Dalila

by Jason Donald

  I knew everything in my uncle’s house. Even where he kept my passport and ID card and where he kept some money. One day when my uncle was away I took my documents and I stole money from my uncle’s bedroom. I gave it all to Charles. If my uncle found out he would hurt me very badly but I didn’t care any more. I had to leave or die. After two weeks Charles said everything was arranged. That night, Charles went out with my uncle as he did many nights. Charles made sure there was lots of beer and spirits for my uncle. The next morning very early, when everyone in the house was drunk and sleeping, Charles took me directly to the airport. He gave me all my documents and explained exactly what I must do. I went on the plane and came to the UK.

  Dalila flicks through the next ten pages of the Statement of Evidence Form. There are questions about military service, religious practice, political memberships, none of which apply to her.

  She rereads what she has written. It is as if the disparate, various things that had happened to her are now, for the first time, framed as one thing. Her experience has a single shape which she can study and, perhaps, come to understand. Yet, while all of it is true, it feels, somehow, insubstantial. It’s a sad and unfortunate story, but only a story. She has no documents to prove what happened, no one to contact who would corroborate her version of events. All she has are words. If they are not enough, she has nothing else.

  Dalila knocks on Ma’aza’s door, hoping she might have returned quietly in the early hours.

  No answer.

  She opens the door and peeks in. The room looks the same as it did last night. She wonders where Ma’aza might be. In the few days they have lived together, no routine has been established. Ma’aza comes and goes at any time, without ever saying where she is going.

  Dalila rubs the corner of her eye and shuffles into the kitchen. Through the window, clouds hover across the city. Fresh snow dusts the low hills on the horizon.

  Another day is here and she is already in it.

  She pours milk into a pan and places it on the stove. The teapot from the night before waits by the sink. She lowers two fingers into the pot and retrieves the wet tea bags. When the milk is warm she pours it into the teapot, adds three teaspoons of sugar and a tea bag. She stirs it around, sets it aside to steep.

  Sitting cross-legged on the sofa she watches TV. The news is a horror show of bombings and beheadings in Syria. The story cuts to a huge crowd of Syrians marching across the border into Slovenia, hoping to get to Germany. Some carry small bags, others carry children. One person has opened an umbrella. When the news item switches to a segment on the Italian coastguard pulling the drowned bodies of children from the Mediterranean, it’s too much for Dalila and she changes the channel.

  Now she is watching a man talking to another man. Behind them stands an almost completed house. They talk about wine, about growing vegetables, about glass and the feeling of space, but the show also seems to be concerned with housebuilding. A fat woman appears carrying lots of papers. Though the house is extremely beautiful, the fat woman doesn’t like it. There are problems. Then there is lots of driving while talking to the camera. Dalila doesn’t understand this TV programme.

  She goes back to the kitchen, stirs her tea till the warm milk turns brown. She takes the pot and a cup to her place in front of the TV and changes the channel. Now it is a show about shopping. An old man with sideburns and glasses takes two couples to a market. The old man gives each couple two hundred pounds, for free. Each couple must walk around the market and wisely spend the old man’s money. The couples are very serious but the things they like are worthless. A cat statue. An old plate. Ornate candlesticks. Curiously, the couples have no idea how to barter. They pay over one hundred pounds for the cat statue and seem very pleased with themselves.

  Dalila thinks about the money. She sips her tea.

  Later the old man takes both couples to an auction where they try to sell the things they bought in the market. Dalila is certain no one will buy their stuff, especially the cat statue. But people bid more money for the porcelain cat than the Home Office will give her each month. In the end both couples make a loss. They shrug and smile. They hug each other, laughing. The old man doesn’t get his money back. He looks at the couples over the top of his glasses and gives them a very strange smile. Dalila doesn’t understand this programme either.

  She turns off the TV and puts her empty mug in the sink. She goes to the window. Clouds are moving steadily across the city. A seagull rides the air currents and dips out of sight. On the street, seventeen floors below, an old woman waits at the bus stop. A heavy feeling begins to grow inside her. It’s been two days since she left the house because she can’t stop thinking about Markus. She pictures him sitting on the bench outside her building, hunched over his phone, waiting. Or she imagines him leaning on the gate post at Festival Court, looking for her.

  She sits down and stares at her gloomy reflection on the TV screen. She stands up again and goes back to the window. The old woman is still standing at the bus stop. A blue car waits for the lights to turn and then slowly moves off. The feeling inside her grows heavier and she knows she must get out. It is Friday and this afternoon she has to report.

