They’re interrupted by the sound of children, outside in the yard. They kick their plastic flip-flops off at the door and pile into the house. They wear a mishmash of old clothes, frayed blue school dresses, neon fleecy jumpers and football shirts. They all have a buzz cut and he realises he can’t tell who’s a boy and who’s a girl. The older kids sit along the table and begin filling out their school exercise books while the younger ones chase each other about. The smallest kid, Jenga, climbs onto Kiama’s lap to stare at the stud in his nose and inspect the tattoos which peek out from under the cuffs of his sweatshirt.

Kiama helps them with their schoolwork, draws pictures on demand and answers a hundred questions about the plane journey over.

‘You like kids, don’t you?’ Yvonne asks.

‘I love kids. I’m going to have four or five.’

Yvonne laughs.

‘I’m not interested in this one child thing. I want them to have each other.’ He sometimes imagines how much easier his life would have been had Mum and Dad had another child together. It would have taken so much pressure off, not being the only link between the parents who grated on each other or the grandparents who didn’t know what to say. Even now, the idea of having someone else to remember Mum with would make life so much easier. But isn’t that what he’s doing with Yvonne?

‘Kiama,’ Simeon calls from the indoor kitchen area. ‘Come here.’

They squeeze into the small space where Simeon is crouched down, a large bag of flour at his feet. ‘Mandazi,’ he says.

‘Is that what you’re making?’ Kiama asks.

‘No, you are. You can both cook, yes? Help me prepare it.’

‘Actually, we need to get going soon,’ Yvonne says.

A small white cloud puffs up as Simeon unrolls the top of the bag. ‘Already? No, you must stay. You can help.’

Simeon fills two metal bowls with flour and tips water into each. ‘Here,’ he hands one to each of them. ‘Who can make the best dough?’

Kiama makes a V sign with his fingers, pointing them at his eyes and then to Yvonne.

‘There’s no way you can cook,’ she says.

‘What are you talking about? You met my nana. Did she really seem like the kind of woman to raise a lazy man?’

‘She pampered her sons. Lewis never lifted a finger at home.’

‘Well, she was always working me. Cooking, cleaning, running errands. I’m the perfect teenager actually. I remember everyone’s birthdays, always send a thank-you card, which is a pain with the amount of people who still sympathy-buy me a present every year.’ He hands his perfect ball of dough to the children, who form it into little triangles which are spread across the table to prove.