Tea Time for the Traditionally Built

CHAPTER ELEVEN. BIG MAN TAFA

A TUESDAY MORNING, thought Mma Ramotswe, is a good day on which to start work on a case. This was largely because of the positioning of Tuesday: Monday was a difficult day for no other reason than that it was Monday the start of another week, with the prospect of another weekend as distant as it ever could be. Wednesday was halfway through the week, and a day on which, for some reason, there always seemed to be rather too much to do. By Thursday one was getting tired, and then on Friday, with the end in sight, one was in no mood to begin anything. That left Tuesday, which it now was; the day on which Mma Ramotswe found herself contemplating afresh the list of names of football players and deciding which of them to investigate first.

She glanced across the room at Mma Makutsi, who was sitting stiffly at her desk, in a way which Mma Ramotswe recognised as her bad-day posture. Mma Makutsi was like that; she could be moody, particularly when there was some problem on the domestic front. Certainly, there was something worrying her, but Mma Ramotswe knew better than to raise it with her at this point. It would come out later in the day, and she would be able to comfort or reassure her. Then the mood would lighten and everything would return to normal. That was what normally happened.

The Molofololo case was difficult not only because of the strange world of football with which it was concerned, but also because of the sheer challenge of looking into the private lives of quite so many men. She would have to delegate, she decided. Mma Makutsi could take on some of the names, Mr. Polopetsi- if things were quiet in the garage-could be allocated a few of the others, and she would do the rest. Now, looking at the list, she picked up a pencil and divided the names. The drivers of the Mercedes-Benzes, each of whom had a tick against his name, were, according to Mr. Polopetsi, unlikely candidates; they could be left to Mr. Polopetsi himself in that case, as he was the least experienced of the three of them. She then divided the remaining names at random between Mma Makutsi and herself.

She had decided that the best approach was to speak directly to the players. Mr. Molofololo's suggestion that she pose as a masseuse was not practical, for a number of reasons. Prominent amongst these was that Mma Ramotswe had no idea of how to perform a massage, and she simply did not fancy pounding and manipulating the limbs of these muscly football players. She might pull the wrong way and make matters worse; she might tickle them inadvertently; anything could happen. No, that was not a good idea; far better to be transparent and to tell the players that she had been asked by Mr. Molofololo to talk to everybody to find out what was going wrong. That had the benefit of being true, but it also gave people the chance to do what they liked to do best-which was to talk. Much as Mma Ramotswe admired Clovis Andersen's The Principles of Private Detection, it had to be said that this was one matter on which she felt she knew better than Mr. Andersen himself. Nowhere in that great book did the author recommend the practice that Mma Ramotswe had found to be the strongest weapon in the private detective's armoury- that of asking people directly about something. That always worked, she found; always. When in doubt, ask somebody; it was as simple as that.

She looked at the list of names and the addresses beside them. She shook her head over the ridiculous football nicknames, smiling, though; men will be boys, she thought, especially when it comes to sporting matters. That was when men forgot their real age and went back to being ten or whenever it was that they were at their happiest. We all have a time, thought Mma Ramotswe- a time when the world was at its most exciting for us. Usually that time is somewhere in childhood, in that faded, half-remembered land that we all once dwelled in; that time of freshness and hope. For me it was… she stopped, and thought of Mochudi and the house she had lived in as a girl. And she saw her father too, the late Obed Ramotswe, with his battered old hat that people laughed at but he loved so much. That was when I was happiest, she thought. Not that she was unhappy now-she was very happy; happy with her business, with her husband, with her tiny white… No, she was unhappy about that, but best not to think about it. Think of football instead and… Her eye moved down the list and came to Big Man Tafa. She would start there because she knew the road where he lived and also because she thought it would be a good idea to start with the goalkeeper. She remembered hearing people talking about him when they came out of the Stadium. Somebody had made a remark about his having been on the wrong side of the goal at the critical moment; not that she would have noticed that herself, but it was clearly obvious enough for somebody to remark on it-somebody who knew what he was talking about, as most people who attended football matches seemed to. There had been a lot of advice given to the players by the crowd; it had been a very well-informed crowd, Mma Ramotswe thought.

