I’m completely drained and remember basically nothing about the drive back home. There’s probably still an hour or more of daylight when I wake from a sleep I didn’t know I had drifted into, just as we are parking under the trees of the car park.

“Perhaps you should rest, Will,” Joseph suggests as I get out of the vehicle and stumble slightly. “You can cook for me another time.”

“Oh no, you’re not getting out of it that easily. I’ll take another nap and I’ll be fine. Come around at seven,” I tell him.

“Only if you are sure,” Joseph asks.

“I am. I have bought the ingredients and some of them will not keep. I will see you later.”

Joseph nods and heads off towards the staff quarters. I’ve no idea what they have in the way of accommodation, but considering what I’ve seen of their facilities and their reasonable working conditions, I’m prepared to assume that they will have comfortable rooms and probably only lack en-suite facilities. In my mind I picture something not unlike the accommodation I had as a student.

Back in my apartment, I take a couple of paracetamol for the subtle headache that I seem to have developed and, drawing the blinds, I allow myself to collapse onto my bed for an hour or two.

Apparently, al I really needed was a bit more time to rest. I’m quite conscious of the fact that I need to get into the kitchen and be at least notionally awake before my guest arrives.

One of the first things that struck me when I went into the supermarket for the first time was just how cosmopolitan the country was. Perhaps this is a consequence of the considerable ex-pat contingent now working in Nairobi, but it might also be a remnant of much older cultural mixing from colonial times and even further back in time.

The upshot is that all of the spices that might be thought of as belonging to the cuisines of south-east Asia or the Indian subcontinent are inexpensive and readily available.

I’ve never really been one to cook for friends, although it isn’t unheard-of. In recent years, living on my own, I’ve also let myself grow lazy and rely on take-away, delivery or prepared sauces to just make life easier. In some ways, this means that I’ve really missed the chance to stretch my skills and prepare proper food that’s cooked from start to finish.

This huge choice of fresh spices has led me to this point. As the knock on the door makes me jump, I’m concentrating on gently roasting some cardamom, coriander, cumin and cloves in a heavy pan, intending to make a lightly spiced yet aromatic curry. They’ll have to do, as I don’t want them to go over. I turn off the power and move the pan away from the residual heat before moving to open the door.

Joseph has changed into a clean shirt, but looks decidedly reluctant to come in. I don’t quite have to grab him and pull, but it does feel like an effort. I’m practical enough to feel that I should address the apparent reticence right away.

“Joseph, please don’t feel that I’m forcing you to be here. If you are uncomfortable then you really don’t have to be here if you don’t want to,” I tell him.

“It’s just that I work for you,” he manages after a long silence.

“Well, that’s not strictly true. What I mean is that I don’t see it like that at all. You really don’t work for me in any case. You work for the company. I work for the same company, even though I’m much better paid than you are and do a different job. They pay both of us for our time and expertise.”

“It’s silly,” Joseph admits. “It is just that it is unusual for the foreign workers and locals to do this sort of thing. Everyone keeps to themselves.”

“I’m pretty sure that isn’t really true,” I suggest with a grin. “I’ve only been here a few days, but I can’t escape the impression that some of your colleagues – and even some of my new staff – see me as some sort of colonial master. I’m really having trouble with the whole thing.”

“For many of us, it doesn’t feel like we have left those colonial times behind. For most of us, a job is too important to be risked by being overly friendly or saying the wrong thing.”

“Yet, you are here now,” I tell him. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get you a beer.” I think I’ve managed to get through to him now. He manages a smile as he finds a seat on the couch.

“A beer would be good, now I’m off duty for the rest of the weekend,” Joseph admits as he tries to make himself comfortable. He’s certainly not there yet.

I fish two bottles of beer out of the fridge and open them both before handing one of them to him. I make a point of clinking the bottles together with a firm “Slaynt vie!”

Joseph is quick to catch on with a returning “Maisha marefu!” I’ve been doing a little language learning with an app and already know that this is one of the common equivalents to my own toast.

“What language is that?” Joseph asks.

“Manx. It is the ancient Celtic language of my home, the Isle of Man. Being almost in the middle of the British Isles, we have long since abandoned it for English, but there are many who wish to keep the language alive. For most of us that is just enough to say ‘Good morning’ or ‘good health’ like I just did.”

