Touch the Sun

by Emily Conolan

  Your mind reels. Is she here because she’s heard you’re in danger from al-Shabaab? No, surely not.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mel-ah-nee,’ she says clearly and slowly. She puts her right hand out to shake Jok’s. ‘I’m from the …’ She stops when she sees that Jok has no right hand, just a stump. He offers her his left hand instead. She seems to wither on the spot.

  The furious pounding in your heart from seeing Qasim slows down a bit. You almost want to chuckle.

  ‘Goodness me. Um, I’m sorry.’ She clears her throat. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes, and Arabic, Dinka and a little Swahili,’ says Jok politely, in English.

  ‘Ah,’ says Mel-ah-nee. ‘Wonderful. I wish I could speak so many languages. Well, I’m here because I believe you make these wonderful bottle-lights?’

  She gestures around Jok’s neighbourhood. Nearly everyone here has one of your bottle-lights now.

  ‘He invented them,’ says Jok proudly, nodding to you.

  You try to stand up straighter and look like an inventor, not someone who’s just had stones thrown at him by bullies and been scared half to death by al-Shabaab. This is an opportunity, you’re almost sure of it. You just have to work out how to use it.

  ‘That’s so impressive,’ says Melanie warmly. ‘They’re so simple and useful!’ She smiles broadly.

  Melanie’s the first white person you’ve ever met, and it’s strange. You always thought these people drove around in jeeps and told refugees like you what to do. But this one seems so unsure and soft. You think she’s kind of cute, like a puppy.

  ‘Would you like a job for our organisation, teaching other people how to make these?’ she asks. ‘We’d like to see them used all over Dadaab.’

  Jok invites her inside to look at his bottle-light and talk about how you install them. But while he’s explaining, and Adut is making tea, you interrupt.

  ‘My life is in danger from al-Shabaab! Terrorists,’ you add, in case she hasn’t heard of them. ‘They killed my aunty and they’re going to kill me and my sister!’

  Melanie looks taken aback. ‘Well, I’ve only just arrived in Dadaab, but if you’re looking for protection, there’s a secure UNHCR compound I could take you to—’

  ‘Does your organisation have a computer? And a phone?’ you demand.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she begins, but Jok sees where you’re heading with this plan and butts in.

  ‘Then please, if you want our cooperation with your project, you must help this boy track down his uncle in Australia!’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Melanie says again. ‘Anything I can do to help.’

  She gives you and Jok a ride in her air-conditioned car. Jamilah waits behind with Adut, despite her furious protests.

  Inside her office in a brightly painted, boxy building, Melanie helps you to use the internet to find the phone number of Sampson’s shop in Eastleigh.

  You press the numbers into the phone as quickly as you can, and then wait as slow seconds tick by, as the phone rings and rings.

  Please answer, you think. Come on, Sampson. Please!

  To continue with the story, go to scene 23.

  Sampson’s warm, familiar voice on the other end of the line makes you want to cry.

  ‘Good news!’ he cries. ‘Your uncle Aadan in Australia replied to my email, and he wants to help you. Wait, I have his number!’

  You copy it down.

  ‘Good luck, brave boy,’ says Sampson. You can picture him beaming. ‘Chujio hutenda mema, mabaya huliangukia. You are like a sieve: although bad things fall upon you, you can do good. And please give your darling sister a kiss from Uncle Sammy.’

  Now you have Aadan’s phone number again! You’ve been waiting for this for so long – since the night you first left home, almost seven months ago. But you feel suddenly overwhelmed with nerves. Will Aadan really want to help you?

  The thought of Australia has kept you going through all the bad times, and now it’s your very last escape route from al-Shabaab. If it turns out that you won’t be able to go, you might as well surrender and let the terrorists crush you.

  With a shaking hand, you take a deep breath and call the number. You hear the ringtone chirruping like a distant bird calling from a foreign shore. You force yourself to breathe out. Your palms are clammy, and now your whole body is trembling.

  Chirp, chirp. Chirp, chirp.

  You wonder what Aadan is doing as his phone rings in his pocket or bag: driving a fancy car, or watching a movie on a big screen?

