He paced the house, listened to Dennis Brown, tried to stay away from Misra because he’d talk senselessly and therefore disturb her for the remainder of the afternoon. He watched a Culture Show episode on YouTube that concerned Native American art because in some way he felt that he should, even though he’d already seen it. By the time the end credits arrived there was a key in the door, and so had Iye, with a high-pitched excited voice, a stomping of feet. He thundered into the living room, rushing into Dapo’s arms, a ball of consistent energy and chatter, warm and solid, black curling hair, bright eyes and teeth, bony knees and laughter. No sooner had he thrown himself at his father than he was gone, feet beating up the stairs to see his mother. Dapo heard slower footsteps, and then came the figure of his in-laws, Anu and Tasmin.

‘Hello, hello …’

‘Hi there. Tea anyone?’

‘Yes, please,’ Anu rumbled.

‘I’d like tea, yes,’ Tasmin said, entering.

He hugged both, ushering them into the kitchen. Put the kettle on. They sat at the dining table, lowering their bodies, sighing, stretching legs.

‘So how was he? Full of beans as usual?’

‘Oh, always full from morning to night,’ Tasmin said, over the increasing roar of the kettle, getting up again and searching for mugs. ‘Up at six he was.’

‘We were,’ Anu told Dapo. ‘Tasmin was still in bed.’

‘Anu. I was up at quarter past.’

‘Quarter past eight,’ he said, with a wink. Dapo smiled as much as he dared.

‘So who made breakfast?’

A row of mugs appeared before him. Dapo poured, pinched teabags between his fingers, dropping them into open maws. He squinted against the sudden heat, the thick rush of steam.

‘Thanks. Sugar?’

‘None for me, thanks. You, Tasmin. You made him breakfast.’

‘So what are you talking about? One sugar please. Idiot.’

‘Sorry?’ Dapo turned, kettle in hand, belching steam.

‘Not you,’ Tasmin smiled. She pointed, her nimble body always moving. ‘That idiot.’

Anu laughed deep in his chest, holding up both hands. He was tall and languid, a sweep of grey falling across his forehead, his expression static as a wood carving. Dapo joined him as he continued to pour. More thunder came from the stairs. Misra and Iye joined them now.

‘Hi Mum, Dad.’

Kisses and hugs all around. Iye called for a ‘family hug’, which consisted of him being squeezed from all sides by everyone crowding him in a circle. He closed his eyes tight and groaned while they did it, his grin wide, turning into pealing giggles.

‘So what did you do today, mister?’

‘He won’t tell you,’ Misra warned, tasting her tea.

Iye ignored his father, playing with a half-constructed Lego car on the kitchen floor. They rolled their eyes at each other.

‘He had a good time at nursery with his friends,’ Tasmin said.

‘He had a fight with Hamza.’