‘I can carry my own bag,’ he snaps. He slides it from his shoulder and throws it on top of her case. Yvonne looks away from him and he instantly feels bad. ‘I’m tired,’ he says, hoping she’ll take this as an apology.

‘I know. Me too.’

Inside, Joe locks the doors and puts the radio on, filling the car with fast-paced voices which switch between Swahili and English. It all feels like noise to him. The heat is on too high, it dries his throat and lips, or maybe he’s getting sick. Plane journeys do that to him. He needs to sleep whatever it is off; this trip is too important to be wasted being ill.

Another yawn.

Yvonne leans over and whispers, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s a forty-minute drive. I’m not going to sleep again, but if you want to…’

‘I’m fine.’ He wishes he could lay his head against the window and close his eyes, that he could allow the motion of the car to help him drift off. But what would be the sense in that? For him to sleep now and miss any other triggers, any other smells or sights that will remind him of something he’s forgotten?

They never spent that much time in Nairobi when he lived here, only occasionally coming in to meet up with Mum’s other expat friends who lived in the city. But he recalls this, the traffic, the way it thickens as you edge closer towards the centre, how the air gets dirtier and the streets more cluttered and claustrophobic. ‘Reminds me of London,’ Mum used to say, because she would always relate anything slightly crappy back to London.

They slow for the lights and he jumps as a hand slams on the window by his ear. ‘Fuck.’

On the other side of the glass a man slaps his pink palm several times on the window and Kiama slides away.

‘Money, please?’ the man asks.

‘You okay?’ Yvonne asks for the hundredth time.

‘Yes. Fine.’ His voice sounds harsh. ‘Made me jump, that’s all.’

At least it stopped him from dozing off and he spends the rest of the drive feeling wide awake. Finally, they pull up at the hotel, some high-end chain, modern and European-looking. The type of place he usually only ever goes in to use the toilet.

‘Thought you said it wasn’t fancy?’

‘It’s not,’ Yvonne replies. ‘It’s a standard hotel.’

Her standards are obviously a bit higher than the average person’s. Dad’s idea of splashing out on accommodation is getting the premium cabin at Center Parcs.

The car doors are opened by doormen on both sides, then they’re greeting them and grabbing their bags and waving Joe off and it all feels too quick, going from the dark streets cocooned in the hot car to this, the bright yellow lights of the hotel drive and cold air.