Miss T and I sat on the chairs. Pulled our suitcases near us. Put our feet up.
Clearly, it was going to be a while.
An hour was gone.
Flies lazily buzzed around. As they do in Livingstone.
The heat was just barely tolerable.
We didn't talk much. We knew we were both ... just a bit... anxious, shall we say. Talking would only make it worse.
So we sat.
And sat some more.
And sat yet longer.
Another hour gone.
Went to the toilet.
Sat down again.
Waited. Wondered about jail in Zambia. Wondered where the hell Mr D had got to. Just wondered in general.
Finally, I was fed up.
"Let's go outside."
So we went out and sat on the dry, dry grassy lawn, watching ants build hills and hoping no poisonous snakes or scorpions were lurking.
And waited longer. Poked broken grass strands into anthill entrances, now miserably hoping to incite ant-riots. Sat on the kerb. Slumped on the kerb. Sat up straight again, still on the kerb.
"What do we do if Dad doesn't come back?"
No good answer to that one.
Eventually, after still another 45 minutes, the police strutted out and informed us firmly that we were to go back inside.
Dutifully, we complied.
Soon, a small jet swooshed onto the runway, and a group of black Africans in very expensive suits disembarked and were escorted effortlessly through immigration and away.
No such luck for us.
We waited more. The sun was baking outside, and the air indoors was crushing. Time pretty much stopped.