‘Okay. Did I tell you I’m planning to spend a couple of days in Mpumalanga? I’m seeing the Catholic bishop in Nelspruit. And then I thought I’d go to Malelane. Couldn’t we meet there?’

He shook his head. ‘Least of all in Malelane! Look, I’ve got some things to do before I catch my lift back there. And I want to spend a couple of minutes by the graveside – I didn’t qualify for an invitation.’

‘So is Willemse right? You were close to him?’

‘Hardly – we had only just met – but I believe he was a good man.’

‘We are going to see each other again, aren’t we?’

‘I’ll be in touch once I know what the next few days look like.’

The crowd of mourners had thinned out. The limousines were gone. The marquee was already being taken down. A few children were rummaging through the catering boxes, stacked up and ready to be taken away, searching for anything that hadn’t been eaten.

Kagiso walked towards the cemetery. As he approached it, he saw a small group of people near the grave, and one lone figure next to it: Lesedi’s mother. Her eyes were shut. He moved towards the grave but hesitated. Priscilla Motlantshe looked up at the noise, and beckoned him over. The two of them stood in silence on opposite sides of the grave. Neither had met the other before but they were joined together in this most intimate act of farewell. After a few minutes Kagiso walked over to her side of the grave and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Motlantshe,’ he said.

Priscilla thanked him. It seemed to her that those were the first genuine words of sympathy she’d heard all day, and all the more touching because they had been uttered in private. She asked him if he was a friend from university days.

‘No, we only really met recently,’ he said. She asked where. ‘In Malelane, I run a charity there.’

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Kagiso. Kagiso Rapabane.’

She nodded in recognition. ‘He called me from Malelane. It was one of the last times I talked with him. Lesedi told me about his visit. He told me about the good things you are doing there, he spoke very well of you,’ she said.

‘And the people there liked him,’ Kagiso added.

‘And you, what did you think?’

‘Well, yes,’ he responded, thrown by the direct question. ‘I liked him. I was surprised. He was not what I expected.’

‘Oh. And what did you expect?’

‘I’m not sure, except that, well, he is … was a Motlantshe.’

‘You mean like his father.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s what you meant, though.’ Her gaze was direct but not confrontational.

‘I suppose so. I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to upset you.’