“I am called Phuti Radiphuti,” he said. That is what he said, but it did not come out as directly as that. Called was c … c … c … called and Phuti was ph … ph … phuti.

It was a bad speech impediment, and Mma Makutsi’s heart sank. She was a kind woman, like Mma Ramotswe, but it was typical of her luck, she thought, that she should be the last to be picked and then to be chosen by a man who moved in an odd way and had a very pronounced stutter. But he was still a man, wasn’t he, and at least she was dancing with somebody and not sitting unhappily, unwanted. So she smiled encouragingly and asked him whether he had ever danced before.

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.”