  ‘Yeah?’ comes a man’s voice, thickened from sleep. He’s speaking English. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me,’ you say in Somali, and your voice echoes down the line and bounces back to you: ‘Me – me. Rahama’s nephew – phew – phew.’

  ‘You’re alive!’ shouts the voice, in Somali now. ‘Thank God! Where are you?’

  There’s so much to say. Aadan hurls questions at you like missiles. You tell him everything, starting with what you saw on the day Rahama died.

  Aadan becomes very quiet. Occasionally you hear him sniff as you tell your story, and you wonder if he’s crying.

  You tell him about the pen. The note. Al-Shabaab coming to your home. Crossing the border, meeting Sampson. The bank account and having to flee for Dadaab, and how now, despite all your efforts, al-Shabaab are here too, breathing down your neck, edging ever closer …

  ‘I’m getting you and Jamilah out of there,’ promises Aadan. ‘Can you leave the camp? Tonight, if you can. It’s not safe to stay another day. I have a friend in Nairobi: Abshir. I’ll give you his address and send him money, and from there we’ll work out how to get you out of Africa. He can care for you in the meantime. Get to Nairobi as soon as you can. Keep the pen safe if you can, but that’s all you need to do – we’ll do more to investigate Bright Dream together when you get to Australia. When you’re safe.’

  Jok is looking at you expectantly when you hang up the phone. Your hands are still shaking.

  ‘Well?’ he asks.

  Aadan’s last words are ringing in your ears: when you get to Australia…

  He said when!

  ‘I’m going to Australia,’ you whisper.

  Jok whoops and punches the air with his one good hand. You feel a squeeze in your heart – he’s so genuinely happy for you, but you’ll be leaving him behind.

  You look at the address you’ve copied down for Abshir: it’s in Eastleigh, Sampson’s suburb! Your heart lifts at the thought of seeing him again.

  That night, by the light of a kerosene lamp in Jok’s hut, you, Jamilah, Jok and Adut try to work out how you and Jamilah are going to get back to Nairobi. Getting a truck-ride back in the same way you got here is out of the question – you don’t know anyone in Dadaab with enough money to buy a ride.

  Maybe an aid agency could help you, but that would be a slow process, waiting for funds to trickle through and permission to be granted for you to leave the camp – and now that al-Shabaab knows you’re here, you just don’t have that kind of time.

  Even now, Jok is sitting with his back pressed up against the door in case anyone tries to barge in. Everyone in the tiny hut is alert and tense. Jamilah is chewing on her thumbnail.

  ‘I wish we could help you,’ says Jok.

  ‘You’ve already helped so much,’ you say. ‘Maybe we could walk to Nairobi.’

  ‘Through the desert?’ cries Adut. ‘No way. If the heat doesn’t kill you, you’ll be murdered by bandits or snatched away by lions!’

  ‘Lions?’ gasps Jamilah.

  Adut nods. ‘It happens to many of the children who walk out of Sudan,’ she says gravely.

  ‘But most of the people who live in Dadaab walked here,’ you say, thinking of the thousands of famine victims pouring over the border from Somalia, Sudan, Ethiopia or even further. ‘And we need to get out of here as soon as possible. Tonight, even.’

  ‘But for every one of those who survived the walk here,’ frets Adut, ‘another lies de
ad in the desert.’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘Stay awhile longer, hide with us, and we’ll do what we can to raise the money for your truck-fare.’

  You look Jamilah squarely in the face. Whatever you decide to do now, the risk will be just as great – if not greater – for her. She needs to have a say. ‘What do you think?’ you ask her.

  Jamilah’s eyes meet yours, and you suddenly realise how much she’s growing to look like Aunty Rahama. ‘We’re strong enough to do it,’ she says. ‘I’d rather face the desert than al-Shabaab.’

  I love her so much, you think. But there’s nothing I can do now that won’t put her life in danger.

  Adut sobs quietly in the background and Jok rubs his brow. ‘It’s your choice, kid,’ he says.

  If you leave Dadaab tonight on foot, go to scene 24.

  If you wait in Dadaab to try to raise money for a truck-ride to Nairobi, go to scene 25.

