‘Because,’ Kiama stalls, remembering the phone calls, how cold and stilted they always were, how he used to dread that routine check in with them, ‘because, I want to. I want to see them again. On the phone is always awkward, but if I got to spend real time with them, it would be different. And Purity, she must be getting on, I’d love to see her.’

‘Who’s that? Your mum’s old nanny?’

It’s annoying, the way he’s being so dismissive. ‘She was a bit more than that. She practically brought Mum up. Looked after me when I was out there too.’

‘Yeah, cause your grandparents didn’t. I’m not sure about you spending time with them. Have you told them your plans yet?’

‘Not yet. But I’m going to email them.’

The little bottles in the spice cupboard rattle as Dad rearranges them. So that’s it then. That’s all he’s going to say?

‘Yvonne’s coming with me.’ It makes it real, saying it out loud. ‘Dad? Please say something.’

The cupboard door slams as he takes out the frying pan. ‘Why?’

‘Because I need to know how you feel about this. But you’re not saying anything.’

‘Why have you asked her to do that with you? You don’t know her. You haven’t seen her since you were eight and now you’re meeting up with her, going off to Kenya together. What next?’

‘I’m not trying to exclude you. But Yvonne was there. She understands.’

‘I’m worried about you. This has been a hard year, what with your nana passing and you turning eighteen.’

‘And that’s why I need to do this. I’m an adult now.’

‘You’re also still my son.’

‘I really need to do this. I think it’ll help. It’ll help me see past—’

‘See past what?’

‘This block I have. When I worry. When I can’t see past things.’

Dad steps forward and puts his hands on Kiama’s shoulders. ‘We can arrange some counselling for you. It’s normal. Especially with Nana, I knew it was going to trigger something.’

‘You’re not listening to me.’

‘No, I’m not, because this Kenya plan is crazy.’

His hands feel heavy and the oil in the pan starts to burn. Crazy. Is that really what’s going on here? Is he unravelling? Kiama stands up. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m getting carried away with things.’

Dad nods, but there’s nothing behind it, like he scored a victory he doesn’t even want.

‘I’m going upstairs for a bit, okay?’

‘Okay, son.’

He wakes up a few hours later, fully dressed and lying on his bed. From downstairs he can hear music, Dad’s playing Wu-Tang, again.

‘Alexa,’ Kiama shouts as he enters the kitchen, ‘play something made in the last decade.’