I’D SUPPOSED Precious might curb her restless passions faithfully enough to wait for me. Yet my better sensibilities secretly determined it was inevitable that she’d move on. I’d only hoped it wouldn’t come like a shot in the dark – abrupt, piercing. Not least when I’m reduced to a number – prisoner 1456 – at my lowest ebb, doing hard time at Sadibeng correctional facility.

During my earlier years in this orange uniform – which still hints at the odours of a previous con – counted daily like sheep, feeling a rib crack as a warder’s boot rammed it, just trying to adjust among murderers and severely troubled social misfits, Precious’ letters had afforded some glimmer of hope within the morbidity of prison.

Through her words and visits I was able