Is she going to manage every second of the trip like this? It’s kind of tiring. Originally he was going organise the whole thing himself. But once Yvonne agreed to come it felt like her taking over the organisation was one of the conditions. She mapped out everything for the days they would spend together, updating him with detailed emails about a local driver, the best hotels and what time they would be meeting his grandparents for lunch. She even asked if he wanted her to book his hotel in Mombasa for the extra days he would stay after she left, but he’d already booked the same budget hotel he’d stayed in with Mum. It was easy to find online, a bright pink building with a roadside café, famous for serving the best tamarind juice on the coast.

The arrivals hall is filled with men holding placards, but none of them say their names. They walk past and stand between giant potted plants and posters for safari tours. This is it. They’re really here again.

‘I’ll call the driver,’ she says as she pulls out a mobile phone and plastic wallet filled with papers.

‘Which museum did you steal that handset from?’

‘They’re great for travelling with.’

He watches over her shoulder as a slow pixelated image of two hands shaking lights up the screen. ‘Can you even take pictures with that?’

‘Why would I want to take pictures? I’m not one of these people who feel the need to photograph my every move and meal.’

‘Like me?’

‘Yes, like you,’ she says.

‘I’m not addicted to my phone. I could easily go without.’

‘I’d like to see you try,’ she mumbles.

He takes off his rucksack and chucks his phone in it. ‘Check me out,’ he says doing jazz hands. ‘I’m living in the moment.’

She smiles slightly, ‘I give it ten minutes.’

It’s hard to get any kind of banter going with her, sometimes she seems up for it, but then just as easily shuts down and goes quiet. So quiet, she hardly said a word on the last leg of the flight, just gazed in front of her, refusing to eat any of the plane food or watch anything. But he gets this must be hard for her as well. She and Mum were good friends, almost like sisters.

‘The reception is terrible,’ she says. ‘Wait here, I’ll go closer to the doors.’

He nods her off and sinks into one of the spare metal seats, pulling out a packet of Minstrels, the last of his snacks. The sugar should keep him going for a while longer, though his head is starting to feel fuzzy and all he wants to do is lie down and pass out.

A white girl with a rucksack sits down opposite, pulls her giant bag onto her lap and wraps the straps around her arms, she looks mad nervous.