After a few minutes the course leader came into the room. She was a tall woman with a high, prominent forehead, and she was dressed in a sombre trouser suit. On the lapel of her jacket she wore a large brooch that Mr J. L. B. Matekoni could make out as a hovering bird of some sort – an eagle, perhaps, or a buzzard.

The woman told them that her name was Keitumeste. ‘As you know, men,’ she said, ‘that name means something in Setswana. Can anyone tell me, please?’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni noticed that she addressed them, unusually, as men. The correct plural term, in Setswana, was borra, or in English, gentlemen. But men? He would never address a group of women as women, but then, he suddenly thought, I am not modern…

‘It means I am happy,’ said a man near the front. ‘And I am happy that you are happy, Mma.’

There was a ripple of nervous laughter. Keitumeste, though, did not join in.

‘But I am not happy,’ she said forcefully, causing the laughter to die out. ‘I am far from happy.’

There was complete silence.

‘You see,’ she went on, glaring at the man who had spoken, ‘the reason why I am so unhappy is because I do not think I can be happy as long as there are so many men who are causing unhappiness among the women of Botswana.’ She paused. ‘At all levels. Up in Francistown. Over in Maun. In Lobatse. In Gaborone. Everywhere.’

The silence continued. One or two of the men shifted uncomfortably in their seats; others remained quite still, as one stays still in the presence of great danger, hoping that the source of the danger will not notice one.

‘And who are these men?’ Keitumeste asked.

Very tentatively a hand was raised at the front. Keitumeste’s gaze fixed on a man slouched in his chair.

‘People like us?’ he said, with a snigger.

The sheer effrontery of this remark – a risky attempt to defuse the tension – brought a sharp intake of breath from the rest of those present. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s mouth opened in horror.

For a few moments Keitumeste said nothing. Then she said, ‘I see.’ Her tone was icy.

The man who had made the suggestion looked over his shoulder for support. When he saw it was not forthcoming, he changed his posture slightly. The slouch became less pronounced.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

Fixed with an even more intense gaze, he corrected his posture even further.