Chapters (42)
- Cover
- Praise for Luan Goldie
- About the Author
- Also by Luan Goldie
- Note to Readers
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Acknowledgements
- Extract
- Saturday, 4 May 1996
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- About the Publisher
Dad carefully rolls up the microfibre towel and squeezes it into the rucksack. ‘Nana must have got it from your grandparents. Or maybe we took it from the flat.’ His voice lowers and his head drops. Kiama won’t push it more as he knows how uncomfortable Dad gets talking about anything from that time. ‘I’m not sure. Sorry.’
Kiama looks again at Mum and imagines how close to her he’ll feel once he’s back in Kenya. It’s the place she loved best in the world; it was ‘their home’. She said it to him once and he’s never forgotten it. She had taken him for pizza at the local food court. At first, it was fun, going out for junk food straight after school, but then he started to miss his old life, his friends and afternoons running around at the local adventure playground.
‘When are we going back?’ he moaned.
‘Back where?’
‘Back home,’ he said.
‘Baby, this is our home. Our home is wherever we are together.’
And even though he continued to pine for the friends he left and his bedroom back in Stratford and weekends at Nana’s, he understood, even at that age, that she was right.
Now that he looks at the photo properly, there’s something about the light in the background that doesn’t look like the UK.
‘Maybe this was taken in Kenya,’ he says. He turns back to see Dad removing T-shirts from the bag and rolling them.
‘Sorry, son, I really don’t know. But I can try and find out. Maybe your Uncle Danny will remember.’
Kiama takes a snap of the photo with his phone and smiles. ‘Nah, it’s fine.’
Because after tomorrow he’s going to be in a place where all his questions will finally be answered.
Chapter Seven
Packing
June 2001
Yvonne
Yvonne sits on Emma’s bed, watching drops of water flick across the room as she combs her hair roughly in front of the mirror. ‘So, I tried talking to my dad about Backpacks for Africa.’
‘You actually told him about that?’ Yvonne knows that Emma’s parents see her as the ‘sensible friend’, the good influence, so it’s a bit embarrassing that Emma’s been spouting this half-baked idea to them.