One afternoon, a twelve-year-old girl goes missing near her village. The local police tell her mother and the villagers she has been taken by a wild animal. Five years later, young government employee Amantle Bokaa finds a box bearing the label 'Neo Kakang; CRB 45/94'. It contains evidence of human involvement in the affair. So begins an illegal and undercover struggle for justice and retribution. Botswanan High Court Judge Unity Dow's second novel is a gripping story of how groups of 'little people' come together to identify the prime suspects' the 'big men' who are beneath contempt, but above the law.

In the year 2000 the World Health Organization estimated that 85 percent of fifteen-year-olds in Botswana would eventually die of AIDS. In Saturday Is for Funerals we learn why that won't happen.

Unity Dow and Max Essex tell the true story of lives ravaged by AIDS of orphans, bereaved parents, and widows; of families who devote most Saturdays to the burial of relatives and friends. We witness the actions of community leaders, medical professionals, research scientists, and educators of all types to see how an unprecedented epidemic of death and destruction is being stopped in its tracks.

This book describes how a country responded in a time of crisis. In the true-life stories of loss and quiet heroism, activism and scientific initiatives, we learn of new techniques that dramatically reduce rates of transmission from mother to child, new therapies that can save lives of many infected with AIDS, and intricate knowledge about the spread of HIV, as well as issues of confidentiality, distributive justice, and human rights. The experiences of Botswana offer practical lessons along with the critical element of hope.

'My name in Monei Ntuka and this is the story of my childhood in the village of Mochudi, in the then British Bechuanaland Protectorate, in the mid to late sixties. It is, of course, not the whole story of my youth, for didn't my grandmother Mma-Tseitsi, mother of my father, tell me many times, 'A tongue can talk until numb with fatigue, but it can never tell the whole story'? And didn't she gently admonish me saying, 'Child of my child, a good story teller knows when to stop, just as a dreamer knows when to wake up.' In any event, a look at self can never be a full stare; it has to be a series of glimpses.'