said Mum, greasing up our ashy legs with Vaseline

Or that your auntie Amy’s a man stealing back-stabbing, cheating bitch

who can’t keep a man so she has to steal somebody else’s.

We just don’t see eye to eye on much, that’s all

and he wouldn’t stop eating cashew nuts in bed

It’s not that you mother and I hate each other

said Dad, pushing a crumpled ten pound note into my chinos pocket

…or that I forgot about your birthday

but I need time to think now. I’m moving in with Amy

and anyway, your mum cooks with too much salt.

It wasn’t so much an affair, you understand

said Auntie Amy, lacing up my brothers small Nike trainers

and picking out my knots with the wooden comb shaped like a fist

but a meeting of minds outside of our respective vows

And bodies, muttered mum, when I told her later.

Two faced tramp. What a joke.

Don’t tell anyone I said that.

Don’t tell anyone I said that.

It’s not as though your mums exactly an angel, either

said dad with blood red eyes

and a pulsing vein in his forehead

finishing the last of his whisky

and auntie Amy hissed, Easy Winston, you’ve had enough

and dad said, Don’t tell me what to do

not even my wife yet, and you think you know it all.

It not that your family are going to hell, necessarily

said grandma, boiling up the green banana, yam and dumpling

and grating the coconut onto the rice and peas

They must just accept Jesus Christ into their lives

and put away the drink and sin and all the lies.

Now go and wash your hands and set the table.

Don’t worry, child.

We’ll pray for them tonight.

Yrsa Daley Ward