Touch the Sun

by Emily Conolan

  Abshir gives you just some plain biscuits with milk at first, as your stomachs aren’t used to food.

  ‘Don’t scoff them too quickly, walaal, or you’ll vomit!’ he cries.

  You smile. ‘Walaal’ is Somali for ‘friend’, and you know you’ve found a good one in Abshir.

  ‘This is better than a movie star’s mansion,’ enthuses Jamilah, and Abshir laughs, but you totally agree.

  Half an hour later, you are standing in Abshir’s shower. Warm water pours over your skin. Even back home in Mogadishu, you only washed with a cold tap and bucket. This is a miracle. Taps! Lights! Warm water! Soap! You open your mouth and swallow the water as it cascades over your face.

  You can hear Abshir talking to Aadan in the next room: ‘They’re alive … an absolute miracle, walaal, praise Allah … I know, I would have paid for them too if I’d known, but it sounds like they had to get out of there in a hurry … I know you’re worried, but they’re safe here – no one from Arsenal knows they’re here … They can’t talk right now – your niece is asleep on my lap and your nephew’s in the shower – but we’ll call again soon … You’re going to love them so much, I swear, they’re just amazing …’

  You lie down that night on soft sheets, and before you can even whisper goodnight to Jamilah, you’re both fast asleep.

  The days after that pass in a blur. At first, your stomach aches when you eat any food at all, even though you want to stuff your face. You and Jamilah spend a lot of time sleeping as your bodies slowly get stronger again, while Abshir goes out to work for a phone company in downtown Nairobi.

  You and Jamilah talk to Aadan on the phone, and although it’s only the second time, he feels like family to you already.

  ‘Abshir and I are making a plan to get you guys to Australia,’ he promises. ‘There’s nothing more important to me in the world right now than making sure you’re safe. I spent all day at the embassy today – it might take a while, but we’ll work something out.’

  You call Sampson too, who can’t wait to see you both. You tell him how much you want to let Adut and Jok know you made it here safely, and it turns out he’s recently met a businessman who takes loads of tinned food to sell in Bosnia regularly, who could pass along the message.

  Abshir, who’s listening in, promises to take you to meet with Sampson at a nearby coffee shop the next day – it’s only a few blocks away, so it seems like a safe enough excursion. You are all delighted.

  ‘Everything’s working out just great!’ laughs Jamilah once you’ve hung up.

  ‘Jamilah,’ you say warningly, ‘I know it feels like our new life in Australia is just around the corner, but remember how everyone checked the resettlement noticeboard in Dadaab every single day – visas to Australia are rare as hen’s teeth. We still might be holed up here, hiding, for a year or two, maybe more.’

  ‘It’s still better than we’ve ever had it since we left home,’ Jamilah insists, and she’s right.

  ‘Getting you visas is going to be damn hard,’ admits Abshir. ‘You don’t have passports, and even if you did, the Australian government would make you wait years for visas. Your uncle’s even talking about adopting you, but man, that’s more complicated than a basketful of snakes. Uncle Aadan’s going to send some money for me to look after you here in the meantime, don’t worry. Although I am sorry you won’t be able to go to school, or out much at all.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ you say. ‘Thank you very much for having us.’ Your heart is glowing to imagine being Aadan’s legally adopted kids, no matter how long it takes.

  ‘Walaal, it’s no problem at all,’ replies Abshir.

  A thought occurs to you. In Dadaab, you sometimes heard stories of people who tried to reach a safe country in the same way that you crossed the border from Somalia into Kenya: undercover, without papers. ‘Could we get to Australia without a visa?’ you ask. ‘Maybe hiding in trucks or boats?’

  Abshir grins. ‘Oh, walaal, you and your sister – I’ve never met such a tough pair of kids. You just walked through the desert, and now you’re ready to take on a journey like that? Look, it can be done, but I don’t think it’s safe, and nor does your Uncle Aadan. Especially not alone. Let’s just chill and stay safe in old Eastleigh for now, okay?’

  True to his word, Abshir takes you and Jamilah to meet Sampson the next afternoon. Sampson leaps up from his seat when he sees you and rushes to embrace you both. Then he loads your pockets with sweets he’s brought from his shop.

