I took the back route to the park, where there was less chance of anyone I knew spotting me. I kept my cap on, pulled down low for disguise. The alleyways are quieter than the main street, but that doesn’t make them safer. The knotted takkies hanging from the overhead wires are a dead giveaway: dealer territory. That’s the way they advertise themselves. I kept a sharp look-out for trouble as I walked, ready to duck if I spotted a whunga pack heading my way. Those guys’ll strip the clothes off you to sell for a hit.

It was hard to be unobtrusive. The old pram wobbled along loudly, singing its own squeaking, rattling song. Inside it, was a bonnet with yellow sunflowers all over it. And under the bonnet, the toothless face of my kid sister, cooing and gurgling away to herself like the world was just one big happy place.

It’s not her fault that I have to babysit her when I should be focusing on my big break. Not my fault either. I wasn’t the one who got my mother pregnant sixteen years after I came along.

I tried to imagine Jay Z or AKA in their mean-street scowls and trendy fades, wheeling a stroller full of kiddie noises as they rehearsed rap vids with their buds. Picture just didn’t fit – know what I mean?

I made it into the park without being outed. Luckily, I was the first to turn up, which gave me time to strategise. I wheeled my sister into the playground section, where she’d be nice and safe among the watchful gogos and tannies keeping a good eye on their own infants and toddlers. I’d be just on the other side of the fence anyway, so if she started wailing, I’d hear her.

Luckily she wasn’t a crier, not normally. If my luck held, she’d nap through our practice and not even know I was gone. She was already half asleep from the walk here. I fed her some bottle so her tum would be nice and full. Then I gave her the sleeping shot that never fails: rap music.

I found some good, repetitive rhythm on my play list, tucked the phone under her pillow so she could hear it nice and close, and tiptoed off, holding my breath. I checked back once or twice but there wasn’t a peep from her; she was out like a light.

I could see the other guys slouching up to our meeting spot, and I vaulted over the fence to join them. We nodded to each other the way cool dudes do, and did the pinkie-finger loop we’d invented.

“Wotcha,” we mumbled. Shorthand for, “What you up to?”

“Hanging,” we all answered.

“Kool.”

***

Tell us: What do you think of this child-minding plan?