She looked across the room at Mma Makutsi. “I am going to go to speak to one of these football people,” she announced. “I have divided the names on this list, and you might like to talk to some of them too.”

Mma Makutsi barely looked up from her desk. “I do not see what is to be gained by talking to these people,” she muttered. “They only like to talk about football.”

Mma Ramotswe was surprised at the degree of grumpiness in this answer, but she was patient. “That's what we need to talk about in this case,” she said mildly. “It is about football, you know.”

Mma Makutsi pouted. “We will never find out anything from them,” she said. “We won't have the faintest idea what they are talking about, Mma. Goals and lines and tackles and things like that. What is all of that about, Mma Ramotswe? That's what I ask you. What is that all about? What is this offside business? You hear men talking about it all the time. So-and-so was offside. No, he wasn't. Yes, he was. That sort of thing. What is the difference between that sort of language and Double-Zulu, Mma? That is the question.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant in astonishment. “Double-Zulu, Mma? What language is that?”

Mma Makutsi waved a hand in the direction of the border. “Something they speak somewhere over there. It is more difficult than Zulu. Twice as difficult. You cannot understand it. Nobody can.”

“Is there something worrying you, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “You can speak to me about it-you know that.”

Mma Makutsi looked up now, her large glasses catching the sunlight slanting in through the small window behind Mma Ramotswe's desk; the lenses flashed like the eyes of an animal caught at night in the beam of a torch. “Why do you think I am worried?” she snapped. “I am sitting here working and you are talking about football, Mma. Forgive me, Mma, but it is not easy to work if somebody is talking about football all the time.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I'm sorry, Mma. I will try not to disturb you, but if you are unhappy, then please talk to me. It is not easy to be unhappy all by yourself, you know. It is easier if…”

She did not finish. Mma Makutsi had taken off her glasses and sunk her head in her hands. “Oh, I am very unhappy, Mma,” she sobbed. “And I am sorry that I have been accusing you of talking about football. You were not talking about football-it's just that I am a very unhappy lady, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe quickly rose to her feet and crossed the room to Mma Makutsi's side. Bending down, she put her arms around her, feeling the heaving of her shoulders as the sobbing grew deeper.

“I could tell, Mma,” she said. “I could tell that you were unhappy. What is it, Mma? Is it Phuti?”

The mention of Phuti Radiphuti's name brought forth a wail. “It is, Mma. Oh, it is, Mma Ramotswe. I saw him. I saw him yesterday evening in his car.” She looked up at her employer. Tears ran down her cheeks, eroding the oily white cream that she rubbed each morning into her difficult complexion. Mma Makutsi wept cloudy tears as a result, like milk.

Mma Ramotswe took her handkerchief and wiped at the tears. “There, Mma. You've been wanting to cry. You saw Phuti in his car. Why be upset about that?”

“In his car with Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Makutsi. “That no-good woman. Temptress. She was smiling with that big, wicked smile of hers. She was like a leopard that has been hunting and is dragging her prey to her cave. That is what she looked like.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But you do not know why she was in the car?”

“She has gone to work for him,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti has given her a job. She started yesterday and already she has her claws into him.”

Mma Ramotswe dragged a chair over to Mma Makutsi's side and sat down. “Now listen, Mma. You must not jump to conclusions. Remember what Mr. Andersen says? Remember that bit- I read it out to you once. He said Do not decide that something is the case until you know it is the case. Those were his exact words, were they not, Mma? They were. And if you apply them to this, all that you know is that for some reason-and you do not know what reason that is-Phuti had Violet Sephotho in his car yesterday evening. What time was it?”

“Oh, I don't know, Mma. Five thirty, maybe.”

