I don’t like sitting still as much as my brother.

When we met up, every other week, he loved to sit. Just sit and talk – on our beds, on our foster carers’ sofas, on a park bench. He said that he was making up for all the times he couldn’t sit down, all the times he had to run, all the times we were on the move.

We played a lot of football as well, just me and Emmanuel. We played the same way as we used to – chasing the ball, chasing each other, keeping the ball as long as we could. I usually kept it a lot longer than my brother. The ball was white, with a big black tick on it, and the ground was covered with green grass; no dust in the air.

The park across the road from Ruth and Jubrel’s, my foster family, was a long way from our dusty home in Africa, long in distance and long in time. Just scraps of memories remained of our home, of my mother and father, of my family. Apart from Em of course, my brother.

I’ve told you about the last time we played with our dadda. Now I’ll tell you about the last time we played in that park.

We were wrapped up warm, in hats that came down over our ears, their furry lining soft against our skin, flapping as we ran. We didn’t talk much as we played, it was too cold; our jaws were locked shut, trying to keep the heat in. I tried to talk, if shouting insults at your brother counts as talking. Emmanuel didn’t reply, he just laughed. I loved to hear my brother laugh. Somehow it made me feel warmer.

Over the years I had got better and better at football. I played on the school team and for a club outside school. There was only one kid as good as me, and that was George, my best friend. I kicked a ball around with George even more than I did with my brother. Emmanuel had stopped playing really, unless you counted our fortnightly kick-abouts. He went to a secondary school now. He told me they didn’t do much sport at his school.

When we had run for maybe twenty minutes Emmanuel stopped, coughed and said, ‘It’s too cold for this.’

I flicked the ball up into my hands. The white plastic stung my frozen skin as I caught it. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘ten more minutes.’

‘Nah, let’s get a drink or something.’ Emmanuel beckoned and I followed. My brother was in charge these days and I stayed as close to him as I could. I thought I’d lost him once. I didn’t want that to happen again.

There was a little shop in the park that sold frothy hot drinks in the winter and tons of ice-creams in the summer. You could buy chocolate and fizzy drinks any time.

We stood in line behind a woman in a headscarf and a tall boy with a large smile. They were both black, like us. I guessed they were Somali. Some of my friends at school came from Somalia.

Emmanuel and I had a game we liked to play. When we saw some interesting people, one of us would say, ‘What about them?’ Then the other would try to think of their names and invent some of their story. Alice, Em’s foster carer, had taught us to do it. She said it would help us to think about other people and understand that everyone has feelings, and stuff like that. Alice loved talking about feelings. I think Em had begun to love it too. He said it was important, but he didn’t answer when I asked why.

The mother and son bought a chocolate bar. When the mother had paid for it she gave it impatiently to the boy and said something in another language. Then they hurried away. I love not understanding different languages. I love the mystery.

‘What about those two?’ I said to my brother.

Emmanuel had already asked the shop-keeper for two bottles of fizzy orange drink. He paid and thanked the man, before turning to watch the boy and his mum hurry towards the park gate.

‘Erm . . .’ He thought for a moment and handed me a drink. ‘He’s called Ali, she’s . . . I don’t know. He’s got five big brothers and sisters.’ He paused again as the pair reached the park exit. I opened my bottle of drink with a hiss. ‘His dad is a doctor. . . ’

‘And his oldest brother is going to be a doctor too,’ I added.

Emmanuel finished, ‘And they live in one of the big houses on Leighton Grove.’

‘Where’s that?’ I asked, swigging my drink.

‘You know, it’s near your school. All the kids come out in posh uniforms and it’s lined with proper shiny cars.’

‘Nice,’ I replied.

We walked as we talked, Emmanuel leading the way, and arrived at one of our favourite benches. We sat. I thought about those big houses and shiny cars and guzzled down my drink. Then Em said, ‘What d’you think of those two?’ He pointed at a boy, about eight or nine, and a man I guessed was his dad. They were running around on the football pitch, passing an oval rugby ball back and forth. A grin was stretched across the boy’s face.

‘They got money,’ I said. ‘They look minted. Check out those pearly whites.’ I pointed to the boy’s fresh trainers, then looked down at my own scuffed, greying shoes, now spattered with mud.

‘So what?’ Emmanuel replied. ‘It’s not all about money, Prince.’

‘Everything’s about money.’ I threw my empty bottle towards a nearby bin as I said this. It hit the rim and bounced off on to the grass. I groaned, and stood up to retrieve it. ‘You’ve got money,’ I said, ‘and you’re happy.’ I had another shot at the bin and the bottle sailed in this time. ‘You’ve not got money, and you’re not happy.’

Emmanuel turned his whole body to look at me and put his foot up on the bench between us. ‘You think you can’t be happy without money?’

I thought about that for a while. I wasn’t sure. I looked at the grinning boy running around with his dad, whose gold watch glinted in the sun as he caught the muddy ball.

‘Money equals happiness,’ I replied. ‘We’ve never had any, that’s why we’ve never been happy.’

‘I’m happy,’ Emmanuel said. I could feel him staring at the side of my head as he said this. I was still intent on the boy and his father – they were wrestling with the ball now.

I looked at my brother. ‘You’re happy?’ I said.

Em nodded, then stood up to put his empty bottle in the bin.

I looked back at the father and son. They were laughing, the ball forgotten on the ground.

‘I’m not,’ I whispered.