The Double Comfort Safari Club by Alexander McCall Smith

wherever gatherings such as that which we attend today take place. That is a sea of love. It touches on the shores of all. There is no place where you cannot see it, even if for some, for the poor and the oppressed, it seems far away, in the distance.
    “There are people who say that what we are doing here has no meaning. That it is superstition, that it is wishful thinking. Wishful thinking? It is not that; it is not. Is it wishful thinking to say to yourself and to others that we must love one another? Is it wishful thinking to say that we must forgive others, so that love might grow within our hearts? Is it wishful thinking to imagine that it is only through an effort to love others that a hard and unhappy world may be transformed into a world of kindness and compassion? I do not think that it is.
    “There are many creeds and beliefs; there are many ways of leading your life; there are many roads to oneness with the world. But there are other ways, too, and these are all about us. There are those who worship money and success. There are those who do not care about the suffering of others, as long as they are all right. There are those who think that science and mastery of the physical world will bring us happiness and save us at the end of the day. I cannot agree with any of these. I do not think that sciencealone will deliver us from the consequences of our greed and our stupidity—it is science that has made the very things that are poisoning our world. I do not think that material success will necessarily make us happier—the faces of the rich tell us that; I do not think that a big car or a big house makes a big man. I think that the measure of whether a life has been a good one is how much love there has been in that life—love both given and received.
    “This is a place of love, here where we are gathered together today. Our message is love, not fear, nor enmity, nor dismissal of others. It is just love. That is all.”
    Mma Ramotswe listened to each of these words, as did all the others present. She glanced along the pew: a man who worked in the diamond office sat quite still, his eyes fixed on the face of this visitor; another man sat with his eyes raised to the ceiling, his brow knitted in concentration and reflection; and a woman in the next row, immediately in front of Mma Ramotswe, a woman whom she recognised but knew little about, other than that she lived by herself near the Sanitas tea garden, this woman, moved by some private sorrow as much as by the words being spoken, cried almost silently, unobserved by others, apart from Mma Ramotswe, who stretched out her hand and laid it on her shoulder.
Do not cry, Mma
, she began to whisper, but changed her words even as she uttered them, and said quietly,
Yes, you can cry, Mma
. We should not tell people not to weep—we do it because of our sympathy for them—but we should really tell them that their tears are justified and entirely right.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A BAD STORY ABOUT A BAD WOMAN
    M MA RAMOTSWE had told Mma Makutsi that she could have compassionate leave. “As many days as you like, Mma,” she said. “You must be there at the hospital. You must be at Phuti’s bedside—that is where you should be.”
    Mma Makutsi had thanked her, but assured her that she would only take a day or two at the most. She was not one to take unscheduled leave, and had always insisted on coming to work, even when suffering from the colds or flu that a lesser employee would have seized upon as an excuse for staying at home. “I am paid for a month’s work,” she said, “and that is what I shall always do.”
    But this was an exceptional situation, and even Mma Makutsi accepted the need to be away. Phuti Radiphuti was making good progress: there was no sign of infection, the doctors said, and his wound was healing nicely. “He is always so pleased to see you, Mma,” confided one of the nurses. “I can tell that you will make him better quickly. Some