“Five thirty? Well, what do people do at five o'clock, Mma? They go home, don't they?”

This brought a fresh wail from Mma Makutsi. “He was taking her back home with him! Oh, Mma Ramotswe, that is what they were doing. They were going back to his house for immoral conversations.”

Mma Ramotswe made a dismissive sound. “Nonsense, Mma. You have no evidence that anybody was thinking about immoral conversations, whatever those may be. What if Phuti was simply giving her a ride home-to her home-because she had stayed late in the store? What if that is all that he was doing? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think that it is the most likely explanation. Don't you?”

Mma Makutsi did not, but after a few minutes of further comforting, she appeared to pull herself together. “I must get on with my work, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “It is no good thinking about these things when I am trying to work. There will be time to think about them later.”

“You should talk about it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is best to discuss these things, don't you think?”

Again, Mma Makutsi did not, and Mma Ramotswe decided that there was nothing further that she could do just then. It was time to go in search of Big Man Tafa, which she did, driving in her new, medium-sized blue van, which felt so alien, so wrong in every way.

Just as she was parking the van under a tree at the end of the street-a meandering, unpaved road of middle-range houses on the western edge of Gaborone -a small boy appeared. He was wearing a tiny pair of khaki trousers and a tee shirt several sizes too large for his spindly torso, had dust on his knees and a large sticking plaster across the bridge of his nose. And like all small boys who appear out of nowhere when one is looking for something, this one, she thought, would be bound to know in which of these houses lived Big Man Tafa. Small boys knew such things; they were familiar with the car number plates of every driver in the area; they knew the name of every dog associated with every house, and the vices of every such dog; they knew the best place to find flying ants when the rains caused the termites to crawl up from their subterranean burrows and rise up into the sky, unless a small boy snatched them first, tore off their fluttering wings, and popped them, delicious morsels, into his mouth; they knew which trees harboured birds' nests and which did not; and which of the area's residents would pay you four pula to wash and polish the car.

The Principles of Private Detection contained no advice on the seeking of information from small boys, but Mma Ramotswe had often thought that it should. Perhaps she could write to Clovis Andersen one day and tell him of the things that were not in the book but that might appear in a future edition. But where was he, this Clovis Andersen, who knew so much about private detection? Somewhere in America, she imagined, because he sometimes mentioned famous cases in American cities that sounded so exotic to her ears that she wondered whether they really could exist. Where was this place called Muncie, Indiana? Or Ogden, Utah? Or, most intriguing of all, this town called Mobile, Alabama? Did that town move from place to place, as the name suggested? What happened there? Would they have heard of red bush tea, she wondered. Would they have heard of Gaborone?

“Big Man Tafa?” said the small boy in response to Mma Ramotswe's question. “Yes, he lives here, Mma. He lives in that house over there. That one.”

He pointed a small, dirty finger in the direction of a house halfway down the street.

“In the yellow house?”

The boy nodded gravely. “That is his house, Mma. Mmakeletso lives there too.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. The boy had used the traditional way of referring to a woman by naming her as the mother of her firstborn child. Mma Tafa, then, had a daughter called Keletso. That was an extra bit of information, which could be useful, but was probably not. There was more to come.

“She is a very fat lady,” said the boy adding, politely, “Like you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe patted him on the head. “You are a very observant boy. And a good one, too. Thank you.”

She decided to leave the van where she had parked it and walk the short distance to the yellow house. The feel of a place- its atmosphere and mood-was often better absorbed on foot than from the window of a vehicle. She told the boy that if he watched her van, she would give him two pula when she came back. He was delighted, and scampered off to take up his post. A pity, she suddenly thought; if somebody stole my van, then I might get the old one back. An idle thought: it was too late for that.

