. I have never stolen anything else. That was the only time.”

“Do not worry, Rra,” she said. “I have told you already. A radio is a small thing.”

They sat down together while Mma Ramotswe prepared the tea. Then, over the strong, sweet liquid, they talked about what had happened in their lives. At the end of the conversation, Mma Ramotswe drew Mr. Molefelo to one side and spoke to him quietly.

“There is something you can do for this woman,” she said. “It will not cost you too much money, but it is something that you can do.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Mma Tsolamosese. “She is such a kind woman,” he whispered. “She was like that then, and she still is. I will do whatever I can.”

“There is a grandchild,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “There is a little girl. She may not live very long because of this cruel illness. But in the meantime, you could make a difference to that life. You could give Mma Tsolamosese money to use for that child. The right food. Meat. Pretty clothes. Even if the life of that child is short, it would be made a happy one, and if you did that, Rra, then you would have more than made up for what you did all those years ago.”

Mr. Molefelo looked at her. “You are right, Mma. I can do that. It is not a big thing to do.”

“Then you tell Mma Tsolamosese,” said Mma Ramotswe, gesturing towards the older woman. “You go ahead and tell her.”

Mma Tsolamosese listened quietly as Mr. Molefelo spoke. Then, her head bowed, she spoke.

“I always thought that you were a good person, Rra,” she said. “All those years ago, I thought that. Nothing that I have heard, nothing, has made me change my mind about you.”

She looked up and reached for his hand, while Mma Ramotswe turned away. Mr. Molefelo had earned this moment for himself, she thought, and there should be no spectator.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MR. MOLEFELO had written two cheques that day: one to Mma Ramotswe, for her professional services (three thousand pula, a steep fee, but one which he was well able to afford), and another for two thousand pula, to be deposited in a post office savings account in the name of Mma Tsolamosese, for the benefit of her grandchild. More cheques would need to be made out for school fees, but again, Mr. Molefelo had made a considerable amount of money, and these sums would not be noticed. In return, after all, as Mma Ramotswe was at pains to explain to him, he had corrected the moral balance of his past and earned the right to an easy conscience.

But Mma Ramotswe’s sense of achievement was marred by the question brought to her attention by Mma Selelipeng, the physiotherapist from Mochudi. Mma Ramotswe would dearly have loved this issue to have gone away, but it remained stubbornly present and would have to be dealt with. At least she had now decided what to do; she had Mr. Bernard Selelipeng’s address right there in her hand, and she would go and see him early that evening, shortly after he arrived home from work.

She knew Limpopo Court, a newish block of flats near Tlokweng Road. She had been in one of the flats there before, visiting a distant cousin, and its shape and its stuffiness had discouraged her. Mma Ramotswe liked the old round shapes of traditional architecture; hard edges and sharp roofs struck her as being unfriendly and uncomfortable. And a traditional house smelled better, because there was no concrete, which has such a bad odour, dank and acrid. A traditional house smelled of wood smoke, the earth, and of thatch; all good smells, the smell of life itself.

No. 42 was on the first floor, reached by an ugly concrete walkway that ran the length of the building. She glanced at the door, with its shiny blue paint, and at the name, Selelipeng, which had been stencilled on it in pride of ownership. She felt unhappy and concerned, even anxious; what she had to do was not easy, but she could see no way out of it. She had agreed to act on behalf of Mma Selelipeng, and she could not go back on her word. At the same time, she was aware of the fact that she was interfering in Mma Makutsi’s affairs in a way to which her employee might object. Would she, were she in the shoes of Mma Makutsi, want her employer meddling in a romance which clearly meant so much to her? She thought not. But then were she in Mma Makutsi’s position, she would not have to worry about the obligation she owed to Mma Selelipeng. So it was not as simple as Mma Makutsi might imagine.

Unaware of the moral quandary which he had created for Mma Ramotswe, Mr. Bernard Selelipeng, his tie loosened after a demanding day in the diamond office, opened the door to Mma Ramotswe’s knock. He saw before him a large, well-built lady, vaguely familiar to him in some context. Who was she? A relative? Cousins of cousins were always appearing on his doorstep wanting something. At least this woman did not look hungry.

“Mr. Selelipeng?”

“My name is on the door, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at him. She saw the centre parting and the expensive blue shirt. She noticed the shoes, which were shinier than the shoes that most men wore.

“I have to speak to you, Rra, about an important matter. Please, will you invite me in?”

Mr. Selelipeng drew back from the door, gesturing for Mma Ramotswe to enter. Pointing to a chair, he invited her to sit down.