  ‘Oh, children, I’ve had so many sleepless nights worrying for your safety!’ he cries. ‘It’s sweeter than honey to see you again. Hakuna kilicho kitamu kuliko kilichopatikana kwa shida. There is nothing sweeter than what has been obtained at great effort. Am I right?’

  You grin so much that your cheeks hurt. He strokes Jamilah’s head and she closes her eyes in bliss.

  It’s dark by the time you all finally say farewell and leave for home. Abshir is half a flight ahead of you as you climb the stairs to his apartment; you’re helping Jamilah, who still tires very easily. Then Abshir’s usually cheerful voice echoes back down from the internal door at the top of the stairwell, sounding stunned: ‘Whoa. Kids, stop. Don’t move a muscle.’

  You both glance up in alarm, to see him turn in the open doorway and look down at you. His eyes are wide. ‘Now, don’t panic,’ he says quietly, ‘but I want you to stay down there, all right? No matter what you hear. If someone comes after you then run.’

  He closes the stairwell door leading to the seventh-floor corridor behind him, and you and Jamilah stand staring at each other in a hollow silence.

  You can hear the fluorescent lights in the stairwell buzzing, and Jamilah’s quick breaths. What now? you think. Why us? Can’t we be safe and happy for more than a few days at a time?

  You realise that you can’t leave Abshir to face whatever this is alone – especially if you’re somehow the cause of it. Dreading what you will find, you take Jamilah’s hand and climb the last stairs, then open the door to the corridor.

  The metal security door to Abshir’s apartment has been busted off its hinges. All the doors of your neighbours remain closed and silent, bearing no witness. Entering the dark apartment nervously, you see Abshir standing in the middle of his wrecked home.

  ‘They’re gone,’ he whispers hollowly as you walk in. ‘At least they didn’t stay to do damage to us.’

  Shattered glass from the windows makes the floor sparkle in the moonlight. The TV screen is a buckled cobweb of cracks; the table is upside down; even the curtains are ripped from their rail.

  You look at the wall, at the red writing sprayed there, and you know who did this: the same people who have wrecked your life, your country, and your family since the day you were born.

  ‘GIVE US THE PEN.’

  It’s al-Shabaab.

  You don’t know how they found you here – did the guys from the ute hear about the two escaped kids, and follow you after they dropped you off in Eastleigh? Did Sampson’s business contact who was passing the message on to Jok let something slip? Or had al-Shabaab tapped the phone you used in the camp?

  Right now, you don’t even care – you’re ready to crack from the pressure of needing to run away, again and again and again. Jamilah is silent as a stone. You feel like howling. You scrunch up your fists, press them into your eye sockets, and moan.

  Abshir’s hand on your shoulder makes you stop. You pull the pen from your pocket and look at it. Its ruby tip has never seemed more like a drop of blood. Having it has always made you feel like a hero, but right now it feels like nothing more than a curse – a magnet for death.

  ‘What if we give it to them?’ you ask desperately. ‘If we give Arsenal what they want, will they leave us in peace?’

  ‘No, we can’t do that!’ Jamilah cries. ‘Aunty Rahama trusted us with it!’

  ‘But Jamilah, what’s the point in trying to uncover Bright Dream? We’re just two kids. Al-Shabaab is everywhere.’

  The
bitter unfairness of it rises up to overwhelm you. ‘I’m just so sick of it!’ you shout, kicking the torn, upended couch. ‘They ruin everything! What do we have to do to get rid of them?’

  Abshir stands in the centre of his smashed-up apartment like a rock at sea. ‘I think, walaal,’ he says slowly at last, ‘that maybe – just maybe – if you give them the pen, they might leave you in peace. Or …’ – he seems to be thinking through his next words carefully before speaking – ‘if you do decide to keep that pen, you’re going to have to take it far, far away.’

  You know, with sickening certainty, that he’s right.

  To give al-Shabaab the pen and stay with Abshir, waiting for safe passage to Australia, go to scene 28.

  To keep the pen and risk trying to reach Australia without papers, go to scene 29.