  ‘We have to go tonight,’ you say, standing up.

  You need to get walking now, in the dark, to cover as much distance as you can before stopping to rest in the heat of the day.

  On top of that, refugees aren’t allowed to leave Dadaab without permission, so you’ll need to sneak away under cover of darkness. And it’s best to be well away from here before al-Shabaab even gets a whisper of your plans.

  Now Jok is crying, as well as Adut. They embrace you and Jamilah in turn.

  You and Jamilah arrange a blanket over her shoulders, and a bag on your back holding the little food Jok has and as much water as you can carry.

  You slip through the dark camp, heading for the outskirts where the shelters give way to the desert. You’ll cut around from there in an arc to reach the dusty main road to Nairobi.

  At night you can stay close to the road, but in the daytime you don’t want to be found by robbers, terrorists, or the Kenyan police, so you’ll have to hide in the desert to rest, or walk well away from the road.

  ‘So long, Dadaab,’ Jamilah whispers with conviction.

  You remember when you arrived, nearly seven months ago, and thought it looked, from the distance, like a little toy town made from mud. Now you know that it is bigger, more awful, and yet more wonderful, than any other place you’ve known. As you walk towards the outskirts of the camp, you promise yourself to return one day, not to seek help but to give it, in some way.

  You are so lost in thought that you don’t realise there is someone following you through the camp. Jamilah notices, though. She tugs your hand.

  ‘There’s a man! Behind that tent!’

  You turn in time to see a black shape slip behind a shelter made of branches and a ragged tarpaulin. You stop a moment and stay very still, your senses quivering. It must be al-Shabaab. Then you hear the click of a gun being loaded.

  You grab Jamilah tightly and duck behind a thorn-tree fence. On your hands and knees, you creep forward until you can see around the corner.

  The man has stepped out from behind the shelter. His face is covered by a scarf, and he holds a long black gun. He is looking the other way – he’s not sure where you’ve gone.

  ‘Stay there,’ you hiss to Jamilah, and you charge at the man. Your bare feet are so light and fast on the sandy ground that he sees you only a moment before you crash into him. He loses his balance and, grabbing you with one hand, pulls you both to the ground.

  You are above him, and you make a desperate grab for his gun, but he is too fast and throws you onto your back. You can see him reaching for his weapon.

  Suddenly, faster than a cat, Jamilah leaps out from behind the concrete wall, sprints towards you, lets out a bloodcurdling battle cry, and kicks the side of the man’s face with all her strength. Blood drips out of his gaping mouth, and he looks at her in astonishment.

  You make use of his momentary distraction to grab his gun. He is swiping at Jamilah, but she dodges him nimbly. You manage to wrestle the gun away from him, and you point it at him.

  The man rises to his feet, but Jamilah shouts, ‘Get back down! Or my brother shoots.’

  Looking warily from Jamilah to you, the al-Shabaab militant drops to his knees.

  ‘Now leave us alone – forever,’ says Jamilah fiercely.

  You are still pointing the gun at the man. It’s heavy, an AK-47, more than half Jamilah’s height. You’ve never fired a gun before, but you will if you have to, you’re certain of that now.

  You back away. He stays where he is, kneeling in the dirt. When you are far enough away, you sling the gun over your bag and across your back by its strap. Then, taking Jamilah’s hand, you jog the rest of the way out of Dadaab and into the desert, until the distant shelters are only just visible in the moonlight. By keeping the camp within view and to your left, you can make your way around to the main road.

  You set a strong pace, feeling jumpy but good. Rahama’s golden pen bounces lightly in your pocket. ‘You’re a warrior, you know that?’ you say to Jamilah. ‘Like the Queen of Sheba!’

  ‘I want to be like Aunty Rahama,’ says Jamilah earnestly.

  You look across at her in the moonlight. She looks older: she holds her mouth seriously and her shoulders square. When did she grow up? All this time, she’s been an adored but helpless kid to you, but now you are walking into the desert as equals. You could have died back there without her help.

  ‘Me too,’ you say. ‘Aunty Rahama was my hero.’