She walked down the road towards the Tafa house. Most of the houses on the street had walls built about their yards, preventing a passer-by from seeing too much, but she was able to form a view of the neighbourhood in general. This was not a wealthy part of town, but it was not a poor one; it was somewhere in between. The people who lived here were halfway up the ladder: the deputy managers of the branches of banks-not quite full managers yet; civil servants who were senior enough to be able to imagine themselves, in ten years' time perhaps, at a desk marked Assistant Director; deputy principals of schools. That, in itself, told her a lot before she even arrived at the gate of the Tafa house. This was a neighbourhood of people who were hoping to go up, but who were not yet where they wanted to be. And in the case of a goalkeeper, what did that mean? That he wanted to be captain, but was not yet in sight of it? What if you wanted to be captain and that post was taken? Your only hope in those circumstances would be for the captain to be got rid of-which presumably might happen if the team consistently lost over a period. Now that was an interesting thought, particularly if it came into the mind just as one walked down the short, cracked path that led from the gate to the front door of a goalkeeper's house.

MMA TAFA-or Mmakeletso-passed a cup of tea to Mma Ramotswe. They were sitting at the kitchen table, where Mma Tafa had invited Mma Ramotswe to join her.

“It is better for us to be in the kitchen, Mma,” said Mma Tafa. “I am cooking a stew and I do not want it to spoil. If we sit there, then I can watch it.”

“I like to be in the kitchen,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is often the most comfortable room in the house. A sitting room can be too formal, don't you find, Mma?”

“I do, Mma. Our sitting room is often untidy. Big Man throws his newspapers down on the floor or leaves his shoes lying about. I am always picking things up in this house. All the time.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “But men are always like that. They need us, Mma. What would they do if we were not there to tell them where their clothes are? They would be walking around with no clothes on because they would not be able to find them.”

Mma Tafa gave a chortle. It was a strange laugh, thought Mma Ramotswe, rather like the sound of an elephant's stomach rumbling.

“You are very right, Mma,” said Mma Tafa. “That would teach men to throw their clothes down on the floor. That would teach them.”

Mma Ramotswe took her tea cup gratefully. It was late morning, and very hot. There was a small fan on a shelf above the cooker, but she noticed that its plug had been detached. Tea would be cooling. As she took her first sip, she noticed Mma Tafa's eyes upon her. She had told her host that she had been asked by Mr. Molofololo to speak to his players to find out what was going wrong with the team. Big Man Tafa, his wife explained, was not in but would be back quite soon, in time for his lunch. Mma Ramotswe was welcome to stay until he arrived.

Mma Ramotswe sensed that Mma Tafa was glad of the company. She knew that it was not always easy for women in such places, where the easy companionship of the village had been replaced by the comparative anonymity of the town. Such a woman might spend much of the day without any contact with other women-an unnatural state of affairs, in Mma Ramotswe's view. We are born to talk to other people, she thought; we are born to be sociable and to sit together with others in the shade of an acacia tree and talk about things that happened the day before. We were not born to sit in kitchens by ourselves, with nobody to chat to.

The absence of Big Man Tafa was convenient, as this would give Mma Ramotswe the chance to converse with his wife, and that, she knew, was often a better way of finding out about someone than talking to the person himself. So she lost no time in moving to the topic that had brought her to the kitchen of this yellow house.

“I do not think that the Kalahari Swoopers are doing all that well at the moment,” Mma Ramotswe said. “That is a big pity, isn't it?”

Mma Tafa rolled her eyes upwards. “It is very bad, Mma. When did the boys last win a game? I have almost forgotten.”

Mma Ramotswe looked into her tea cup. She did not want Mma Tafa to think that she was prying, but she sensed that a few direct questions might yield valuable results. “What's your view, Mma? Do you know why this is happening?”

She had chosen her words carefully. She had not asked Mma Tafa to tell her what Big Man Tafa himself felt, but she suspected that is what she would learn anyway.

And she was right. “Big Man thinks that the problem is Mr. Molofololo,” said Mma Tafa. “He says that the boss doesn't know anything about football. He says this is always the problem with these rich men who own football teams. They think they can play but they cannot.”

