Touch the Sun

by Emily Conolan

  ‘Why? What happened?’ you ask, your heart rising into your throat.

  Please be okay, you think. Please be okay. The camp is not a safe place, especially for young women and girls.

  ‘Two men came to our tent,’ whispers Jamilah.

  ‘It’s all right, they didn’t attack her,’ says Aunty. ‘They frightened her, though.’

  ‘They said they knew I was Rahama Daahir’s niece,’ she says. ‘They asked where you were.’

  Al-Shabaab. The secret you let slip during your fight with the boys has spread fast. You feel sick to the stomach. Then a thought strikes you.

  ‘The pen! Where is it, Jamilah?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Aunty again, still braiding Jamilah’s hair. ‘After the men left, she brought it straight to me. It’s lovely – is it real gold?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ you lie. ‘Definitely not.’ You don’t want Aunty to think it’s worth anything.

  ‘Still, it’s very nice – amazing you’ve kept it all this while. Jamilah asked me to keep it safe. Something to do with … Arsenal?’

  The reference to al-Shabaab makes your stomach drop. ‘Um,’ you say. You don’t know Aunty very well, and you don’t know what to do. If you could trust her with the truth, it would be good to hide the pen with her – al-Shabaab won’t think to look for it here. But what’s to say she won’t just steal the pen and sell it, or even worse, betray you to al-Shabaab? You notice that Jamilah is hugging one of Aunty’s skinny, dry legs as Aunty continues to braid her hair.

  Aunty looks up at you.

  ‘Well?’ she asks.

  If you admit the truth and ask Aunty to help you keep the pen safe from al-Shabaab, go to scene 20.

  If you take the pen back and lie about its origins, go to scene 21.

  Jamilah loves Aunty so much, you reason to yourself. And Aunty thinks of her like her own child. She wouldn’t betray us.

  So you tell her everything.

  Aunty’s eyes grow wide as she listens. She nods, and says supportive things like, ‘Wow! You poor children,’ and, ‘So what happened next?’

  You find that it’s an immense relief to be able to tell another adult your story – someone who really wants to listen; who comes from your country and truly understands what it’s like there. She’s the first person you’ve told since you came to Dadaab; you haven’t even told Jok.

  ‘I hate Arsenal, I really do,’ Aunty says when you’re finished. ‘Anything I can do to weaken them would be an honour.’

  You feel strange to leave the pen in her care, but you can have it back anytime you want it, and this way if the al-Shabaab guys come looking for you again, they won’t find anything.

  Now you just have to hide yourselves. But where? After all, Dadaab is a place for people who have run out of other places to escape to.

  ‘You can stay here with me tonight,’ offers Aunty.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ you say. ‘But we should move to a different part of the camp – further away from here.’

  ‘We could go to Scavenger Jok’s,’ says Jamilah.

  You don’t want to bring trouble to Jok and Adut’s home, but you can’t think of a better idea.

  Jok and Adut are stricken with worry when they hear your story. Jok has tears in his eyes, and Jamilah starts crying too. It’s as if you’re both in danger of losing your families all over again.

  ‘Of course you can stay as long as you want,’ says Jok.

  ‘But the safest place in the camp,’ suggests Adut, ‘is probably with the UNHCR. They have a little group of houses locked behind big fences, with a security guard. You’re allowed to stay there if you can prove your life is in danger in the camp.’

  In the morning, Jok gives you the money for a mini-bus fare to the UNHCR buildings. Dadaab is so vast that it would take you and Jamilah hours to walk there.

  ‘First though,’ you tell Jamilah, ‘we’ll go to Aunty’s and get the pen, so we can prove to the UNHCR that they need to let us stay in the locked section.’

  But as soon as you approach Aunty’s tent, you realise something is wrong. There’s no cloth hanging to dry outside on the line, no smoke wisping from the cooking fire, no hum of her voice – the place is silent as a grave.

  ‘Wait there,’ you tell Jamilah, and she stands out on the road while you duck inside Aunty’s tent.

  You gasp. Two men are sitting inside, and they stand as you come in. ‘Where’s Aunty?’ you demand. ‘Did you kill her?’

