As we step into Celine’s apartment and slip the weight of our bags from our shoulders, I am hit with a surge of overwhelming relief. This Airbnb represents so much more than just a place to stay. It could mean the difference between being together with Ben – my best friend and the man I dearly love – and being torn apart again by the coronavirus travel bans that separated us in 2020, robbing us of the year we planned to start a family. I’m now 38 years old; clinging to the precious time we have left and knowing we cannot afford to lose a minute more.

Since the travel bans make it impossible to be together in either of our respective countries, we have been forced from one country to the next in a bid to avoid the threat of separation. The journey has brought us here to Lyon in eastern France, where we are granted a temporary reprieve. But for how long is uncertain; France is under strict curfew, and fresh lockdowns and border closures could be enforced at any time. Anxiety rears up in my chest, but as I close the front door behind us, I force it back down and imagine – just for now – that we are safe, that this is home.

The bright, airy front room is immediately calming, with its large windows and panoramic view of the River Saône. The building’s 200-year history is evident in the high, elegantly corniced ceilings and original floorboards, but Celine and her partner have juxtaposed the traditional features with splashes of contemporary style; a modern red kitchen, a vivid oil painting of Che Guevera, and – most intriguingly of all – a small tribe of African figurines. I’m instantly drawn to the one perched on the mantelpiece, with a large spherical head and wide, almond-shaped eyes. Hello you, I think. How did you end up here?

Though we haven’t met our hosts and their Airbnb listing doesn’t specify it, I know immediately this is their own home. I have come to discern the unique alchemy of a real home; to appreciate the emotion conjured by family photos and keepsakes, and to recognise its absence in hotel rooms and serviced apartments. Home is a manifestation of love, a celebration of life – and I’m fascinated by the way homes can tell the story of the people who created them.

I feel the love in every corner of this apartment; from the passionately curated bookshelves to the postcards that adorn the walls, but mostly I feel it in the African figurines. Their striking contrast against the historic French backdrop is a curiosity I can’t seem to shake, and I wonder if there is a story behind them – a deeper significance of some kind.

On the long curfew nights my anxieties torment me, creating scenarios that suck us back into the void of separation, and reminding me of all the missed opportunities for motherhood that each feel like a thin slice shaved from my soul. Sometimes I become blameful for our situation, resentful of the way our unmarried status exposes us to the ruthlessness of the travel bans. When will this end so we can have all the things we dreamed of?

I ask Ben questions that are impossible to answer, and yet I need to know.

“But we are together now,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

Yes, but for how long? I’m tired of running.

My African friend on the mantelpiece looks on, his expression so knowing and wise that I almost wonder if there is something he wants to tell me.

Celine keeps in touch to see how we’re doing. Her messages are written in French so I have to decipher them in Google Translate – it adds to the suspense. Eventually she asks, “Do you have any more questions?”

I see my chance and decide to take it.

“I would love to know more about your connection to Africa,” I type. “And who is the little guy on the mantelpiece? He’s my favourite!”

Celine responds, and there’s a moment of anticipation as I rush to turn the words to English.

“Africa is a beautiful story of the heart,” she writes. “We’ve been working with children who live on the street in Madagascar, Cambodia and Cameroon, and also within Handicap International in Togo, DRC, Sierra Leone and now Chad. We’ve had some small victories, and still too too many defeats. Sometimes we try to bring back a little piece of a victory when we return.”

I go to the window and watch people stroll along the riverbank below, enjoying the freedom of the fresh air and the sun on their skin. How ignorant I have been to feel jaded in this place of beauty where we can shelter from the threats of the pandemic, while Celine and her partner sacrifice everything to fight for the small victories.

Then another message arrives.

“The one on the mantelpiece is a Pygmy from Cameroon,” Celine writes. “He’s also my favourite! He was gifted to me by a friend, as a gesture of thanks for one of our small victories.”

I turn to the Pygmy with a new appreciation of how he ended up here and where he came from; a world filled with the kind of hardship I may never know. It seems almost as if he was placed here on this mantelpiece for a reason; to remind me there are far worse situations than the one I find myself in now, and to tell me everything is going to be alright. A sense of calm washes over me. After all the chaos and running, I feel as though I am finally standing still, anchored by the story I learned inside this Airbnb home.

So, I guess my friend, the Pygmy, and I are more alike than I realised. I am also one of Celine’s small victories, because without even knowing it, she has helped me too.