‘No, the children look after themselves,’ Purity says as she watches Zipporah stir the drinks. ‘And there are volunteers most of the year. They help with homework and cleaning and some will cook too. And after they go, they always stay in touch. They send things, well wishes, clothes for the children, money, so much money.’

Zipporah’s dress reminds him of his little cousins, always in the garden in full ball gowns and tiaras. Nana would chuck the dresses straight in the wash when they dirtied around the hems. But Zipporah’s dress is several shades darker than Kiama’s own white T-shirt and he wonders when it was last washed, or if she owns anything else.

‘So, if Kindred Kenya sponsors this place and volunteers are always sending money, how comes it’s still like this?’ he asks her.

Purity puts her wrinkled hand on his. ‘The children here are lucky. They have shelter, food, education. They are blessed.’

‘What is that smell?’ Simeon shouts into the room and all the children look up. He takes a deep loud sniff. ‘Can you smell something?’

Kiama and Yvonne shake their heads.

‘Dog shit,’ Simeon says. ‘Who has walked dog shit inside?’

Kiama flips up each foot to find his white socks are discoloured with red dust but free from dog shit.

Simeon lines the children up against the wall and orders each one to lift their foot as he leans in and snorts, trying to detect the source of the smell. Jenga attempts to squirm from his grip. ‘You?’ Simeon slaps his little thigh and Jenga yelps.

Kiama flinches, as much as his dad and uncles joke about how Nana used to whack them around when they were little, Kiama’s never actually seen a kid being smacked in real life. It feels like it’s something from another time, something that normal people just don’t do anymore.

Zipporah comes in with a shallow filled bucket of water and begins to scrub at the floor. ‘Good girl,’ Purity says. ‘You see,’ she says to Yvonne, ‘this girl is always the good one. Anyone would be blessed to have a daughter like her. But her parents did not want her.’

Zipporah pauses for a second; her eyes dart up towards Kiama before sinking back to the soiled floor.

‘These children,’ Purity explains, ‘are brought to this house from God, in so many different ways. Each one a blessing.’ She exchanges some words with Simeon, who pulls out a chair and sits between them all. He’s only two years older than Kiama, yet here he is, looking after a bunch of kids.

Jenga wipes his eyes and Kiama signals for him to climb back onto his lap.

‘Kiama is asking how all the children came to be here. Why there are so many,’ Purity says.