The bones rise up from the ground and assemble themselves into a woman. The flesh grows on her body, then withers and falls away, and the bleached bones tumble to the ground again and again in a tortuous rewinding dance.
Rahama appears from the desert, and she is angry with you. You failure! she shouts. You’re both going to die! Then she starts hitting you, and you wake to discover you’ve been hitting yourself.
You want to cry, but there’s nothing left. You want to howl, but instead you just look at the moon, hearing that scrap of breath slide in and out of you, even as you wait for it to stop.
When dawn arrives, you can’t wake Jamilah. You shake her, and her head flops from side to side but her sand-encrusted eyes won’t open. You put your ear to her chest. There is still a steady, quiet drumbeat in there.
You heave her over one of your shoulders and stand. You’re not going to die beside this woman’s bones, under this last hopeless shelter in the desert.
You stumble towards where you think the road lies. The sandstorm has made it impossible to tell where it is – but then you hear the roar of an engine. You fling yourself into its path.
For a moment you think the ute isn’t going to stop, but it grinds to a halt right in front of you. As you take in its occupants, your heart begins to pound and you feel dizzy.
The driver wears reflective sunglasses and is swathed in the chequered scarves that al-Shabaab militants sometimes wear. He wears a loop of bullets around his chest. In the back of his truck is a cargo of soldiers dressed in camouflage. Some of them don’t look much older than you.
Your truckload of ‘saviours’ is a truckload of al-Shabaab recruits and their unit commander. You took a gamble, and the people who’ve stopped for you, the first people you’ve seen in all these days, are the same ones who ripped you from your homeland and want to kill you.
You think about running away, but it’s hopeless – you don’t have the energy to run alone, let alone with Jamilah’s unconscious body slung over your shoulder.
‘Where are you going?’ the driver growls in Somali.
‘Nairobi,’ you manage to answer.
‘Give me that gun and I’ll take you there,’ he barks in his gravelly voice.
You look again at the group of soldiers in the back of the ute. Their faces seem hard and closed. Nobody smiles or makes eye contact.
If you go back out into the desert, praying for another ride, you may not survive.
But hitching a ride with this truckload of enemies – and giving them your only weapon to boot – seems positively suicidal. What if they work out who you are, or whom you stole this gun from in the first place?
You wonder if, either way, this will be the last decision you ever make.
To take your chances in the desert and refuse the ride, go to scene 26.
To accept the lift, go to scene 27.
You sigh. ‘I think Adut is right,’ you say. ‘Let’s just stay here a little longer and see if we can raise a fare to Nairobi.’
Two children walking alone through the desert for such a huge distance would be food for the vultures before too long.
The four of you stay awake late into the night listing all the ways you could try to raise the money.
‘You could call your Uncle Aadan back and ask him to send some money direct to Dadaab?’
‘Or call Sampson, and ask him for money?’
‘We could always keep the half of the gold pen with the memory stick attached, and sell the other half.’
‘Could I leave school and take up full-time scavenging and bottle-light making with, Jok?’
‘We could all go mostly without food for a couple of weeks, and sell the rations?’
‘Why don’t you become a rap star?’
‘Or a famous soccer player?’
‘I could marry the president’s daughter!’
‘We’d better find out which presidents have nice daughters.’
You are really going to miss Jok and Adut when you’re gone.
JUST BEFORE DAWN, when you are nearly asleep, a shock of adrenaline runs through your veins and launches you wide awake. You sit still as a stone, trying to work out what woke you.
Was it a bad dream? Jamilah twitching? Jok muttering? No … there’s someone outside the hut. You’re sure of it.
Calm down, you tell yourself. Of course there’s someone outside the hut. It’s nearly dawn – it will just be someone going off early to work, or perhaps a guilty man sneaking home after a night of drinking moonshine liquor with his mates.
You decide, as a favour to Adut, to take the water drum to the bore-hole and fetch her some water before the household wakes up. She has been so kind to you, and you would like to show your gratitude.
