Touch the Sun

by Emily Conolan

  ‘The orphans should all be driving Mercedes Benzes with that kind of money,’ Sampson says.

  ‘This is serious,’ you say. ‘This is proof of who they’re buying their weapons from, and who’s giving them funds.’ You look down the page. ‘By checking the dates and the places of each transaction, we can work out roughly where the leaders of Arsenal have been living and hiding all over Somalia!’

  Sampson gasps. ‘I shouldn’t have done this,’ he mutters. ‘Quickly, log off!’

  He closes the page, shuts down his computer, and looks about the room, terrified.

  ‘I should have thought of that!’ he wails. ‘When you log on to a bank account from an unknown computer, the bank immediately sends a message to the account holder saying there’s been a new log-in from an unknown source! What if Arsenal traces it back to me? They’ll come and kill me!’

  You didn’t know that could happen. Jamilah gives a little whimper and squeezes Sampson tight. You try to think fast. You imagine that your brain is whirring and clunking just like Sampson’s computer.

  ‘Can you ask the police for protection?’ you say. ‘They’d be interested in knowing about Bright Dream.’

  Sampson sighs and chews a fingernail. A customer comes into the shop, and he serves them.

  ‘The problem with going to the police,’ he says when he’s finished, ‘is that once they found out you are the source of the information about Bright Dream, they’d probably throw you out of the country. They’re supposed to let you stay if you apply for refugee status, but so many Somalis have fled here, and Kenyans think you’re all terrorists. The police are told to do something about “the Somali problem”, so they arrest random Somalis without visas and throw them back across the border. I wouldn’t like to see that happen to you.’

  You sigh heavily. How can people here think all Somalis are terrorists, when most Somalis are fleeing terrorists?

  Sampson has been so wonderful and generous. You had hoped that you could stay in the safety of his shop for longer. But the threat of al-Shabaab has followed you, even here. You wonder if you’ll ever truly feel safe and free again.

  A flurry of customers come into the shop, and Sampson gets busy serving them while you and Jamilah get busy putting price tags on items and unpacking vegetables. By the afternoon, Sampson’s naturally affable and laid-back disposition has returned, and he no longer seems worried about the morning’s blunder.

  ‘Let’s wait and see, my darlings,’ says Sampson, opening a packet of Manji Ginger Snaps. ‘There’s no need to call the police – I’m sure things will work out fine. Mwanamaji akimbia wimbi? Will the sailor flee from the waves? You’re still safe here. Have a biscuit.’

  Jamilah takes three and grins at Sampson.

  She thinks anywhere there are biscuits is a good place to stay, you think ruefully.

  You’re not so sure, though.

  To insist that Sampson calls the police, turn to scene 15.

  To wait and see what happens without calling the police, as Sampson suggests, turn to scene 16.

  Why would this stranger believe your story about the pen? You decide to run. You grab Jamilah’s arm and jump up from the bench. The man steps into your path, but you push past him and begin to run through the park towards the street.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouts, ‘I’m not going to hurt you! Kids!’ People are turning to look as you race by. A middle-aged man in a suit makes a grab for you. You dodge him. A woman walking along the path with a little girl jumps out of your way, yanking the girl, who stumbles and begins to cry. You are attracting a commotion and you haven’t even been in the city for one whole morning.

  You make it to the far side of the park and back onto the street and slow to a walk, trying to blend in.

  But the lady with the little girl has followed you. She shouts something in Swahili: – ‘Mwizi! Mtoto ya nyoka ni nyoka,’ she spits. People look at you in disgust.

  To your horror, you see a couple of policemen approach. The woman raises her arm, points straight at you and Jamilah, and shouts: ‘Mwizi!’

  You sprint again, yanking Jamilah with you, but the footpath is too crowded, and the police catch you.

  ‘Somali?’ they ask, in English, pointing at you. You nod. ‘Identity card?’

  You don’t have one. Of course not.

  They search your pockets and find the pen. You try to explain, but they won’t believe it’s not stolen. They keep it and shove you into a van. Their job is to get Somali refugees without papers out of Nairobi.