Mma Ramotswe listened intently. “He does not like Mr. Molofololo?”

Mma Tafa hesitated. “I wouldn't say that.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe, uncertain as to whether to trust her; but trust won. “No, maybe I would. Molofololo is very impatient, my husband thinks. He says that he is always telling the players what to do. He says that this is the job of the coach, or the captain. But he says that the coach is weak, and the captain used to be good but no longer is. He says that the captain should go out to the cattle post and look after his cattle rather than trying to play football any more.”

The reference to cattle struck Mma Ramotswe as significant. Sooner or later, in any issue in Botswana, cattle nudged their way in, as they will nose their way into a feeding trough. It was as if in the resolution of any dispute, people had to ask themselves the question: What do the cattle think about this? She knew, of course, what cattle thought: cattle wanted rain, and the sweet green grass that rain brought, and apart from that they liked Botswana exactly as it was.

Mma Tafa looked at Mma Ramotswe's tea cup to see if it needed refreshing. “Mind you, Mma,” she continued, “it's interesting that Mr. Molofololo gets somebody else to talk to his players about their problems. I mean no disrespect to you, Mma, but why ask a woman to go and speak to the men about football?”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Some people find it difficult to talk. Sometimes it's easier to get somebody else to talk for you.”

Mma Tafa let out a hoot of laughter. “But that man is always talking! My husband says that he never stops. Do this, do that. Talking all the time.” She shook her head. “No, the problem is that he cannot listen. That is his problem. So maybe he has chosen you to be his ears.”

Mma Ramotswe took her cue. “And what do you think these ears should be hearing, Mma? What words would you like to put into these ears?”

They understood one another perfectly. If there is a message, thought Mma Ramotswe, this will be it.

Mma Tafa stared at her. “What words, Mma? Well, here is a message. New captain, Mma. That is the message. And if he says, where can I find a new captain, tell him that there is only one man who can do that job properly, and he is already on the team. Big Man. He should be the captain, Mma. And he cannot wait forever. Soon. He must be the captain soon.” She paused. “And your tea, Mma? Are you ready for another cup?”

Mma Tafa could not have made herself clearer, thought Mma Ramotswe. It was natural for a woman to feel ambition for her husband, but you could not always assume that this ambition was felt by the husband himself. Did Big Man Tafa really want to be captain, or was it a case of Mma Tafa wishing to be a captain's wife? She decided to ask the question directly. “And Big Man?” she said. “Would Big Man like to be in Rops's shoes?”

“I think so,” said Mma Tafa.

“You only think so, Mma? Have you not asked him?”

Mma Tafa sighed. “Not all men know what they want to do, Mma. Many of them say that they are quite happy doing what they are doing, and do not know what they really want to do… underneath. You know what I mean, Mma?”

“I think I do,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“So it is the job of women-and that means you and me, Mma-to find out what our husbands really want to do, and then to tell them about it. That is our job, I think, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe wondered about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He was a mild man-famously so-and she had never heard him speak about the things that he wanted to do. Did he have ambitions? He must at some time have wanted to have his own garage, and he must have worked towards the achieving of that goal. Then he had wanted to marry, and had proposed-eventually-which suggested that he must have nursed matrimonial ambitions. But apart from that, she wondered what unfulfilled desires lurked in his breast. Did he want to learn to fly a plane, as the owner of another garage had done? She thought not. He had been terrified on that occasion when Mma Potokwane had lined him up to do a charity parachute jump, and so it was unlikely that he wanted anything to do with aeroplanes. Did he want to learn to cook? Again, she thought not; Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had shown no interest in doing anything in the kitchen. Or did he want to go somewhere, perhaps to Namibia, to the sands and dunes of the coast down there, to the sea itself? He had never spoken of that.