And besides, you need to get out of the hut – the air is musty and thick, like the air in the ruined theatre by the sea when Zayd told you his story, and you’re feeling as jittery and trapped as you did then. It will be too dangerous for you to go out later, when the camp is properly awake, so now is your chance.
You sneak to the door and open it slowly. Creak. You need to open it wider to get the water drum out with you. Creeeeak.
Outside, you look left and right. Nobody. One or two stars are left shining as the night’s ink drains from the lightening sky. The shadows are still deep and dark, and the air smells like smoke. The sandy track to the bore-hole is cold under your bare feet.
Whump! As you pass a tall thorn-tree fence, someone steps out from behind it and whips a sack down over your head.
You fight desperately, wriggling and kicking, but they are strong and your arms are pinned tight to your sides. Through the sack, a hand clamps your mouth firmly closed, so that you struggle to breathe and your screams come out as a ‘Mmmmph!’ through your nose.
You hear a hollow thump as you kick the plastic water drum where you dropped it, and feel yourself strike what you think is a leg. Then your legs are promptly kicked out from under you and you fall backwards, your body hitting the dirt.
Someone has their knees on your chest. They are still pressing down on your mouth, too, so that the back of your head is shoved hard against the sandy ground.
Someone else standing nearby starts to kick you, and your chest and sides are on fire. You can manage to suck in tiny cracks of air through your nose, but if you don’t get a deep lungful of air soon, you’ll pass out.
‘Where is it?’ you hear a voice hiss in Somali. ‘Where is it?’ Then: ‘Stop kicking him and search him!’
The kicks stop, and a hand rummages through your left shorts pocket. You realise what they’re after: the pen. If only you’d left it in Jok’s hut. But you know it’s in your right pocket, and soon, so will they.
After they find it, they will kill me, you think. You just hope that they do it quickly, and somewhere private. Not in front of Jok, Adut or – Allah help her – Jamilah.
‘Yes!’ cries a second voice, and you feel the pen slide from your pocket like a dagger. ‘Here it is!’
With the hand still over your mouth, your lungs are burning and you can’t speak. If you could, though, you wouldn’t use your breath to plead for mercy – you’ve seen enough of al-Shabaab to know that would be a waste. Instead, you’d use it to speak to Allah.
I’ve been faithful, you’d say. Weigh my heart, look at it. See if the light shines through it. If you can’t give me any more time on earth, then please, take me to be with my aunty again.
You can’t say the words, but you think them, and you wonder if something beyond the desert sky hears you.
Then dawn breaks, a single shot fires and, like an eagle flying over the Nile and out to sea, you are gone.
To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 23.
You shake your head, and back away. You won’t climb into a truck full of the very people you’re running from.
The driver shrugs, revs his engine and roars off in a cloud of dust. You’re lucky he didn’t take the gun from you by force, or kill you
both on the spot for not giving it to him. He must have had bigger fish to fry today.
You look back at the shelter with the woman’s bones. You know with grim certainty that if you lie down in there again, you’ll never get up. You’ll have to stay beside the road, walk a little further if you can, and pray for another vehicle to pass soon.
You stagger onwards. Jamilah’s lighter to carry than a girl her age should be, but she still feels too heavy for you to carry. You place one foot in front of the other, willing yourself on. Just a little further, just… a little…
Your knees collapse under you, and Jamilah’s weight knocks you to the ground. You manage to roll her off you, then, by propping the gun upright in the sand and draping your two tattered blankets over it, you make a tiny hot triangle of shade.
Your eyes slide closed, and you feel yourself rippling like a heat haze, dissolving into the ever after. Your body, entwined with Jamilah’s, lies unmoving, to be slowly buried by the weather, shipwrecked on a sandy sea.
To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 24.
You nod your agreement. The driver holds out his arm, and you hand the gun to him through the ute’s window.
Then you limp around to the back and pass Jamilah up to the soldiers sitting on two benches lining the sides of the ute’s open tray, their knees meeting in the centre. By shifting their feet, they make space for you both on the floor.
