Botswana. It is not called Bechuanaland any more now. - Miriam Tlali

I can't stand those voices! Those baboons there, sitting there talking.

My handwriting had never looked so beautiful. I had at last decided to free myself of the shackles which had bound not only my hands, but also my soul.

It was no use trying to speak to him. The long painful years of contact with the whites had developed within him a hard protective core of indifference to all their constant abusive reprimands. He was dead inside, I thought.