Phuti Radiphuti opened his mouth to speak, and Mma Makutsi waited for his answer, but no words were formed. He bit his lip, and looked apologetic.

“Don’t worry, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi lightly. “We don’t have to talk now. We can talk a bit later, after we have danced. Don’t worry. It is my first time at a dance class too.”

Mr Fanope was now organising the couples and was signalling the band to start.

“Take your partners,” he called out. “No, do not crush them, gentlemen. A good dancer holds his partner lightly. Like this. See?”

They began to dance, and it became straightaway apparent to Mma Makutsi that her partner had very little sense of rhythm. While she counted slow, slow, quick, quick, as they had been instructed to do by Mr Fanope, he seemed to be counting slow, slow, slow, quick, or even slow, slow, slow, slow. Whatever he was doing, it bore no relation to what Mma Makutsi herself was doing.

After a few minutes of uncoordinated shuffling, Mr Fanope came up to them and tapped Phuti Radiphuti on the shoulder.

“No, Rra,” he said, shaking a finger at him. “You are all over the place. This is not football. This is a quickstep. You go slow, slow, quick, quick, like this.”

Phuti Radiphuti looked ashamed.

“I am very so … so … sor … sorry,” he stuttered. “I am not a good dancer. I am sorry.”

“Let me do the counting,” said Mma Makutsi. “You just listen to me this time.”

They resumed the dance, with Mma Makutsi counting loudly and guiding Phuti Radiphuti in an attempt to bring their movements into unison. It was not easy; Phuti Radiphuti seemed inordinately clumsy, and no matter how clearly she counted he appeared to be following a quite different rhythm.

“It is important to move quickly after I count two,” shouted Mma Makutsi above a particularly loud passage of drumming. “That is why the dance is called the quickstep.”

Phuti Radiphuti nodded. He looked rather miserable now, as if he was regretting the decision to attend the lesson. Mma Makutsi, for her part, was sure that people were looking at them as they stumbled along. She had changed her mind about whether it would have been better to remain firmly seated, unapproached by any man, than to be subjected to this awkward, bumbling performance. And there, only a few couples away, was somebody she recognised. She stole a glance and then looked away. Yes, it was her, one of the women from her year at the Botswana Secretarial College, one of those fun-loving glamorous girls who ended up getting barely fifty per cent, and there she was, dancing with a confident and attractive man. Mma Makutsi hardly dared look again, but was forced to do so when they found themselves getting closer and closer together.

“So!” shouted the glamorous girl. “So there you are! Grace Makutsi!”

Mma Makutsi affected surprise, smiling at the other girl. She noticed the eyes of the other move quickly to Phuti Radiphuti and then come back to rest on her, amused.