The thought of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nursing secret, unfulfilled ambitions saddened Mma Ramotswe, as did the thought of people wanting something very much indeed and not getting the thing they yearned for. When we dismiss or deny the hopes of others, she thought, we forget that they, like us, have only one chance in this life.

It was while Mma Tafa was filling the kettle for a second pot of tea, and while Mma Ramotswe was thinking of unfulfilled ambitions, that the kitchen door opened and Big Man Tafa came in. Seeing him up close, Mma Ramotswe was struck by the goalkeeper's diminutive stature-he seemed far smaller here in the kitchen, surprisingly so, than when standing in the goal. Of course it might have had something to do with his juxtaposition to Mma Tafa, who, beside her husband, seemed even larger than before. She positively flowed, thought Mma Ramotswe, flowed from a comfortable, cushiony centre to the outposts of her well-padded fingers; a great river of a woman. And he, the tiny goalkeeper, looked as if he might drown in the arms of such a wife; drown and be lost altogether. Where is my husband? Mma Tafa might say. Has anybody seen him? And they would reply: In your arms, Mma, right there; be careful; he is right there, see.

Introductions were made and Big Man sat down. When his wife explained that Mma Ramotswe was here on behalf on Mr. Molofololo, a shadow crossed his face. He glanced at his wife, who responded with one of those looks that married couples can exchange; a look that conveyed far more than might any words. And then came the reassuring response that underlined the unspoken message: “There is no trouble,” she said. “Don't worry.”

Mma Ramotswe made a mental note of this comment. What trouble might Big Man Tafa expect from an emissary from Mr. Molofololo? In one view, such a remark suggested that Big Man Tafa had reason to fear Mr. Molofololo-and that, surely, is how a traitor to a football team might be expected to feel.

Big Man Tafa sat down opposite Mma Ramotswe at the table and listened attentively as she told him why she was there. “Mr. Molofololo wants to hear what is wrong,” she said. “That is why I am speaking to everybody.”

He relaxed visibly at the mention of everybody. “Not just me?” he said.

“Of course not, Rra. Why would it just be you?”

She was aware of the sting at the end of her reply, and she watched his reaction carefully.

“Because when a goal is scored, it is always the goalkeeper who gets the blame,” he said. “Always the poor goalie.”

That seemed understandable enough. And of course if anybody was in a position to give a match away, it was the goalkeeper.

Big Man Tafa clasped his hands together and settled back in his chair. “You want to know what's wrong, Mma? I can tell you. Free. I can tell you free. Our captain-Rops Thobega. Have you met him?”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I met him briefly, Rra. I have not talked to him properly yet, Rra. But I will.”

Big Man wrinkled his nose. “If he agrees to talk to you, that is. You will have to make an appointment, you know. The great Rops Thobega isn't one of those people you can just drop in on. Oh no. You have to phone and say to his wife, Please may I speak to Rops, Mma? Not for long. Just one minute, please. That's what you have to do.”

Mma Tafa laughed. “And you have to make an appointment before you can speak to the wife. You have to phone up the maid and say Please, Mma, may I speak to Mma Thobega? Just one minute, etc., etc.” She watched Big Man as she spoke, clearly taking pleasure from his approbation.

“That is very funny” said Big Man. “But Mmakeletso is right. The whole lot of them have let his position go to his head. It is easier to speak to the President himself than it is to speak to him, I tell you!”

“That is not at all good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that you are telling me that the captain, this Rops, is no good.”

“I am,” said Big Man Tafa. “And until he is replaced, then we are going to lose, lose, lose. I can tell you that, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful, weighing this information carefully. “Tell me, Rra,” she asked, “how do you replace a captain? Does this happen automatically if a team does very badly for a long time?”

She thought that they both hesitated, Mmakeletso and Big Man Tafa; she thought she saw them stiffen and look at each other. She waited.

“Oh, I don't know,” Big Man said after a while. “It depends on the owner of the team. It will be up to Mr. Molofololo, I suppose.”

