Up the aisle, a bony man struggles to shove his luggage into the compartment above. His elbows look like a branch off a yellow-bark acacia. If you walked into his elbow by accident you would die from excessive haemorrhage.
I wrote a good chunk of this novella in a treehouse in Elementaita. It’s called Pinklakeman Eco-Lodge, where a gorgeous treehouse teeters from a gorge (the gorge makes it gorgeous) of a seasonal riverbed.
Douglas wakes up and gets onto his beloved motorbike. It’s a small Yamaha. He leans his bike on its stand at the office parking slot at about 8am, stops to chat briefly with the sunny guard at Lonrho East Africa on Uhuru Highway,