and her nakedly self-centred ambitions. If she were to go to Trevor Mwamba himself, who had been the Bishop of Botswana, and say to him, “Do I really have to love Violet Sephotho?” he would incline his head and say, “I’m afraid you must, Precious.” And she would do it for Bishop Mwamba, she would try to love even Violet, although she would not pretend it would be easy. At the same time, of course, that might be just too much of a request to make of Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe would not like to have to say to her, “Violet Sephotho is your sister, Mma,” because the reaction she should expect would not be a positive one.
Calviniah…Calviniah was her sister, and at lunch she had made a request of her. It was not uttered as a request—not in words that were normally used for asking—but the intention behind it was as clear as if it had been spelled out.
She looked at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Calviniah,” she said. “The woman who was at the wedding.”
“The one you thought was late?”
“Yes. That lady. I had lunch with her.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “What did you have?” He looked at his plate again. “Meat?”
Mma Ramotswe did not answer the question. “She’s unhappy.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni waited. If a woman was unhappy, in his experience this could mean that there was a badly behaved man in the background. That was not always the case, but it was often so.
“She has a daughter,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “She works as a diamond sorter.”
“She won’t be unhappy about that,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “That’s a very good job. Lots of people would give anything for that job.”
“I know that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The daughter must be pleased. But I don’t think it’s anything to do with the job.”
“Illness?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Is she sick?”
“No, I don’t think it’s that. The daughter has become very unfriendly towards her. Calviniah cannot understand why.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni finished the last piece of meat on his plate. “Children can break your heart,” he said. “I knew a man whose son did not speak to him for ten years. Then he came home and expected his father to give him money. After ten years of silence.”
“Why?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Why would you not speak to your father for ten years?”
“An argument over cattle,” replied Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He smiled. “Cattle never argue over people, but people always argue over cattle.”
“I think Calviniah was asking for help,” she said. “I think she wants me to do something.”
“You could speak to her, I suppose,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.
“I could. But she might just tell me to mind my own business. People don’t like outsiders to interfere in their private family business.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said that he understood that.
“But I still have to do something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And there’s another thing…” She mentioned Poppy, the woman who had lost all her money.
“Money lost is money lost,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Then he said, “Poppy?”
“Yes. She was at school with us in Mochudi. She went to Francistown.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni pushed his empty plate across the table. “I know about that woman.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “There will be many Poppies. It is a popular name.”
“No, it is the same one,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “She had a big store up in Francistown. There would not be two Poppies who had a store.”
Mma Ramotswe asked him whether he knew how she had lost her money.
“She met a man,” he said. “He was called Flat. That was his name; it was not a nickname. Flat Ponto. He used to work in the motor trade. He was quite a good mechanic, but he had a reputation for being lazy. You know how it is with some people—they’re good at what they do, but they don’t do enough of it.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I’ve known people like that, Rra. If people had batteries, then you might think that theirs needed charging. Not enough energy.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate again. “Perhaps they’re not getting enough meat, you know. Sometimes that’s the explanation.”
There was silence.
“Meat has lots of iron in it,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued. “Iron makes your muscles strong. It gives you the energy you need to do things.” He paused. “I’m not saying that’s always the explanation, but I think that in some cases—some cases, Mma—that might be what’s happening.”
“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe, looking straight ahead. “But this man she met…the mechanic, the iron-deficient one…”
“He became very