“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff. “It’s the nineties. A cake can be anything you want it to be. And there’s no rule that says just because it’s a child’s birthday cake it needs to be some tacky thing that looks homemade. Besides, it was ordering that cake topper that caused all the drama in the first place and I wasn’t going to back down on that.”

Lindiwe joins us at the table. “What drama?”

“I wanted a black baby made from fondant to be on top of the cake to complete the wedding cake motif, but all the racists in town at their tuisnywerhuids refused to make it.” I’d approached more than five home-industry businesses, all fronted by Afrikaner tannies whose recipes competed for blue ribbons at the local fairs, but none of them were prepared to make the cake to order.

“Maybe they’re not racist at all. Maybe they just don’t know what fondant is. These are women who are used to making melktert and koeksisters,” Riaan says. “They’re not that sophisticated.” He manages to pronounce fondant wrong despite having heard me say it properly, making it clear that he isn’t that sophisticated either.

“Oh, please. Stop being a racist apologist. If you can’t recognize blatant racism when you see it, then I can’t help you.”

Dee snorts and says something under her breath about the pot calling the kettle black, which is why I’m gratified that Sarie and her husband, Stompie, choose that moment to join us.

“Dankie, miesie,” Stompie says in Afrikaans, clutching his hat as he thanks me for inviting them. They’re both kitted out in their Sunday best.

“You’re most welcome, Stompie. Thank you for coming.”

I hope Dee has noticed the number of black guests at this party. She keeps insinuating that I’m racist but how can I be when the truth is that I don’t even see Mandla as black? He’s dark skinned, yes, so he’s technically black but he’s not like the rest of them. There’s black people and then there’s blacks. I won’t say the k-word, which just proves I’m not racist. As does the fact that I have so many black friends here.

Stompie leans forward and tickles Mandla’s chin. “Hoekom die miesie vat hom die baby met die gloves?” Why does madam wear gloves to carry the baby?

“Allergies,” I say vaguely.