Meanwhile there’s a lot going on with Botswana: I have to take a woman back there to claim an inheritance. She is white. Everyone in Botswana is dead or dying of Aids. A social worker meets us at the airport – she will be our guide, and she drives us through narrow streets of Jacobean houses, the ornately carved wooden facades of which are patterned with syringes, condoms and pineapples. We reach the lawyer’s office, but he only wants water – which we don’t have. The heat is oppressive – the social worker shows me a bruise on the inside of her thigh. I touch it and a wheel falls off the Jeep.