  To read a fact file on people smugglers click here, then return to this page to make your choice.

  You look at the pen in your hand and the words from Rahama’s letter come back to you: This pen really means so much to me. In the darkest of times, it’s given me hope that freedom does exist. Now I pass it on to you, because there is no one else I know in the world with such an enquiring mind and fearless heart… You are a special boy. Take this pen, and with Aadan’s help, finish what I couldn’t.

  You can’t surrender your freedom. You can’t hand over the truth that Aunty Rahama died for. You’ll keep the pen, no matter what the risks. You’ll take it as far away from here as you can.

  ‘Okay,’ you say to Abshir. ‘Do you have a walaal who can get us to Australia?’

  Jamilah grins and squeezes your hand. ‘We can do it,’ she whispers to you. You don’t know how she manages to stay so determined, but you love her for it.

  In the midst of all the mess in his smashed apartment, Abshir starts making phone calls.

  A few hours later, he says: ‘All right! I’ve found a walaal who knows a walaal who can talk to his walaal.’

  He grins, winks. Then his expression becomes serious.

  ‘But I don’t think we should tell Aadan. He’ll lose it. You know he loved your Aunty Rahama more than all the love songs in the world. He’ll flip his lid if he finds out we’re under attack and I’m giving you to a people smuggler.’

  There is a long silence as his words sink in.

  ‘Can you handle this alone?’ he asks, with tender concern.

  You look at Jamilah. She puts her hands on her hips and fixes you with a determined glare you think she’s inherited from your aunty. ‘We’re going,’ she says.

  YOU LEAVE THE wrecked apartment – it’s too dangerous to stay there another moment.

  ‘I’ll pay for the damage and find somewhere else to live after I have you kids sorted,’ Abshir assures you. ‘For now, we’re going into hiding.’

  He takes you to a dirty, ramshackle house in an alleyway, where a chain-smoking Kenyan guy in a white singlet lets you rent a stuffy room in his attic.

  The next day, a Somali man with one grey tooth comes and drinks coffee with Abshir while they haggle over prices to smuggle you to Australia. You listen in, and you’re horrified – it’s enough money to buy a car, or to set up a small business.

  Two days later, Grey Tooth comes back with forged travel documents for you and Jamilah, and Abshir hands him an envelope stuffed with cash.

  ‘Where did you get the money?’ you ask Abshir. ‘Is it all of what Aadan sent you to look after us for a whole year?’

  ‘Yep, just about, walaal,’ he says and sighs. ‘He’ll want the same amount again once you arrive safely – what I gave him today is only half the cost. But I’ll worry about that. Now listen here.’

  Abshir reaches into a plastic bag and takes out a pair of new blue sneakers in just your size. He lifts up the sole of one, takes some unfamiliar green notes out of his pocket, and stashes them under the sole.

  ‘That’s five hundred US dollars, walaal – more money than I make in a month, all right? It has to last you the whole journey – from here by plane to Malaysia, then by boat to Indonesia, and finally another boat to Australia. The whole journey is paid for, and there’ll be someone to meet you at each place, so don’t give the smugglers anything extra. The cash is mostly in case you need to bribe a border official, but also in case you need to pay for food or get a local simcard for the phone.’

  Next, he hands you a new phone. You can scarcely believe your eyes.

  ‘This, walaal, is courtesy of my work,’ he says and chuckles. ‘Proud sponsor of Screw You, Al-Shabaab.’

  You both laugh.

  AS YOU FOLLOW Abshir through Nairobi airport, tightly holding Jamilah’s hand, your new blue sneakers make a little eek, eek, eek on the shiny floor.

  When it’s time to go, you embrace Abshir with all your strength, until he laughs and gasps for breath.

  ‘Good luck, my little walaal’ are his last words to you before you and Jamilah leave Africa … maybe forever.

  On the plane, the engine roars. The pressure of the take-off glues your back to the seat. Jamilah’s eyes grow wide as two coins. You have to jam your hands between your legs to stop them from shaking. You’re suddenly so nervous that it feels like your guts are trying to ride down a mountain on a one-wheeled bike.