Jamilah remains unconscious, lying at the soldiers’ feet, and you sit behind her, your knees up and your arms folded tight around them. The ute revs forward along the sandy road. You push one of your blankets under Jamilah’s head to keep it from banging against the floor of the truck and the soldier’s boots.
At first, you don’t speak to the soldiers. You merely watch them, and remain on your guard. But when one of them takes a sip from a water bottle, he looks down sideways at you and sees the thirst on your face.
‘Here, have some,’ he says, pushing the bottle towards you.
You eye him warily, but you can’t refuse. You’re about to raise the bottle to your mouth when you think of Jamilah.
‘Can you help me hold my sister’s head up while I tip a little water in?’ you ask.
The soldier nods. He reaches down, scoops up Jamilah’s head, and gently pushes on her jaw to open her mouth. The water you tip from the bottle trickles out the sides of her mouth and onto her clothes, but you think she might have swallowed a bit.
‘Keep giving it to her,’ says the soldier. ‘Little sips at a time. And have some yourself too. I don’t need it back. We’ll be in Nairobi by lunchtime.’
‘Thank you’ isn’t big enough to convey the gratitude you feel.
The soldier, who introduces himself as Hassan, keeps helping you to give Jamilah water. She’s still not conscious, but she’s swallowing better, and you know that with some water inside her she has a much greater chance at hanging on to life.
The trip is mostly silent, until, after a few more hours, Hassan asks you: ‘So, why are you going to Nairobi?’
All eyes suddenly fall on you. You don’t expect that Hassan’s kindness will continue if you reveal that you’re wanted by al-Shabaab.
‘My uncle might be able to get me a job there,’ you lie. ‘Loading trucks.’
Hassan nods. ‘Lucky you. An uncle, and a job – that’s more than most have.’
‘I guess so.’ You shrug. ‘But we nearly didn’t make it.’
Hassan smiles, but it’s a sad smile. ‘We all have our fates,’ he says quietly. ‘Yours must have been to live. Allah will decide ours soon enough. Hopefully he’ll take mercy on a group of orphans.’
Orphans? You look around at the other boys in the back of the ute. Some of them are glaring at Hassan, as though he’s said too much. Others share his sad, resigned smile.
‘We’re orphans too,’ you tell them, hoping to gain their trust.
‘Then you were lucky to escape Bright Dream,’ whispers Hassan.
Your heart leaps at that name, but the boy-soldier next to Hassan immediately snaps, ‘Shut up! Don’t talk about it!’
‘I will if I want to,’ persists Hassan. ‘After all, you have to tell the truth before you die if you want to enter Paradise …’
The soldier next to Hassan growls and rolls his eyes, but Hassan leans forward to talk to you.
‘We’re all from Bright Dream,’ he mutters, so low that only you can hear him above the roar of the engine. ‘Al-Shabaab runs it. Our families died in the war, and the orphanage claimed us, then trained us to be soldiers. It’s more like a farm than an orphanage – where boys are raised to die in their war.’
You wonder what kind of mission has brought them into Kenya, but you don’t dare ask. You think of Bright Dream’s bank account, the figures in their millions spooling down Sampson’s computer screen – all supposedly spent on boys like Hassan. You wonder if it’s gun money, money stolen by al-Shabaab … or if it’s been donated by unwitting foreign donors, hoping to help the poor.
Either way, it’s the perfect plan for al-Shabaab, you think. An organisation like theirs would take a lot of money to run, and a lot of soldiers to fight for them. Bright Dream can provide both, without arousing suspicion.
You realise suddenly that exposing Bright Dream isn’t just about taking al-Shabaab down – it’s also the only way to save countless boys like Hassan from their fate.
The ute jerks to a halt and you are nearly thrown to the floor. You sit back up, alarmed. You are still in the middle of the desert. The driver gets out and stamps around to the back where you all sit. His mirrored sunglasses give nothing away.
‘What are you talking to the boy about?’ he barks at Hassan.
