As she washes her hands, she casts quick looks at Mandla, who’s smiling at her. She doesn’t smile back. When she catches my gaze in the mirror, she spits out, “And what are you looking at?” She speaks in Afrikaans but I answer her in English.

“I’m looking at that shiner. Let me guess, you walked into a door?”

She seems taken aback and mutters an unconvincing, “Mind your own business.”

“Fair enough. Let me just say from personal experience that doors that hurt you don’t ever stop. No matter how many times they say they’re sorry and they’ll change. The only way to stop them is to leave.”

With that, I pick up Mandla and walk out.

Once we’re back at the table, the waitress returns with our order of a juice box for Mandla and a glass of wine for me. I’m aware, while unwrapping the straw and sticking it into the silver-foil circle, how we’re attracting attention. People try to pretend they’re not looking, but Mandla and I make an odd pair, and eyes flit over to us more often than they do to the playground.

Mandla squirms in the high chair. I pull him up out of it and set him down on the paved floor, handing him his juice in the process. He reaches for my hand with his free one and the gesture makes me smile as he leads me toward the track with the plastic motorbikes. None of them are free just then and children whiz by, legs pumping against the ground to give themselves momentum. Mandla watches, fascinated, as the kids do their laps, some of them crashing into each other, making each other shriek.

After a few minutes, a little boy who looks to be about five breaks away from the pack and comes to a halt in front of us. He has curly brown hair and is picking his nose unabashedly while staring at Mandla with fascination.

He doesn’t say anything, just continues attempting to tunnel into his brain until I finally say, “Hello.”

“Hello.” He sounds nasal, which is to be expected considering how far up his nose his finger is.

“What’s your name?”

“Kyle.”

“Have you found any yet?”

“What?”

“Diamonds. Up your nose. Isn’t that what you’re digging for?”

He blinks and pulls his finger out, staring at the snot on the tip of it like a jeweler appraising a stone, trying to decide how many carats it’s worth.

I stifle a laugh and point to Mandla. “This is Mandla.”

“Is he your baby?”

“Yes, he is.” I try to ignore the emotion that has unexpectedly welled up in my throat.

“Was he born like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he born brown or did he change color?”

I laugh. “He was born that way.”

“Oh,” he says, unimpressed. “I’m thirsty.” He reaches out and snatches Mandla’s juice box.