  You think of the Kenyan news headlines Aunty Rahama read to you over the last few months:

  Kenya rocked by bombs in Nairobi terror attacks.

  Somalis in Kenya find themselves under suspicion.

  Kenya deports Somalis, arrests hundreds in crackdown after attacks.

  These aren’t headlines anymore – they’re pieces of your story. As the van rumbles through the streets, you bang on the wall that separates you from the driver and shout: ‘You have to let us stay, please! We are running away from the terrorists. We’re even more afraid of them than you Kenyans are!’

  As you and Jamilah are herded into Pangani Police Station, fingerprinted, and locked in a cell, none of the officials speak to you. Not with their voices. But their body language shouts: You’re scum. You’re weeds. Get out and never come back.

  The only other person in your cell is a thin man with vacant eyes and dirty clothes. He’s licking his finger and rubbing at his skin, muttering: ‘It never comes out, it never comes out.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispers Jamilah. ‘He’s scary.’

  He hears her, and his eyes snap upwards and lock onto you. ‘They tattooed me,’ he says in Somali. ‘See, here on my skin, these words.’

  You look at the man’s skin, but there’s nothing there, only a bruise where he’s been rubbing.

  The hairs stand up on the back of your neck. You don’t want to talk to him, but your curiosity wins out. ‘What do the words say?’ you ask him.

  ‘Terrorist,’ he spits. ‘Vermin, parasite, illegal. Somali scum.’ You shudder. ‘They’ll put them on you too,’ he mutters. ‘They will.’

  You know that, although the man is deluded, those words are yours and Jamilah’s now too. You belong nowhere: not here in Kenya, and not home in Somalia, where al-Shabaab wants you dead. There is no space between the borders where a pair of unwanted kids might rest.

  To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 12.

  ‘No, Sampson, you need to call the police,’ you insist. ‘Trust me – Arsenal are and deadly. You really might be in danger. And besides, if the police take us seriously, they might be able to make use of this information and do something about shutting down Bright Dream and al-Shabaab.’

  Sampson tries to persuade you and Jamilah to hide from the police. He wants to concoct a story about how a customer left the pen in his shop, but there would be too many holes in his story.

  ‘How will you explain how you worked out what the internet banking password was?’ you ask him.

  Besides, you want to talk to the police yourself. You’ve gone through a lot of danger to bring this information out of Somalia, and you want to make sure that they take it seriously. You just hope they won’t throw you and Jamilah out of the country.

  The two police officers who come to the shop look stern and sceptical in their blue uniforms. There’s a small, wiry man and a woman with hair that looks as tough and tightly curled as a pot-scourer. Luckily they speak English.

  ‘We’ll have to take this pen into the office to investigate its contents,’ Pot-Scourer says once you’ve finished telling them your story. ‘Are you sure you don’t know how to get into the password-protected file?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ you say, ‘but I’m afraid you can’t have the pen.’

  Sampson persuades them to copy its contents onto a second memory stick he has spare. The police agree, and they also make assurances that they will give Sampson’s shop
extra surveillance in case al-Shabaab tracks him down from the banking log-in.

  ‘For the children’s safety, it would be best if we send them to Dadaab,’ says the wiry man to Sampson. ‘Just in case al-Shabaab have tracked them this far. They can apply for refugee status with the UNHCR there.’

  You’ve heard of Dadaab. It’s a Kenyan refugee camp close to the Somali–Kenya border. It’s in the middle of the desert – the last resort for thousands of people for whom the only other choice was death. If you can’t stay in Nairobi, then Dadaab would be better than being sent home. You’re just not sure how much better.

  Sampson begs the police to treat you well, as they begin to lead you and Jamilah away. He follows you out the door, filling both your pockets with biscuits and drinks for the trip to Dadaab.

  He kisses your forehead, then Jamilah’s. She is crying. You are trying not to.

  ‘Good luck, children,’ he says as you’re dragged out the door. ‘Anipa mungu kwa kadiri yangu: God gives you a load to carry to the extent of your strength. I know you will be strong enough for whatever may come next.’