  They just laugh. ‘Your “aunty” realised she could afford much more than a tent in Dadaab if she sold us a little treasure we’ve been looking for,’ says one of the men in a soft, oily voice.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out your pen. It lies in his palm, glinting red and gold like the setting sun.

  You look to the doorway. Your little sister is standing there, frozen with confusion. She hasn’t realised yet what this means – she’s still too little and trusting to realise that Aunty has sold you out to al-Shabaab, and that now they have what they were after from you, you are about to die.

  ‘Run!’ you shout. ‘Go, Jamilah!’ She disappears from the doorway and the second man whips a gun from his pocket, but she is gone.

  ‘We’ll catch her,’ says the man with the gun. Then you make a leap for the door, but his bullet hits your chest before you can even take two steps.

  The men stand up, the oily-voiced one slipping your pen back into his pocket. Their two black shadows loom over you. They are watching to make sure you are dead.

  But I’m not dead, you think.

  You can hear a drumbeat calling you to dance. It’s the sound of your own heart, and it booms through your body like an ancient song. The shadows of the men are dancing like black ribbons. Your feet move as though you were a stone skipping over water.

  You can hear a song: a cry of the desert that wails and swoops like an eagle. A woman’s voice sings, full of sorrow.

  Oh, my son, you have come through the desert.

  How you must long to rest your head.

  Oh, my son, I know you are tired.

  I will bring you pure water and my own fresh bread.

  Oh, my son, I see your tears falling.

  I know how you’ve struggled and what you’ve been through.

  Come, my son, and let me dry them…

  … in the garden where love can be born anew.

  The drumbeat slows, and you know the dance is at an end. You recognise the singer’s voice now – it’s that of your mother. You haven’t heard it since you were a child.

  You close your eyes, ready for the last of the pain to fall away. The tall black shadows depart. The drumming of your heart stops.

  To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 19.

  You’ve come this far looking after the pen on your own. You decide you’d rather keep it yourself for now.

  ‘It’s just a trinket that belonged to our aunt,’ you say. ‘But I know it looks valuable, so sometimes I worry that it might be stolen. Our aunt was a student, and she gave it to me as a reminder to always work hard on my education. It’s not worth anything, but it does mean a lot to me. I write poems with it sometimes. Please may I have it back?’

  ‘Oh, so it has nothing to do with Arsenal?’ asks Aunty with a raised eyebrow. ‘Because Jamilah told me—’

  ‘Jamilah’s scared of Arsenal, so when our aunt gave it to us, she told us it would keep us safe from the bad guys. Like a lucky charm,’ you lie. ‘You know, Jamilah still believes in it …’

  You smile confidentially, playing the part of the older, wiser brother, and ruffle your sister’s newly braided hair. It feels bumpy, like a fuzzy corncob. Jamilah pulls her hijab up over it and scowls at you.

  ‘Those men were probably just friends of Aunty Rahama’s from home, visiting to ask after her,’ you say to Jamilah. ‘That’s why they knew her name. Don’t worry, I’m here now. Let’s go home, and I’ll make dinner.’

  Aunty hands the pen to you without a
nother word.

  Jamilah huffs and kicks the dust as you walk home.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Aunty the truth?’ she mutters furiously. ‘You made me look like a dumb little kid who believes in magic pens!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, because you know you made her look foolish. ‘But it’s better if no one knows about our secret, not even Aunty. Arsenal could be anywhere, listening in.’

  You’re afraid to return to your tent, but you’ve decided not to trust Aunty, and it’s a long walk across the camp at night-time to Jok’s. You decide that would be even more dangerous than staying put. You try to pretend things are all right for Jamilah’s sake as you settle down for the night in your tent, but you can’t sleep.

  You sneak out once she’s asleep, back to Aunty’s tent. You can’t shake the feeling that she didn’t swallow your lie.

  A little orange glow from a kerosene lamp filters through the cracks of her tent and onto the sand. You hear low voices talking.