He must have been watching Hassan talk to you in the rear-view mirror. Hassan straightens up guiltily. You realise that this man has the same job Zayd once did – training boys, sending them to fight, then killing them if they were of no more use.
You think fast. ‘We’re from the same clan, sir. He was asking if I knew his deceased family at all, sir.’
‘Nobody talks to the boy! Or his sister!’ shouts the man in a fury, ignoring the fact that Jamilah is still unconscious. ‘The next person who talks will be shot!’
Some of the boy-soldiers give Hassan accusing glares, as if to say thanks a lot.
The driver gets back into the cabin and starts driving again. Hassan shrugs and purses his lips. For the rest of the trip, he obeys the order not to speak. He shakes his head when you look at him expectantly – it’s clear you can’t ask him any more questions. But he still helps Jamilah to take mouthfuls of water.
You are leaving the desert now and coming into farmland. Brightly dressed women walk here and there with bundles on their heads, and you see a boy with a stick herding cattle, while younger children play hopscotch in the dirt. You can smell cow dung and cooking fires getting ready for lunch.
You lift Jamilah’s head for another sip of water and she stirs. Then her eyelids flutter. Your heart leaps, and you beg Allah for her to open her eyes. She does. Her brown eyes lock onto yours and crinkle as she smiles.
Relief floods through you like a king tide. You squeeze her bony shoulders.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! you want to shout to the world. For Hassan and his water; for Allah’s mercy. You can’t stop the tears coming to your eyes. She sits up and you wrap her in a hug that you never want to end.
Jamilah looks around then, at the truck and the soldiers, and you see her eyes widen in fear. She has no idea where you are or who these people are.
You hug her again and whisper into her ear: ‘It’s okay. But shhh!’
A tired, relieved smile washes over Jamilah’s face. Then she nestles her head against your chest and sleeps peacefully all the way to Nairobi.
WHEN YOU REACH the outskirts of Nairobi, you crawl to the front of the ute tray and rap on the driver’s window.
‘Eastleigh?’ you shout, and you see him nod.
After driving through th
e city for a while longer, he stops the truck and shouts: ‘This is Eastleigh,’ from inside the cabin.
You give Hassan a tiny smile in farewell – it’s all you dare to do. You hope he understands how grateful you are for his kindness. You try not to imagine what his future will hold.
You are in a busy street, lined with shops and restaurants. The smell of meaty stew makes your mouth water. The apartment belonging to Aadan’s old friend Abshir, who is taking you in, is somewhere around here. You’ve memorised the address – but you wait until the ute has long driven away before you ask a shopkeeper for directions. You don’t want the ute-driver knowing where you’re heading, or remembering you for anything other than giving him your gun in exchange for a ride.
Equipped with directions, you and Jamilah stagger through the tall columns of apartment blocks, Jamilah’s arm slung over your shoulders for support.
People stare at you curiously. Some of them look afraid. You look down at your body – it’s like a piece of rusty wire dressed in rags. But you battle onwards. Every step you take, you think, We did it. We made it out of the desert, alive. You’re proud of your wire-and-rags body. Next stop: Australia.
You find Abshir’s apartment block. With your final burst of strength, you and Jamilah manage to climb seven flights of stairs and rap on the wire security door of his apartment.
A young guy with a white shirt and masses of curly hair opens the door, and before you even introduce yourself, he drops to his knees so he’s eye-to-eye with Jamilah.
‘Whoa!’ he exclaims. ‘Are you Aadan’s niece and nephew?’
You nod, and he embraces you both so tightly you nearly lose your balance.
‘Oh, you beautiful kids, what on earth happened to you? Aadan called me, you didn’t show up for a week, then he says he thinks you tried to walk here! Get in here right now, I’m going to make you fatter than a pair of baby hippos! And then I’m going to call your uncle – he was just about to hop on a plane and come look for you himself!’
Inside, you look around Abshir’s lounge room in wonder. A music video is playing on a large TV.
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