I didn’t want Tunde to stay, there wasn’t room. Now there was rain coming in to the big room upstairs, our bedroom was my mum and dad’s, and we were squashed up to sleep in the front room, so he’d be in there with us and no one liked him. ‘Just one, two, three weeks, I will come!’ Mr Lawal’s voice was growly, the words exploded out of his chest in English and sounded like they were laughing everything off in Yoruba. I didn’t like him. He always dressed in smart English clothes, with dark glasses and a big parting in his hair that looked like two cliffs wedged into his head. My mum said he was a playboy, he didn’t want to look after Tunde because he was too busy running around. He talked a lot when he wanted everyone to be on his side, but then he sat around being silent and moody. I did like him though when he smiled, he looked like a shark and he knew it, and he’d do it for you and you wouldn’t let him near you, even though he always kept his teeth together to keep you on edge. I felt sorry for Tunde when he came because he lost his mum in Nigeria. He didn’t know where he was, he only knew us. On the first day he went round the back of the television set to see where the man was, and kept wanting to play with the ice cubes in the fridge. He was all right until we realised he was staying and he wet the bed. He couldn’t really speak English until we started teaching him Bob’s yer uncle and cor blimey and thingamajig, but my dad said no swear words, and then without anyone saying it he started fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that and smiling that he could get us in trouble. Slag! Shit-’ole! Cunt!It started coming out, but he couldn’t say everything. Wakka! ‘What?’ Wakka!