wereâand she was never happier than when she was out in the bush, with the air of the country, dry and scented with the tang of acacia, in her lungs. On the drive to Mokolodi she would travel with the windows down, and the sun and air would flood the cabin of her tiny white van; and she would see, opening up before her, the vista of hills around Otse and beyond, green in the foreground and blue beyond. She would take the turning off to the right, and a few minutes later she would be at the stone gates of the camp and explaining to the attendant the nature of her business. Perhaps she would have a cup of tea on the verandah of the circular main building, with its thatch and its surrounding trees, and its outlook of hills. She tried to remember whether they served bush tea there; she thought they did, but just in case, she would take a sachet of her own tea which she could ask them to boil up for her.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her anxiously. âThatâs all,â he said. âThatâs all Iâm asking you to do.â
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. âNo,â she said. âThatâs fine. I was just thinking.â
âWhat were you thinking?â asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
âAbout the hills down there,â said Mma Ramotswe. âAnd about tea. That sort of thing.â
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. âYou often think about tea, donât you? I donât. I think about cars and engines and things like that. Grease. Oil. Suspension. Those are my thoughts.â
Mma Ramotswe put down the piece of paper she had been folding. âIs it not strange, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?â she said. âIs it not strange that men and women think about such very different things? There you are thinking about mechanical matters, and I am sitting here thinking about tea.â
âYes,â said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. âIt is strange.â He paused. There was a car needing attention outside and he had to see to it. The owner wanted it back that afternoon or he would be obliged to walk home. âI must get on, Mma Ramotswe,â he said. Nodding to Mma Makutsi, he left the office and returned to the garage.
Mma Ramotswe pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. âWould you care to come with me, Mma Makutsi?â she asked. âItâs a nice day for a run.â
Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk. âBut who will look after the business?â she asked. âWho will answer the telephone?â
Mma Ramotswe looked at herself in the mirror on the wall behind the filing cabinet. The mirror was intended for the use of Mma Makutsi and herself, but was used most frequently by the apprentices, who liked to preen themselves in front of it. âShould I braid my hair?â asked Mma Ramotswe. âWhat do you think, Mma Makutsi?â
âYour hair is very nice as it is, Mma,â said her assistant, but added, âOf course, it would be even nicer if you were to braid it.â
Mma Ramotswe looked round. âAnd you?â she asked. âWould you braid your hair too, if I had mine done?â
âIâm not sure,â said Mma Makutsi. âPhuti Radiphuti is an old-fashioned man. Iâm not sure what his views on braiding would be.â
âAn old-fashioned man?â asked Mma Ramotswe. âThatâs interesting. Does he know that youâre a modern lady?â
Mma Makutsi considered the question for a moment. âI think he does,â she said. âThe other night he asked me if I was a feminist.â
Mma Ramotswe stiffened. âHe asked you that, did he? And what did you reply, Mma?â
âI said that most ladies were feminists these days,â said Mma Makutsi. âSo I told him, yes, I am.â
Mma Ramotswe sighed. âOh dear,â she said. âIâm not sure that thatâs the best answer to give in such circumstances. Men are very frightened of feminists.â
âBut I cannot lie,â protested