Mma Ramotswe tried a different tack. “Do you think it possible, Rra…” she began. “Do you think it possible that somebody in the team might try to lose on purpose? Do you think that anything like that could happen?”

Big Man Tafa closed his eyes briefly. Then he opened them and stared at Mma Ramotswe in what looked like unfeigned horror. “Never, Mma. You could tell, you see. Anybody could tell.”

Mma Ramotswe probed gently. “How?”

Big Man Tafa tapped the table with his fingers. “You can always tell when somebody is not doing his best. You can just tell.” He paused, as if thinking of something for the first time. “But now that you come to mention it, Mma, I think that there might be somebody not trying his best. Yes, I think I can say that.”

Mma Ramotswe watched him closely. His small frame, she thought, was like that of one of those creatures you see scurrying through the bush: wiry and difficult to catch. He would be a wonderful dancer, she decided. And then for a moment she pictured Big Man Tafa, dancing with his wife, lost in all that flesh, his dainty feet barely touching the ground as he was lifted up in her arms.

She tried to make the question sound unimportant-an afterthought. “Who do you think is not trying his best?”

He answered immediately. “Rops,” he said. “If anybody wants us to lose, it must be Rops.”

She affected disbelief. “Surely not, Rra. Surely not Rops. Why would he want that?”

“Because he hates Mr. Molofololo,” said Big Man Tafa, “and I believe that Mr. Molofololo put Rops's brother-in-law out of business.”

“How did he do that?” Mma Ramotswe enquired.

Big Man did not know, but he assured Mma Ramotswe that it had happened and that Rops still felt angry about it.

“I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But if Rops dislikes Mr. Molofololo so much, why can he not just resign? He is such a well-known man that there will be many teams who will want him to play for them. He could go to Extension Gunners. He could go anywhere.”

Big Man Tafa shook his head. “Rops is too old now. He can no longer play very well. Rops is finished.”

“But surely he wouldn't want to end his career like this,” Mma Ramotswe persisted. “Who would want to retire after a long spell of losing every game?”

“Don't ask me,” said Big Man Tafa. “You should know that sort of thing. You're the detective.”

Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. “How do you know that, Rra? How do you know that I'm a detective?”

Big Man looked at her in surprise. “Because everybody knows that, Mma Ramotswe. You are a famous lady in these parts. Mma Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. Everybody knows you now.”

“Your cover is blown,” said Mma Tafa, smiling at Mma Ramotswe. “Isn't that what you detectives say?”

Big Man Tafa answered the question for her. “It is,” he said.

AS SHE WALKED back to the car, Mma Ramotswe was deep in thought. She was not quite sure what to make of her conversation with the Tafas; some things had become clearer while other things had become more obscure. Some things, indeed, were now quite unintelligible.

The small boy was sitting on duty at the van, and she fished a couple of coins out of her bag to pay him.

“You have looked after the van very well,” she said, pressing the coins into his outstretched palm.

“Thank you, Mma.”

She looked down at him, at his funny, rather serious face; he was wiser, perhaps, than most boys of his age. Boys know everything, she remembered somebody saying. Everything.

“Tell me,” she said to the boy. “Big Man Tafa: Is he a good man, do you think, or is he a bad man?”

The boy's eyes moved slightly. A fly had landed on his head and was walking slowly across the smooth expanse of his brow. He did nothing to brush it off.

“He is bad man, I think,” he said. “A very bad man. And one day God is going to punish him.”

Mma Ramotswe was taken aback. The judgement had been so swift, so clear; but it always is, she reflected, when you're that size.

“Who says he is a bad man?” she asked. “Just you?”

The boy shook his head, making the fly take off from its suddenly uncertain landing strip.

“My father,” he said. “Big Man Tafa owes my father ten thousand pula. That is this much, Mma.” He stretched out his hand to illustrate a pile of money. “He says that only bad men don't pay what they have promised to pay. That is why I think that God will get him.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “You are a very interesting boy” she said.