‘Why should he be talking to these stupid people? They are being led by extremists. If he wants to be treated like a man, he needs to start thinking like one instead of all this foolishness he talks about.’

‘I can remember when you used to talk like that.’

There was wistfulness in her voice, which Motlantshe both recognised and loathed. He knew that everything else that was wrong in their marriage had grown out of this one central accusation – that he had forgotten where they had both started out.

They had met in the seventies. Josiah Motlantshe was the most prominent in a new generation of activists that was emerging inside South Africa, carrying the mantle of leadership while the likes of Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo and Joe Slovo were either jailed or in exile. He was an extrovert, a fiery orator. Priscilla was the opposite, but what she lacked in public presence she more than made up for with a quiet determination. When Motlantshe and some others were jailed it was said that, of all the women who were left behind, Priscilla would cope best.

And so she did, raising the son who barely knew his father. Lesedi Motlantshe was brought up on heroic tales of what his father was like and what he would do, come freedom day. But when he had emerged from Robben Island, it had turned out that Motlantshe was a far better businessman than politician, and he believed Priscilla had never forgiven him for that. Instead, she had brainwashed the boy, tried to turn him into a version of the man she wanted her husband to be. At least, that was how he’d put it in the days when he could be bothered to argue with her.

‘I haven’t got time for that nonsense,’ he shot back. ‘If he wants to be treated like a man he should be here, by my side, talking to these London people.’

‘But you know he doesn’t like what you are doing. He thinks the land should be going to our people.’

‘It is you who has put this rubbish in his head. The land is not going anywhere. It is staying in South Africa. It is going to make money for the people of South Africa.’

‘You mean make money for you.’

‘Just call him and tell him to get back to Jo’burg.’ Motlantshe flung the phone onto the bed. He could still hear his wife’s disembodied voice. He stared at the phone, waiting for her to shut up.