Roving gangs of Africans spread through the township, smashing windows of shops and houses, and intimidating residents. About 50 street lamps were smashed. A number of Africans were hurt in the disturbance and 15 were taken to hospital.

Anger scorched through him. The night was dark and almost silent. Somewhere, a wild dog howled. Max came in and nuzzled Stephen’s hand, his eyes never leaving his master’s face.

Armed police and men of the Rhodesia Light Infantry patrolled the township until the situation quietened, and patrols remained at Sakubva throughout the night without further incident.

Some of the buildings in Sakubva looked as though they had been systematically ransacked. Road blocks were also put up by the rioters who cut trees down and lined them across the road. There were many obstacles in the roads, including dustbins, broken glass, large stones and tree branches.

Intimidation kept many Africans from work yesterday and armed police escorted buses through the township. No new disturbances were reported last night or this morning.

Stephen pushed the newspaper away and rested his head in his hands. Sithole must be as upset and angry about the fighting as he was. It was vital to restore order quickly, before violence tainted the nascent party they had such high hopes for. Gathering pen and paper, he wrote a note to Sithole, asking him to come to La Rochelle at his earliest convenience.

The garden was full of puddles and a leaden sky pressed down. Mugabe sat in front of Stephen, scholarly and diffident, his hands dangling between his legs as though he didn’t know what to do with them. Sithole had sent him in his place, pleading illness.

‘I’m sure that you were as disturbed as I was by what happened at the Nkomo meeting,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m assuming the newspaper was correct when it said the troublemakers were your people?’

‘Well, yes,’ Mugabe replied quietly. ‘We did not ask them to disrupt the meeting, of course.’

Stephen looked at him, taking in the carefully mended shirt, the trousers that were shiny with wear. He thought about Mugabe’s many university degrees and the nights he must have sat up late studying for them. Here was a man of discipline, interested in the life of the mind, somewhat isolated in his shyness.

Mugabe gave a slight shrug. ‘Sakubva is a keg of gunpowder waiting for a spark. It can explode at any minute.’

Stephen could see the difficulty he was in. Mugabe was a thoughtful and intelligent man who knew how the modern world worked. Behind him stood a massed, angry population. Mugabe adjusted his glasses and glare hid his eyes, turning his face into a mask. Stephen began to doubt his perception of the man. Even if Mugabe and his friends were not guilty of direct incitement, why hadn’t he condemned the fighting? What if he actually supported it? What if beneath that scholarly exterior lay a bitter and implacable fanatic?