Funke! Hurry up!’

‘Coming, Mum.’ Funke scowled as she buckled her black Bata shoes. Mum said the biggest difference between Nigeria and England was that here everyone moaned about the traffic and there everyone moaned about the weather. Funke had more reason to moan than most. A mother who taught at your school came with a lot of downsides; having to wake up at half four (practically the middle of the night) was in the top three. And to make matters worse, today was Friday, an odd day.

The ridiculous ‘odd and even’ business had started last year. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, only cars with odd-numbered licence plates could use the roads. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were even days. Dad had sworn it would create a two-tier society where the thieving rich would thrive and the hard-working poor would suffer. Funke hadn’t paid much attention – she was used to him ranting about illiterate army dictators. By day, he lectured undergraduates on ophthalmology. By night, his go-to subject was the corrupt government intent on destroying his great fatherland.

The traffic did improve for a couple of months, but soon people who could afford it bought a second car and those who couldn’t got a second number plate and a screwdriver. The Oyenugas fell into the first category, because although Dad moaned about his ‘third-world useless salary’, Funke knew they weren’t poor. They weren’t nearly as rich as her friend Oyinkan’s family, though. The Bensons lived on the Island, had a driver and two housegirls. They went to France on holiday – Paris in actual France, not Lomé in Togo, which was a bit like France because they spoke French and ate croissants.

On odd days, Mum drove her new pale-blue Toyota Corolla, LAG 3479. On even days, Dad’s three-year-old gold Mercedes, LAG 4966.

The ‘who sits where’ argument had started the first morning, when Funke and her brother, Femi, had both been desperate to stretch out on the back seat and get a bit more sleep.

By week three, Mum was fed up. ‘Please, will you stop fighting!’ She’d thumped her fists on the steering wheel and burst into tears.

Funke had frozen. Mum hated them rowing but she didn’t usually get this upset. ‘Sorry,’ she’s whispered.

‘No, I’m sorry for shouting,’ her mother had apologised between sobs. ‘I just couldn’t bear it if you two ended up like me and Margot.’

Funke had never met Mum’s sister (she lived in England, thousands of miles away) but she’d heard plenty about her. Mum had been their father’s favourite and Margot resented her for it. Mum said jealousy was the most evil thing in the world (which was stupid; everyone knew it was armed robbers). She acted as if a squabble could turn into hatred if you weren’t careful, so Funke tried not to moan about things being unfair, even when they clearly were. Femi was annoying but she didn’t hate him, she loved him. It wasn’t his fault he was Dad’s favourite – it was a boy thing. All her friends had brothers who were treated like little chiefs. They got more pocket money, more attention, more freedom, more everything – except telling off, which they got a lot less of.