‘Take your time,’ Florence said as I got in from the backyard. She was sitting in the downstairs kitchen with the door open, and Mr Babalola in his pyjama bottoms and vest boiling a pot of water for breakfast. My mum said they weren’t married, but they looked like they were. He smiled at me and flicked water from the wooden spoon he was holding under the tap, because that’s what he did when he wanted your attention. It got me in the face and dripped down my front. ‘Number one, omi ko l’ota, you can’t fear water,’ he said. ‘Number two, godliness will go together with cleanliness. Number three, how are you this morning? Number four, greet your mother for me.’ I bowed down and was going to go when Florence said something to him in Yoruba and he shushed her. I wasn’t sure about her, sometimes she was nice, when my dad was there, but sometimes she said things and you couldn’t tell what she was saying, even in English. My mum watched her and didn’t ever say anything. Florence laughed and bit down on her chewstick, using both hands to fold her wrapper up under her arms. ‘Don’t mind her,’ Mr Babalola said, banging his wooden spoon down on the edge of the pot of boiling water, ‘she’s just jealous.’ She waved the stick out at me in one hand then clenched it back between her front teeth and smiled, ‘You can go.’