It was dark when they reached house number 1043. Ivor knew his way around Mamelodi township by heart now, despite the absence of street lights. But there were police vehicles all over and, as he turned sharply into a potholed alley to avoid the Casspir parked up ahead, he sensed the growing anxiety of his last remaining passenger. Two roads down, he stopped the minibus next to a wire fence. Before he had time to offer any words of reassurance, there were people crowding in hushed excitement around the vehicle. The passenger clasped the holdall on the seat next to him, smiled towards the unknown faces and opened the door.

Vigorous handshakes sent a surge of excitement where there had been fear and the visitor found himself swept into the ‘matchbox’ house. Outside, pungent khaki smoke hung over the rooftops; inside the sweet steam of supper swirled towards the ceiling. The door closed, snatching back the carpet of light it had rolled out.

Ivor knew the young Afrikaner would be OK with the Khubeka family. He would eat unfamiliar food, share a room with two men he had never met, listen to a language he could not understand – and soon feel almost at home…

Hammering on the door! Screaming, cursing! Light burning his eyes. ‘Voetsek! Kafferboetie!’ The visitor awoke to the apparition of a policeman-boy wildly waving a rifle and ordering everyone out of bed. The police raid came in the early hours, as usual. In a way it was to be expected; the climax to a drama that had been broadcast live around the world. Nothing could have prepared the visitor for the shock. Yet he stayed another night and when Ivor went to fetch him the young comrades of the area came to see him off with much back-slapping and jokes about their new recruit to MK.