"This maid is meant to cook for me," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "She makes a meal each day, but it is always the same. All that I have to eat is maizemeal and stew. Sometimes she cooks me pumpkin, but not very often. And yet she always seems to need lots of money for kitchen supplies."

"She is a very lazy woman," said Mma Ramotswe. "She should be ashamed of herself. If all women in Botswana were like that, our men would have died out a long time ago."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. His maid had held him in thrall for years, and he had never had the courage to stand up to her. But now perhaps she had met her match in Mma Ramotswe, and she would soon be looking for somebody else to neglect.

"Where is this woman?" asked Mma Ramotswe. "I would like to talk to her."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his watch. "She should be here soon," he said. "She comes here every afternoon at about this time."

THEY WERE sitting in the living room when the maid arrived, announcing her presence with the slamming of the kitchen door.

"That is her," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "She always slams doors. She has never closed a door quietly in all the years she has worked here. It's always slam, slam."

"Let's go through and see her," said Mma Ramotswe. "I'm interested to meet this lady who has been looking after you so well."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni led the way into the kitchen. In front of the sink, where she was filling a kettle with water, stood a large woman in her mid-thirties. She was markedly taller than both Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe, and, although rather thinner than Mma Ramotswe, she looked considerably stronger, with bulging biceps and well-set legs. She was wearing a large, battered red hat on her head and a blue housecoat over her dress. Her shoes were made of a curious, shiny leather, rather like the patent leather used to make dancing pumps.