Teenage girls elbowed each other, gawking at a young woman, not much older than they were, recognising her instantly from a photo feature on Lesedi’s last birthday in Destiny magazine. The article had recounted how the party had been held at her interior-design studio (a gift from her father) in a recently reclaimed and refurbished warehouse on Main Street in Johannesburg. They remembered all the details, how Maki (that was her name) had organised the lavish event as a surprise. The magazine had described her simply as a ‘friend’ of Lesedi, but the girls of Soweto strained their eyes, looking carefully for any signs indicating a deeper relationship with him. Their brothers looked at Maki too, dreaming of a day when they might escort a fragrant pale-skinned woman like her. If there was any resentment among the crowd, nobody spoke of it. In truth, they took vicarious pride in this display of black wealth, ignorant of or unconcerned by how it had been achieved, clinging to the idea that it might, one day, be within their grasp too. It was like going to the cinema, being transported for a few hours into another world, suspending their disbelief.

Inside Regina Mundi, the painted cement floor on which tired old canvas shoes had once left their dusty imprint now echoed to the sound of Italian stilettos. The first twenty or so rows of hard wooden pews, darkened by generations of greasy handprints, had been reserved for VIPs, the white printed place names making each bench look like a piano keyboard. There was a strict seating plan, proximity to the front two rows denoting favoured status with the Motlantshe family, who were due to arrive with the hearse from their Houghton home.

There was a sickly aroma in the church, a mix of the scent from the huge bouquets of lilies placed at the end of every pew and the assortment of perfumes worn by guests. It made Lindi Seaton feel mildly queasy. She had planned to head for Mpumalanga that day, the day after her arrival in South Africa, but had delayed her trip to have a meeting with a researcher at the Forced Migration Unit at Wits University. In the meantime Comfort, at the BBC office, had suggested she attend the funeral.

‘It will give you some idea of just how important the family is and why there’s so much anger at Lesedi’s death,’ Comfort had said. ‘I’m sending a crew down there so you can go with them. I’m sure you can stand at the back of the press area.’

The BBC team had set off early, to beat the security-check queues, and Lindi had had an hour or so to spare before even the first people started to arrive for the midday funeral service. To kill time, she had taken a walk.