  ‘I love you, Uncle Sammy!’ Jamilah hiccups. You see the police officers exchange a soft look with each other.

  ‘All right,’ Wiry Guy says, clearing his throat. ‘There’s a ride to Dadaab that leaves every few hours from the market. You can stay the night at the police station, and we’ll put you on that first thing tomorrow. Now let’s get you out of here.’

  To read a fact file on refugees and asylum seekers click here, then go to scene 17 to continue with the story.

  To continue with the story now, go to scene 17.

  It’s just so tempting to believe that Sampson is right: that al-Shabaab won’t find you here; that they won’t be able to trace the glimpse you got of their bank account. Sampson’s big belly puts you in mind of a bear – a relaxed, protective uncle bear. You want to believe that no harm could come to you in this safe country, Kenya, in this brightly lit shop filled with good things to eat, under the friendly gaze of Sampson. You agree not to call the police.

  You go on with your day. Jamilah has a little nap behind the counter. You fill in an order form for next week’s supplies, under Sampson’s guidance. A group of women come into the shop looking for henna to dye their palms for a wedding ceremony, and Sampson is busily helping them when two men come in too, their faces wrapped in chequered scarves, reflective sunglasses covering their eyes. One of them raises a gun.

  The customers squeal and run out. You see Jamilah wake with a start and hide in a cupboard under the counter, and you duck and squeeze into a tiny gap between the wall and the refrigerator.

  Sampson rushes to confront the men.

  ‘Tell us why you logged in to Bright Dream’s bank account,’ snarls one of the men in Somali.

  ‘What’s Bright Dream?’ asks Sampson. ‘I never log in to any bank account but my own!’

  ‘This computer was reported to have been used to access our bank account,’ growls the other man, the one with the gun, waving it in the direction of Sampson’s computer. ‘We never authorised that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ replies Sampson, ‘but it could have been any of my customers. As well as being a shop, I’m something of an internet cafe. My customers often log on here to use email, YouTube, Facebook—’

  ‘We get the picture,’ snaps the first man. ‘You should pay more attention to who is using your computer. Who was on it at six o’clock this morning?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ says Sampson firmly. ‘Now please leave my shop.’

  The man with the gun raises it, and you stuff your fist into your mouth to stop yourself from screaming. But instead of shooting Sampson, he shoots his computer. Shards of glass explode everywhere, and the monitor catches fire with a crackling sound.

  The man shoots the computer again. Pieces of metal fly through the air, and the bullet embeds itself in the wall behind it with a dull crack.

  The men leave the shop without another word. They shoot the glass doors as they go, sending a tinkling cascade of glass to the floor.

  Sampson puts out the fire with a blanket. ‘Are you okay, children?’ he calls.

  ‘Yes!’ you shout back.

  You squeeze out of the gap you were hiding in and run for Jamilah’s cupboard. You help her out and she huddles in a corner behind the counter, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth.

  ‘Jamilah?’ you ask, cupping her chin in your hand. She won’t look at you. ‘It’s okay. They’ve gone.’

  Still she won’t talk. She just carries on rocking and staring blankly ahead. Tears are running down her face.

  How much can we take? you wonder. How many times can our safety be broken before we never feel safe again?

  You made a promise to Rahama to protect your little sister, but how? Nowhere seems safe now.

  You don’t know what else to do, so you begin sweeping up the glass from the doors to help Sampson.

  A small crowd has gathered outside, gossiping and pointing. ‘I’ve called the police!’ someone shouts.

  You turn to Sampson. ‘I’m so sorry,’ you say. ‘I had no idea they could track us down here.’

  ‘I know,’ he replies and sighs. His voice is kind but weary. ‘It sounds like the police are on their way. Don’t worry about my shop – I’ll find a way to pay for it. But the police can’t find you here. They could throw you out of the country. I’ve been thinking,’ he goes on, ‘that perhaps the best place for you is Dadaab.’

  ‘The refugee camp near the border?’ you ask in a small voice.

  ‘They have schools there,’ Sampson says, ‘and aid organisations that can look after unaccompanied children. You can get protection and an education.’