  You look out the window at the desert unfolding below you. A few weeks ago, you and Jamilah were specks in that desert, a hair’s breadth from death. You take some slow breaths and turn your attention away from the window.

  The hours begin to tick by. So, this is what it’s like to be on a plane. There are headphones and blankets for free, movies to choose from in different languages, portions of food wrapped in crisp plastic, and a tiny bathroom with a toilet that sounds like a blowtorch when you flush it.

  An English word you’ve never heard before, ‘turbulence’, is announced, and then – whoa! – the plane dips and lurches and you feel like food tossed about in a frying pan.

  The plane straightens up, and after a while Jamilah falls asleep. Her shoulders shake as she coughs in her sleep, and you try – and fail – not to think about how completely she’s relying on you to get her through this journey.

  But I’m relying on her too, you think. I couldn’t face this alone.

  You don’t want to think about what could go wrong if the deal Abshir has helped you make goes bad and you get stranded in another country halfway to Australia. Abshir warned you that the Malaysian and Indonesian governments are just as merciless to asylum seekers as the Kenyan police.

  You make yourself think about going to school in Australia instead. About meeting Aadan; helping him write articles about al-Shabaab and Bright Dream, making sure Zayd and Rahama didn’t die in vain. About getting Jamilah strong and healthy again, in a place where she can eat good food and see great doctors, and where both of you can even play sport, on a big grassy field, without al-Shabaab forbidding sport, and music, and education for girls, and drawing pictures, and all the other crazy things they forbid. You think about starting a new life in a place where you can be free.

  The plane touches down in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. You and Jamilah stagger off the flight. Uniformed guards stand everywhere, and you feel waves of nervous nausea begin to wash over you.

  You try to arrange your face to look nonchalant, as though you travel all the time, as though you have family waiting for you on the other side of customs.

  ‘Just relax,’ you hiss to Jamilah, and she nods tensely.

  You force your feet onwards to the customs counter and lift your and Jamilah’s forged papers up to the counter. The uniformed woman looks at them. She looks at you, then Jamilah. An eternity hangs in the air. She flips the paper over and sighs through her nose.

  You’re reaching down to untie your shoe – you hadn’t thought about how clumsy it would be to get the bribe money out in public. You feel exposed as a snail without a shell. Then she gives a bored harrumph, and her stamp goes chomp on your paper, then chomp on Jamilah’s.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, gesturing you onwards
, and you’re through.

  A squat, balding Malaysian man with sweat patches under the sleeves of his shirt grabs you from the crowd, quickly checks your names, and hustles you into the back of his silver car.

  He accelerates away from the airport, not speaking at all. On the car’s radio, a woman’s voice sings a high-pitched, lilting melody.

  The air here is hot and wet. Green leaves and vines drip from every roadside, curling around fences, posts and anything else that stands still long enough for them to grow on. Billboards advertise noodles and new apartment blocks with swimming pools. The traffic moves fast and smooth.

  It’s like no other place you’ve ever been. The only thing that reminds you of home is one stray, spotty dog you see walking beside the highway. He is bony and grinning, and he looks like a survivor. His face is the only one here so far that has said to you: You can do this.

  The people smuggler, who you decide you’ll secretly call Piggy, parks on a crowded street. Then he takes you and Jamilah inside a crumbling stone building that might once have been a grand old home, but now seems to have been converted into some sort of boarding-house.

  The space is crowded with bunks, cardboard boxes and plastic plants, but you don’t see anyone else there. Piggy leads you down a flight of stairs into a basement room, which holds a double bed with a maroon cover, a TV and an ashtray loaded with butts, some with lipstick on them.

  Piggy thrusts a plastic bag at you, containing bottled water and colourful plastic packets of chips and biscuits. Then he leaves, and locks the door behind you – still without having said a word.

  You don’t know how long you’ll be here – Abshir only said that Grey Tooth had lined up all the transfers. You are now effectively Piggy’s prisoners. You want to call Abshir, but you didn’t get to ask Piggy for a Malaysian simcard.

  You and Jamilah watch Malaysian TV and eat chips with a strange cheesy-fishy flavour. Jamilah’s cough seems to be getting worse. You touch her forehead.