And now, at night, as I lay and heard the faint barking of the dogs, I’d picture them, three, or two shadows, he and his comrades walking through the garden, up the hill, past the pool, through the yard, out the back gate, creaking on its hinge, they even laughing quietly. Perhaps.

Free. For the moment, free.

Then to the car, into the car, the engine purring into life, the lights pooling, and pulling away. Away, down Corlett Drive, through the city, deserted now, just street lights, and the long drive to Soweto, on the distant side of the city. Another car’s red tail-lights blinking ahead.

And then: rutted roads, no street lights. A different place. Soweto. And there, walking along a warren of laneways, rutted all, behind and between, and ducking into a small, small house, filled with men, only men. Then: embraced, Joseph embraced by his comrades, his colleagues. Handshakes, and laughing. Reassurances of safety. And beer, beers opened. Smoking, a haze of smoke in the room. And finally: the charts, the papers, the maps. Down to work.

Plotting the overthrow of our country’s government. Plotting and planning the overthrow of our lives.

I pictured him, then: his glasses, his bearded face, his smile. Alive, and free. I almost wept with the relief of it.

And then in the early hours of the morning, perhaps four o’clock, the car driving back, out of Soweto and its acrid coal fire-smell, the morning coal fires, the commuters, lines of Black people already at the buses, and towards us, to the dark and distant suburbs, where we were. And dropping Joseph off, down the street, as he’d walk, quickly, to our gate. He’d let himself in by that old latch, walk quickly, quickly, down the grass, to his room, that small stone room. And he’d reach, at last, his bed. His narrow bed with its old springs, that I could see, could hear, so clearly in my mind.

I thought they must be white people who came in the car, it would have been too risky for Black people to be seen by the police coming into our neighbourhood, driving to Soweto and back, and at night. They must have had it all so carefully planned. I was amazed, as I thought about it. Thanks for telling me, Emily, I said, I am glad to hear it, glad he goes out. Don’t tell anyone, remember. Yes ma’am, I know that, ma’am, she’d say.

I DIDN’T KNOW IF Joseph saw his wife or children. I thought perhaps he did not. I knew it wasn’t safe for him to be taken to his house, where they were.

Stories have been told, books written, about those families, the families of activists, who were left behind. I’ve read some of them. You, you can read them too. They are hard to read.

Perhaps I felt calmer for a few weeks. There was a space where Tiny had been, we struggled with that.

Howard went at least twice more to the police station. He told me he stood patiently talking to the officer at the front, who paged through his files, then looked up and said, why are you so worried about it, meneer? He looked at my husband. He was deciding, I suppose, what kind of person my husband was.