Things were better when another man, who was slightly older than my grandfather and lived at the back in our yard, was around. My grandfather told me we were related, but I knew we weren’t. He wasn’t born in either of my grandparents’ families, but shared the same clan name as ours, which – in African culture – certified him as kin. My grandfather was usually nice to us when this old man was around. He would sit with us in our house, have dinner with us and only leave for his shack when it was time to sleep.
Apart from the old man telling me stories I enjoyed, I liked having him around because no one would get hurt. He had a way of talking to my grandfather by either calming him down or subduing him when he was being stubborn.