  ‘Just eight tents down that way,’ you hear Aunty’s voice murmur. ‘A pen made of gold with a ruby in the end. The little girl said it was her Aunty Rahama’s and it held a secret …’

  Your hear men’s voices conferring so softly you can’t make out what they’re saying.

  ‘My money?’ asks Aunty. ‘You promised it to me, and I need it.’

  You sprint back to your tent and drag Jamilah upright.

  ‘Whassup?’ she mumbles.

  ‘Quiet! Follow me!’ you hiss. ‘Al-Shabaab are after us.’

  You have the pen and your money in your pocket, and you’re both wearing your only set of clothes. You’ll have to leave your schoolbooks and the pot you cook on behind.

  Jamilah stumbles out of your tent, her blanket around her shoulders. You see black figures coming down the path from the direction of Aunty’s tent, and you shove Jamilah through the gap between the two tents behind yours.

  Bending double, your arm on Jamilah’s back, pressing her down too, you start to run, weaving between tents until you reach a wider road.

  ‘Run with me to Jok’s place,’ you whisper to Jamilah. ‘Al-Shabaab are after us.’

  You make it to Jok’s hut in record time. His hut has a door, which he unlocks to let you in.

  At first, you and Jamilah are shaking so much that you can’t get the words out to explain to him why you’re there. But after a cup of tea, Jamilah eventually falls asleep curled at the end of his bed like a cat, while you, Jok and Adut stay awake talking. You’re certain you can trust them, and you show them the pen and tell them what’s on it.

  ‘I never told you how I lost this hand,’ says Jok, nodding to his stump. ‘You already know that the Janjaweed torched our village. After we escaped, and Adut and I were on the run, I was caught stealing grain from their soldiers’ supplies for us to survive. This was my punishment. They could have killed me, but they left me alive as an example to others.’

  You shudder, and lay a hand on Jok’s arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say.

  It’s not fair, you think. Why do innocent people have to suffer so much, while the bad guys get away with it?

  You know that some preachers promise fair rewards and punishments will be dished out in the afterlife, but that’s little comfort right now.

  THE NEXT MORNING, you wake to a pale dawn light radiating from the bottle-lamp in Jok’s ceiling. You wake Jamilah, wash, and both perform morning prayers. Prayer is your one daily constant: a link to home and Allah. Adut kneels beside you and murmurs her own prayers in her native Dinka language.

  ‘Don’t go out today,’ says Jok. ‘Stay hidden here. The UNHCR has a locked compound on the other side of Dadaab where they can accommodate people whose lives are being threatened. I’m going to go there, and see if they can help us.’

  Around noon, you hear a distant boom and crunch. The last time you heard a bomb go off was when Aunty Rahama was killed – it’s not a sound you forget easily. Your stomach curdles. Jamilah clutches Adut’s hand.

  People scream and cars honk. You pray Jok was nowhere near it. To your relief, he runs in the door soon after.

  ‘Al-Shabaab planted a bomb in the road,’ he pants. ‘A UNHCR car drove over it, and some foreign-aid workers were killed. People are saying they’re trying to scare off all the aid workers – that maybe they’ll kidnap and execute some of them too, until they all leave and the camp can’t function. Then they’ll round up Somali boys to use as soldiers back in your country, and kill anyone who objects. We have to get you out of here. Forget the UNHCR – I have a plan.’

  You and Jok pool your savings and, leaving Jamilah and Adut at home, run to the edge of Bosnia, where you know there’s a small shop at which you can pay to use the internet and phone.

  By the blue light of the screen of a beat-up laptop, you find the phone number of Sampson’s shop in Eastleigh. The grizzled, stinky proprietor of the shop hands over his phone, and you call Sampson’s number.

  Please pick up, you think. Please, please, please.

  To continue with the story, go to scene 23.

  You slip a hand inside your pocket and your fingers find a couple of coins. As you hoped, as soon as you throw them onto the ground the four guys dive for them, giving you enough time to jump aside and sprint away.

  You’re so angry that they’ve cost you a little of your money, but hopefully you’ll still have enough for your phone calls.

  They’re not worth fighting, you think. When they’re adults, they’ll still be here, and I’ll be long gone. You hope that, in the not-too-distant future, you’ll be in Australia, maybe studying journalism.

