‘Tauza, when we were in detention, they would shout, “Tauza!” and you would have to hop about like a frog so that they could check if you'd hidden anything up your arsehole.’

‘And did you?’

‘Shit, what could you hide in your anus?’

‘A penis.’

‘Hell, Lydia.’

‘Well, we have to, all the time, hide penises up our fannies, the recollection of them being there. Even the ones we never invited in.’

‘Christ, Lydia.’

‘Christ what, Lydia?’

‘We have to do something about this.’

‘What, talk to the Truth Commission?’

‘Why not?’

‘You think Archbishop Tutu has ever been fucked up his arse against his will?’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘The difference is he'll never understand what it's like to be raped, to be mocked while he's being raped, to feel inside of him the hot knife – that piece of useless flesh you call a cock – turning into a torture instrument.’

‘Not all men are insensitive, Lydia.’

She stood close up to him. ‘Do you want to know what sensitivity is?’ She raised her skirt, pulled down her pantyhose, let them fall to her feet. ‘Here, feel.’ She took his hand and placed it on her vagina.

‘No, no.’

‘Go on, put your hand in, your whole fist, feel the delicate membrane, those child's lips that a woman's poes has, that is sensitivity!’

She took his finger and forced it into her vagina, winced as his fingernail touched something soft. He pulled his hand away, walked out onto the stoep, leaned back and thrust his face into the rain until it ran saltily into his mouth. When he lowered his head, she was standing beside him, barefoot, sipping his abandoned beer.

‘Shit, Lyd, that beer must be really flat.’

‘I want to taste like a man, all sour.’

‘If you want to drink beer, I'll pour you a fresh one.’

‘I want it to be flat, like a man's breath.’

She sipped, pulled her mouth in distaste.

‘Would you kill him for me?’

‘Who?’

‘Du Boise.’

‘Lydia…’

‘If you were a real man, you would have killed him on the spot, right there in the mall, splatter his brains against a window, watch his blood running all over the floor.’

‘You're joking.’

‘Joking? He took your woman, he fucked your wife, made you listen to him doing it. I became his property, even my screams were his instrument. Now, you're a man, you believe in honour and all that kind of kak…’

‘Lydia, stop it.’

‘You know what he called me as he was fucking me?’

‘For fuck's sake, Lydia!’

‘He called me a nice wild half-kaffir cunt, a lekker wilde Boesman poes.’