‘First time in Kenya?’ he asks her.

She nods. ‘How can you tell?’

‘No one’s going to steal your bag at the airport.’

She relaxes her grip. ‘It’s my first time travelling. Have you been here before?’

‘No,’ he says, now full of regret for initiating conversation, he’s too tired for small talk.

‘It’s so exciting, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘I’m doing a gap-year project at an orphanage.’

‘Sounds life-changing.’

The girl recoils slightly, like she’s trying to work out if he’s making fun of her or not.

Yvonne clears her throat. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I’m having issues with my phone.’

He takes the Nokia from her hand and tries holding down the off button but the screen remains frozen on the logo. ‘I would offer mine but I’ve switched it off and put it away, because I’m all about having real-life experiences.’

She huffs and stares him down until he goes in his bag and takes it back out. ‘Nice chatting,’ he says to the girl as he stands. ‘Enjoy your orphanage.’

‘What was that about?’ Yvonne asks.

‘Nothing.’

‘I heard you tell her you’ve never been here before.’

He didn’t realise she’d been standing there that long. ‘So?’

‘So, why lie?’

‘You expect me to start rolling out the real story to some random girl?’

‘No,’ she says, ‘I guess not.’ She holds the phone out towards him, ‘It’s locked.’

‘170880.’

Her eyes flick to his, obviously recognising Mum’s date of birth, she hands it back. ‘I hate iPhones. Can you do it, please?’

Eventually they find Joe, a short, tired-looking man in a crushed teal-coloured suit and tie. He walks them out into the car park, the whole time complaining about his newborn twin daughters and how little sleep he’s getting. It’s cold and the dark outside, the opposite of what Kiama had expected. But why? He and Mum used to stay out late on cold dark nights like this, sitting on the balcony drinking hot chocolates in their coats. He hasn’t thought about that in years. It’s amazing, they’re not even out of the airport and already the memories are coming back.

‘Kiama?’ Yvonne puts her hand on his arm. ‘Are you okay?’

Joe walks ahead and opens the car, a 4x4 the same colour as his suit. The boot flies open breaking Kiama’s train of thought.

‘Give me your bag,’ Yvonne says.

He recognises the look on her face, pity. Sometimes he feels like he’s received more pity from people than anything else. It used to make him angry, but now he understands it’s just one of those things that comes with losing a parent when you’re a child.