“You do not speak it then?” Joseph asks, apparently genuinely fascinated.

“No. Perhaps one day I will have the time to learn, but at the moment I am far too busy. Apart from English, I speak French quite well, but that’s about it. Now, I need to learn a little Kiswahili, I think.”

“You will learn some just by being surrounded by it?”

“I think a little. I don’t need to be an expert, just to be able to get by in normal society.”

“Most people here speak some English,” Joseph points out. “Everyone who goes to secondary school has to learn English.”

“Yes, but I’m sure I read that you don’t have to go to secondary and I’m sure fewer people speak English well outside the big cities?”

“You are right, but I didn’t think you were going to spend time outside the city.”

“Probably not,” I agree. “Do excuse me while I prepare our food.”

“Something smells very good. What are you making?”

“I couldn’t resist the spices, as you saw when we were in the supermarket. I’m going to make a curry of sorts – well, actually two different curries on the same base – inspired by Indian flavours.”

“Not too hot, I hope?”

“No, aromatic rather than spicy. I like very hot dishes sometimes, but not when I have a guest,” I assure him. “I have some chicken for one of them, but I’m also doing one with vegetables – Irish potatoes.”

“You remembered,” Joseph points out at my distinction.

“I did. It is a difference that we do make obvious, but only by always calling sweet potatoes ‘sweet’. Irish potatoes are so common for us that we have no need to name them by any other token.”

“It is a thing that you notice when working with people from other countries,” Joseph assures me. “While we all speak English, there are differences that sometimes make little sense.

I can already tell that I’m making too much food, but I do have a fridge and I can make sure that I don’t over-do the quantity of rice and simply keep some of the sauces for left-overs.

“Do you always cook for yourself?” Joseph asks as I continue.

“Most of the time,” I admit. “Like anybody, it can be nice to eat out or get a take-away, but I do actually enjoy the process whenever I’m not too tired. The freshness of these ingredients makes me want to do it more than ever.” I hold up one of the enormous tomatoes that I’m preparing to chop up. I didn’t even think to look for them in a can when there were fresh ones like these.

I’ve already used the coffee-grinder to chop my toasted spices and I’m slowly frying some onions in one large pan. The other will be ready for some chicken pieces in a moment. Apparently, Joseph wishes to see what I’m doing, as he stands from the couch and makes his way over to the breakfast bar and pulls out a stool.

“Don’t take lessons,” I tell him with a smile. “I just basically throw things together so that it works for me.”

“Cooking has always been seen as women’s work,” Joseph tells me as he watches me. “Even if I had wanted to learn, my mother would have probably said no.”

“Yet, you are now away from home and must look after yourself?”

“There is a staff canteen and eating out for lunch is cheap enough.”

“It is. So far, I have found everything to be excellent and a little less expensive than it would be back home.”

“Well, Nairobi prices are high compared to the other parts of Kenya. Too many foreigners with too much money.”

Soon enough, the two dishes are simmering gently and I’ve time to relax for a few minutes as I begin to heat the water for the rice.

“You mention your mother, what about the rest of your family?” I ask.

“I have a sister. She is a couple of years younger than me and she has recently married. Her husband is a teacher and very nice.”

“And your parents?”

“They still both work. My mother is a house-keeper, part time. My father is working in a ceramic-tile factory now. He has had many jobs over the years, but has always worked hard for his family.”

“And you are not married yet?”

There’s a fair pause before Joseph answers. “No. People are getting married later in life, particularly in the busy world of the city. I could say the same about you.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I have simply not found the right partner just yet. I’m not against the idea of getting married, but in our culture, it is not perhaps quite as expected a thing. Who knows, I might find the right man someday, but my record so far is poor.”

I’m shit at this subterfuge stuff. I’m not supposed to be telling the locals that I’m gay. Even those that I work with might react negatively and it’d be easy to find yourself on the wrong side of a trumped-up accusation.

Joseph has certainly heard my slip-up, but he doesn’t seem overly affected by the remark. He simply takes another swig of his beer and looks perhaps a little thoughtful.