Their lives couldn’t have been more different: Kagiso, the son of a house worker and the beneficiary of a white family’s generosity; Lesedi, a child born into the aristocracy of struggle, for whom wanting something was merely a question of asking for it. Their paths had crossed once before when they were both students, not that Lesedi would remember the encounter. It was at a varsity rugby match between Stellenbosch, where Kagiso had studied, and the University of Cape Town, where Lesedi had entertained himself, with the occasional foray into the library. It was a home game for Stellenbosch, and Kagiso now remembered how he’d cycled to the sports ground to watch. He’d been padlocking his bike when Lesedi had rolled up in a soft-top BMW with a couple of friends, who tumbled out of the vehicle with bottles of the Cape’s finest fizzy in their hands.

He hadn’t felt any jealousy at the time, at least not over Lesedi’s wealth. If anything, it was the other man’s confidence he’d envied. As a child growing up, he’d never been the one who’d stick his hand up and say, ‘Yes, sir, I know the answer.’ He feared the humiliation of being wrong much more than he craved the praise that went with being right.

By the time Lesedi Motlantshe had arrived at Soil of Africa’s office, a little later than he’d predicted, the sun had worked its magic. It would be a warm day. The two men shook hands and, despite their contrasting backgrounds, Kagiso felt it would be a meeting of equals.

Much later that day, in Dubai, Josiah Motlantshe’s phone rang. He opened his eyes, and still he could see nothing. There was a moment of terror before he pulled at the sleep mask. All the pieces began to fall into place: he was in Dubai; he’d come back from the casino (those private-equity chaps loved their gambling) a couple of hours before dawn. He stared at the screen on his phone, waiting for his eyes to focus. It was a number in South Africa but not one he recognised.

‘Who is this?’ he barked, in his default disposition.

‘Hello, is this Mr Motlantshe I am speaking to?’ He recognised the Afrikaner accent. ‘Mr Josiah Motlantshe?’

‘Yes, what do you want? It’s the middle of the night.’

‘Just a moment, meneer – I mean sir. Let me put you through.’

‘Hello, hello, put me through to whom?’ It was useless: she’d already transferred the call.

‘Is this Mr Motlantshe, Mr Josiah Motlantshe?’

‘How many times do I have to tell you people? Yes, this is he. And who are you?’

‘It’s Lieutenant General Jackson Sibande, sir, from the South African Police Service in Mpumalanga.’

‘From where? Mpumalanga?’

‘Yes, sir. We have some news for you, sir, and I’m just going to pass you on to the premier, Mr Jeremiah Bekelu.’