  You hear a police siren approaching. It looks like you don’t have much choice. Sampson quickly opens the till and gives you a wad of notes.

  ‘Trucks leave the central marketplace for Dadaab a few times every day,’ he tells you in a rushed voice. ‘Take the 407 bus from out the front, it goes straight there. Use this money for the truck fare. Safe travels, my dears. I’m so sorry I can’t do more.’

  You go to grab Jamilah from her hiding place, but she suddenly rushes past you and squeezes Sampson’s legs so tightly that he has to put a hand on a shelf to keep his balance.

  ‘I love you, Uncle Sammy,’ she sobs.

  Sampson’s eyes are full of tears too. He starts stuffing your and Jamilah’s pockets full of drinks and snacks for the trip. You check that Rahama’s pen is also still in your pocket – it is.

  You manage to dash out the door before the police arrive, but by the time you reach the marketplace, the last bus for Dadaab has already left. You spend the night in the deserted marketplace, waiting for the dawn.

  To read a fact file about refugees and asylum seekers click here, then go to scene 17 to continue with the story.

  To continue with the story now, go to scene 17.

  The next morning, you get a ride to Dadaab in the open bed of a truck, with about sixty other Somalis, but no other kids. You all jam in together. A couple of elderly people sit down, but everyone else has to stand.

  At first, you concentrate on getting Jamilah to look around at the city, then the countryside, trying to distract her from her tears. You encourage her to eat some of Sampson’s snacks. Eventually, though, all your energy ebbs away and you just concentrate on keeping you both upright in the crowd, despite your aching legs and the sand stinging your face.

  You’re in the middle of the desert now. The truck doesn’t stop for anything – the driver doesn’t care if his passengers need to pee or stretch their legs. He might not even notice or care if one of you falls off, condemning you to a slow, dry death in the desert. The crowd tightens like one single creature sucking itself in whenever the truck hits a pothole and lurches.

  It is both a relief and a disappointment to see the outlines of Dadaab refugee camp in the distance. By this time the sun is low in the sky, and the smoke from cooking fires
and the dust around the camp envelop it in an amber cloud.

  You’re reminded of the little pretend towns you and Jamilah used to make in the dirt: clods of earth for the homes; thorns stuck in the ground for fences; and little twigs for people, wearing clothes of dried leaves.

  But then you get closer and see the mind-boggling size of the place. Greyish-white dome tents are dotted over the red sand as far as the eye can see. The truck rumbles deeper into the camp. It goes on forever.

  There are mothers with clinging babies stoking fires, and boys playing soccer with a paper-and-string ball like you and your schoolfriends used to make in Mogadishu. Ragged men carry heavy sacks. Better-dressed men go in and out of occasional more solid buildings, brightly painted with logos: ‘CARE’, ‘UNHCR’. Once you even see a white person climbing into a four-wheel drive.

  Layer after layer of people have hunkered down here, embedding themselves in the landscape, wrapping shelters and hammering fences and making more babies and deeper roads, until there is this: a thick human settlement of tents and tin, hundreds of thousands of people clinging to life in a land of nothing but sand. Now you are one of them.

  WEEKS PASS. WHEN you arrived, you and Jamilah were passed from one agency to another, in a string of registrations and queues and fingerprinting and health checks. Now you have been given a shelter for the two of you – one of the grey-white dome tents, with a sandy floor. There is nothing in the tent besides a little pot for water, and the sticks you collect for a fire. You sleep on the bare ground.

  You are each given about a handful of beans and a handful of rice every day, gained after standing in line for hours with little cardboard tags around your necks, which get a hole punched in them in return for the food. You have long since eaten Sampson’s snacks and spent the last of your money on extra food and a blanket, and you are always hungry.

  Rahama’s pen gleams on, the ruby so red it looks edible. You’ve started school, in a crowded metal shed where fifty boys sit together on a concrete floor, but you couldn’t take the golden pen out to write with there – it would be stolen in an instant. You keep it wrapped in paper and buried under the sand in a corner of the tent, showing it to no one.