It turned out that she was a relative, a cousin of her reclusive uncle, an intellectual, obsessed with books, whom the Nazis had deported him to a concentration camp. A man of honour, he had been made the heir of his Jewish publisher when the latter’s firm had been ‘Aryanized’, but had neglected to reinstate the owner afterwards. This part of the legend surrounding the company had passed into oblivion however, leaving only his own tale of hardship.

Since I’m demanding honesty from racists, I must confess that part of my Marechera question was projection. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been more grateful for the personal fury of changes that the Fallists churned up and mirrored inside me than for the actual movement itself. Even if I was as presumptuous as Brenda Marechera in her political metaphor, I don’t know if I’d call my leaving Joburg for Cape Town a personal exile. The only other way I can explain it is as a form of masochism.