  Will Somalia ever be peaceful enough to go home to? you wonder. Will I make it back there one day, when I’m an old man with a beard and grown-up children… and if I do, will it still feel like home?

  The thought of never being able to go back to your beautiful, troubled city by the ocean makes your heart ache.

  You’re lost in these thoughts until a man’s voice, chanting passionately, breaks through them. There’s something familiar about the voice. You’re not sure yet where it’s coming from. You listen more closely.

  ‘The white imperialists took over our country,’ intones the voice, ‘but did the Somali people submit?’

  ‘No!’ comes a chorused response.

  ‘Then the civil war tried to divide us along tribal lines, but did the Somali people submit?’

  ‘No!’ comes the chant again. It’s getting louder.

  You round a corner and see them: a small knot of twenty or so men, clustered around a man standing on a wooden box.

  ‘And here we are, pushed out of our own country by foreign troops who refuse to let al-Shabaab take their rightful place as leaders – but will we submit?’

  ‘No!’ cry the men massed around the speaker.

  Your blood seems to freeze. You’ve stumbled across a meeting of al-Shabaab supporters. You hide behind a woven thorn-tree fence and try to get a better look at the speaker’s face. His voice is all too familiar.

  The man has a long, gaunt face and a beard. One half of his face seems normal; his bright eye flashes and darts about the crowd. But the other half of his face is terribly disfigured. His other eye socket looks like a collapsed cave. His lips on the scarred half of his mouth are fused together in a hideous smile.

  ‘We have to make sacrifices for our country,’ he says. ‘As you see, I myself was injured in an attack that successfully killed a traitor Somali journalist.’

  The crowd boos and hisses, and with a sickening blow, you realise who the speaker is. It’s Qasim, the man who planted the bomb that killed Rahama. You thought he had also been killed in the explosion, but it seems that, instead, half of his face was ripped off and he survived. Then you notice that his robes hang limply at his side: the explosion also took an arm.

  Good, you think savagely.

  You are staring at Qasim with pure hatred when he suddenly looks up from his followers. You duck further behind the thorn tree fence, bu
t it’s too late. That one eye … that brown, fierce eye in that ravaged face … He saw you. He recognised you.

  He pauses a moment in his speech before continuing. ‘The first step,’ he says clearly, and his voice carries a little further to where you are hiding, because, you can tell, he wants you to hear this, ‘is to strengthen al-Shabaab’s position in the camp by weeding out all traitors and their relatives.’

  The crowd eagerly mutters approval. You start to run. Your breath and your limbs make a desperate, crashing rhythm. You tumble through the camp like a stone gathering speed downhill, shoving your way through crowds, beating the ground with your feet as if you want to kill the earth itself.

  ‘Whoa whoa whoa whoa!’ says Scavenger Jok, catching you by the shoulders as you charge towards home. ‘What’s the hurry, friend?’ He sees that your cheeks are streaked with tears. ‘Who’s after you?’

  ‘Arsenal,’ you rasp, the breath still surging in and out of you. ‘The bastard who killed my aunty. He’s here. He saw me.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Jok. He is immediately businesslike. ‘Let’s get Jamilah, and come and stay with me tonight.’

  Jok walks briskly to your tent with you to collect Jamilah. You leave your schoolbooks and your cooking pot behind in the tent, and only take Jamilah’s blanket and the pen. Jok then guides you both back to his hut. He doesn’t pressure you to explain yourself further. He just patiently takes Jamilah’s hand in his, and answers her questions in a steady voice as you make your way to his home.

  You’re more certain than ever that you can trust Jok completely, and you blurt out the rest of your story to him as you walk – what happened to Aunty Rahama, her note, the pen, losing Aadan’s phone number, why you had to flee from home, how Sampson helped you as best he could …

  When you reach Jok’s hut, there is a white woman waiting outside. Her cheeks are bright pink with the heat, and she is wearing a shirt and long pants. She’s a little fat.

  ‘Hi!’ she says brightly in English, and she gives an awkward wave as you approach.