The butler, a slight and professionally obsequious servant of South Asian origin, who had been busy laying out a fresh set of clothes in the dressing room, scurried in and picked up a handset from the bedside table.

‘No, no, not that one. I want my own phone. It’s there.’ Motlantshe pointed to the lounge. ‘And put this TV on – I want BBC.’ He sat there, every obese inch of him exuding an air of entitlement. He’d come a long way from the time when he was so thin, so bony, that sitting on the wooden benches on Robben Island for more than a few minutes at a time was agony.

So, who to call first? The wife or the mistress? On this occasion duty prevailed. One of his three children answered.

‘And how’s my Thandi today? … It’s who? Oh! My little princess. It’s a bad line. Daddy is far away in Dubai. You sounded like your sister. So you have not gone to school yet? You are going to be late.’

‘I’m not going today.’

‘Is my little princess not well?’

‘I’m fine, but Mummy talked to the teacher and she said some bad men were outside our school.’

‘Bad men? What kind of men? Where is your mother? Bring her to the phone.’

‘She’s in the garden.’

‘Go and fetch her. Hurry up.’

Motlantshe was irritated. He wished he’d phoned the other woman now. He imagined her at the flat he’d bought for her in Sandton. What time was it in Jo’burg? Still early. She was probably in bed. Motlantshe realised he was ever so slightly aroused. He heard the phone being picked up.

‘What’s going on?’ he barked. ‘Why is this girl talking about bad men at the school?’

‘Is that what she said?’ Priscilla Motlantshe sounded amused, which only added to her husband’s irritation. ‘No, today was meant to be a visit to Newtown. They were going to Museum Africa, but it’s been cancelled because of the protest.’

‘What protest?’

‘You know! These land people. You were talking to Mkobi about it yesterday! Have you forgotten already?’