Then it is confirmed that the Danish pastries are made with syrup, not honey, and the panic is over.

The pre-lunch session is about the perception that literature produced by writers living outside of Africa is somehow more valuable than that written by writers living in Africa. The preponderance of diaspora literature on literary-award longlists is wheeled out as an undeniable statistic. Things get testy when a speaker from the floor launches into a long comment during question time. Another speaker puts up her hand and points out that white people have been allowed to attend this session on sufferance only, and that they should be respectful and not speak. Black voices have been silenced and suppressed for long enough, so it is time for white people to be quiet and listen.

The white commenter says this is ridiculous and that we are all “bending over backwards” for the radicals. He accuses the second speaker of “racism” and invites everyone to agree that “Madiba” would not support this. Then he stomps out in protest, as do his companions.

This brings the number of white people in the room down to one. I disclaim any desire to ask a question, and the session proceeds peacefully.

Lunch is an orgy of lentils, chickpeas and egg-free, dairy-free, gluten-free pasta. The vegans remark on how delicious everything looks. The radicals complain about how oppressed they feel at having their traditional foods banned from the menu because of a few bourgeois crackpots.

One of the vegans comments that anyone who supports #BlackLivesMatter should surely support animal rights too. One of the radicals comments that the vegan appears to be drawing an equivalence between black people and animals. The vegan accuses the radical of wilfully misunderstanding her, and says that we will one day look back in horror at this period of human history when it was legal to kill animals to eat their flesh. She reminds us that slavery used to be legal too. The radical comments that it now sounds as though the vegan is drawing an equivalence between meat-eating and slavery. A lively debate ensues, and the food gets cold.

Before actual blows can be exchanged, someone suggests adjourning to a nearby Nando’s for lunch. This idea is hailed with enthusiasm by the black radicals, the white DA-supporters (who have returned for lunch), the administrative staff, the catering staff, and a guy who came into the wrong room by mistake. The vegans are left to enjoy their lentils in peace.

We file back into the conference venue. The delegates take their seats and sink into a post-prandial stupor. I trudge up to the stage, with a strong sense of impostor syndrome, to take my place among the panellists. This is the session that goes to the heart of the special issue of the journal. It is the one called “Fiction and faction: how real-world narratives inform fiction streams in the diaspora.”