  You half expect Jamilah to start crying – after all, you feel a lump in your own throat – but she marches forward.

  You reach the main road: two deep tyre tracks of sand, heading roughly west. Dawn breaks behind you, making your shadows long and thin on the road ahead. The sand still feels cold around the edges of your thongs.

  You walk on for a couple more hours, until the sun is well above the horizon and starting to build heat. Most of the thorn trees close to Dadaab have been stripped of branches for shelters, fences and firewood, but you see a good bushy one in the distance.

  ‘We’ll walk to that tree,’ you tell Jamilah, pointing, ‘then stop and rest. If we can sleep for a while, we’ll have more energy to walk during the night.’

  The tree is a little way off the road, and it’s a good place to rest. You both sip a little water, and then you make a shady cover by hanging your blanket from a low branch.

  Occasionally, a truck roars past. You sit as still as possible while the air around you heats to a temperature so high you can hardly keep your eyes open. It’s hard to rest when it feels like your skin is going to split from the heat.

  You slip in and out of a muddle of sleep. Only when the day cools into evening do you start to think clearly again.

  You and Jamilah eat a little of the thick, doughy millet that Jok gave you. It’s the only food you’ve eaten all day – bland and heavy, enough to keep you moving.

  You don’t know how many nights this will take. The second night of walking already doesn’t feel as easy as the first. You might have ten nights ahead of you like this, or twenty, or more if you get lost.

  The gun is heavy and cumbersome to carry, so you and Jamilah take turns. You don’t want to leave it behind – you might need it for self-defence, and if you ever see an animal, you could try shooting and cooking it. But the only signs of life so far have been flies, which came out yesterday during the heat of the day, and a single lizard you saw last night at dusk.

  You walk through the night and the following dawn and morning. The strap on one of your thongs breaks, and Jamilah rips the hem off her dress to tie it back onto your foot.

  The days turn to nights, then back into days. Occasionally, as you rest during the days, you hear a roar of an engine passing on the road, but you always choose resting places that keep you well hidden, and you only walk by the road at night as planned. The millet dwindles. Soon you are eating just a pinch of millet, and then nothing – just a few sips of water a day.

  At first, to keep your minds focussed on other things, you would tell Jamilah to recite her alphabet as she walked along, or y
ou sang a song together. Now you both barely have the energy to speak.

  But for every one of those who survived the walk here, another lies dead in the desert, says Adut’s voice in your memory.

  The desert wants to eat you.

  Each evening you look into Jamilah’s face, see her red-rimmed eyes, the skin hanging from her cheekbones like dry cloth, her slack, exhausted mouth without even a drop of spit in it to swallow, and you know it’s a mirror of your own.

  One day, as the heat starts to build, you stumble towards a resting place you’ve spotted: some sticks in the ground with a tarpaulin strung over them, a makeshift humpy half-buried in sand. Someone else who made this journey must have left their shelter behind.

  But when you stumble closer, you realise the traveller is still there. Or, some of her is. A pile of clothes and bones and a hank of brown hair is all that’s left of her body.

  Jamilah starts to choke with dry sobs. ‘No. No! We can’t rest here with a dead woman!’

  ‘We have to,’ you say forcefully. ‘There’s nowhere else.’

  Feeling sick to the stomach, you move the woman’s bones aside. You shudder as you sit down next to them, pulling Jamilah into the shelter with you.

  A sandstorm howls through the desert that day, blotting out the sun, filling your nostrils and ear-holes with sand.

  When the sandstorm finally passes, the cool weather of evening has arrived, but since you didn’t get any rest you find that you can’t stand up and keep going. Your legs shake when you try, and you fall back to the ground. You feel like a hollow boy, made of sticks and string.

  Waterwaterwaterwater, says your brain. But there is none left. Jamilah lays her head in your lap. Her eyelashes are coated in sand. A little scrap of breath – in, out, in – is the only difference between her and the traveller’s pile of bones beside you.

  That night, you are tormented by dreams and visions. Men from al-Shabaab take your gun and tie it around your throat. Your parents arrive and sob as they try to untie the gun, asking, Did we die for this? For you to be collared like an animal?