‘One of the porters has been arrested and he’s asking for you especially, sir,’ he said. He had a faint blond moustache and very pale blue eyes. He looked younger than me.

‘For me?’ my father asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

‘We’ve got him down at the station – don’t rush, sir. I can wait outside. Just come out when you’ve finished your meal.’

‘We’ll come now, I think,’ my father said, pushing back his chair.

The policeman drove us to the station, apologising for interrupting our lunch. ‘He was caught stealing,’ he said. ‘Thinks you can get him off.’

The police station was a squat, one-storey building painted white. Inside, a ceiling fan sluggishly moved the hot air around and a fly traipsed across the front desk. There was a strong smell of whisky hanging about and very little natural light. The porter was sitting handcuffed on a bench in the waiting room, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. When he saw us, he stood up quickly and started babbling. Another policeman, an older one this time, pushed him back down onto the bench. No one else seemed to be around.

Our policeman led us to stand in a semi-circle over him. ‘Do you recognise this man, sir?’

‘Yes,’ my father said. ‘He’s Peter, our head porter at The Nairobi station.’

‘Bwana Miller,’ the porter said, looking up at us. ‘I’m a good man – please tell them, Bwana Miller.’

‘We’ve told him there’s nothing you can do,’ the second policeman said. ‘He was caught red-handed.’

‘What did he steal?’

‘A loaf of bread.’

‘I have big family. Sometimes I don’t have money for food.’

‘You had a job,’ the older policeman said. ‘You should have been grateful for that.’

‘I very grateful,’ the porter said; he started crying. ‘Please, Bwanas, I have big family.’

Sweat glistened on his temples. The whisky smell seemed to get stronger and stronger on the warm air, and I had to fight the urge to be sick.

‘What will he get?’ my father asked.

‘Five years, probably.’

‘That seems a bit much, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s what they normally get.’

‘Is there anyone I can write a letter to?’

‘I doubt it.’

My father tugged his beard, seeming distressed. ‘He is a good man, I can vouch for that.’

The policeman shook his head. ‘The judge won’t go easy on him in case they all think they can get away with it.’

The porter was still crying, a bubble of snot hanging from his nose. He tried to grab my father’s hands and the policeman nearest him smacked him away.

‘He’s a good employee,’ I said.

The first policeman looked sympathetic. ‘It’s out of our hands now, sir, but we thought we should fetch you just in case he kicked up a fuss.’