The village has decided that Matilda works in Saudi Arabia. “When I go back they say, ‘there she is, the girl who works in Saudi Arabia,'” she laughs. “Because I don’t look like a guard.” (Saudi Arabia, in village economics, is a compliment.)

She does not work in Saudi Arabia. She stands at the door of a club full of young people and checks that nobody walks in with alcohol, drugs or a weapon. “I’m very firm, and I can read those who want to be naughty.” This is new. She was never this person. She was very shy.

The shy girl had a son young. A boy in the village she took a fancy to, who took flight when he discovered she was pregnant. That son is now in university.

Being a single mother is about knowing that beyond you there is an abyss. That you have no chute when you jump. That you hold the last line. So she has had to mind her shillings and cents. “I plan each cent I get in salary, and I don’t buy anything if it’s not in my budget.” When the school fees come, she doesn’t do instalments. “I write a whole year’s cheque.”

She built a house for her parents. Then got electricity in it, a great novelty in the village. These things still surprise her. So, apparently, does her face. “It’s my youthful look. This job, dealing with all those young people, keeps me on my toes, keeps me youthful.”

For years, she says, she has been in the audience. “I have been clapping for others. I think it’s my turn to be clapped for.”

So clap. For the girl who works in Saudi Arabia.