  She walks to Festival Court with her woollen hat pulled down low across her eyebrows. But no one is waiting for her, no one even speaks to her. She goes through security, waits for over an hour, reports and leaves, walking straight back to the triple towers of her estate. Hers is the middle tower and she short-cuts across the car park of the south tower to get to her building. A movement catches her attention. It is a man lying on his back on the rough tarmac under a car. He taps at something behind the front wheel and then, with some difficulty, he stands and adjusts his glasses.

  She recognises him as the old man from the reporting centre, the one who showed her the library. Relieved it’s only him, she is about to turn and leave when he notices her and raises his hand.

  Habari? he calls.

  Mzuri sana. Dalila waves, struggling to remember this man’s name.

  It is me, Daniel, says the man in Kiswahili. He offers the back of his wrist in greeting to prevent touching her with his filthy hands.

  I remember, she says. I am Dalila. Do you live here?

  He glances up at the tower to his left. Yes. My flat is there.

  Is this your car? Dalila asks.

  Daniel places his fists on his hips and frowns at the car, appraising it. Yes, he says, at the moment, this is one of my cars. I bought it yesterday.

  Daniel wipes his fingers on his trousers. He opens the door and gets in. The car starts first time and Daniel’s grin is wide and proud. What do you think of this beauty?

  For all the time she has spent around cars, and the men who love them, she still does not know enough about these machines to pick one out from the other.

  It’s good, she says. How many do you have?

  Only two, for now.

  The smell of grease and oil reminds Dalila, only and always, of her father. She wants to ask another question but decides to stay quiet.

  Daniel switches off the engine and explains, These cars are my work.

  Really? she asks in a lowered voice. But we are not allowed to work. What if they find out?

  Ah well, technically, you and I are prevented from having jobs, Daniel says, but everyone has their work to do. Fixing these cars, taking care of them, this is my work.

  He bends down and slips his tools into the pockets of a canvas bag and then rolls it up. Dalila shoves her hands deeper into the pockets of her puffer and raises her shoulders against the breeze.

  When I first came here, says Daniel, I arrived only with the money I had saved. I knew I had to make this money work for me, because, as you say, I am forbidden from gaining employment. After making some enquiries I learned the police auction off the cars they have impounded. The first time I went there, I saw cars going very cheap and I said to myself, Daniel, you have found your work.

  First, I bought a Toyota Corolla
, a white one. Oh, these cars are very reliable. If you take care, they can run for a lifetime. It took me one month to fix the panelling and find the parts. I rode the bus here and there across the city looking for parts. This is how I came to know Glasgow, by riding the buses every day, talking to men in repair shops, visiting scrapyards, discovering the cheap places to buy spare parts, attending auctions. When my car was ready I sold it for four hundred pounds profit.

  Dalila mentally converts the sum into Kenyan shillings. So much, she says.

  It was a good sale. Soon, I bought another car and started repairing it. He closes the bonnet and says, This lady before you is number nine. She’s old but still has many miles ahead of her. I think I might already have a buyer.

  Where is your other car? asks Dalila.

  It is here in the garage, he says, pointing at the door behind them. Another Toyota Corolla. They are the most dependable cars. I once had a car just like this in Kenya. The same colour too, says Daniel.

  Cars are same, says Dalila. Roads, different.

  Daniel adjusts his bifocals and peers at Dalila through the dirty lenses. I don’t understand, he says.

  Dalila shakes her head, feeling childish. Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just a silly game I play in my head. Ever since I arrived I, um . . . I compare things that are the same back home with things that are different. It’s stupid, I guess.

  Yes, yes, I understand. I do this too, says Daniel. So, let me see, it’s the same that both countries drink tea, but the taste? Very different.

  Dalila snickers. Yes, it is true. Why is that?

  Daniel shrugs. I thought in the UK they like good tea, but they have no idea.

  Her turn. Dogs are the same, she says, but the British pick up the, you know, the excrement, with their hands. This is very different.

  Ghai fafa! Daniel shakes his head, giggling. I, too, have seen this. A strange mzungu business, picking up after dogs.

  The giggles come for Dalila, and she flaps her hand as if to wave them off.

  So, how long have you been in Glasgow, my sister? asks Daniel.

  This is my first week.

  Are you enjoying it here?

  Dalila shrugs. It’s okay.

  You answer without saying anything, that is a polite reply, says Daniel.

  I am grateful to be here.

  Yes, I understand, says Daniel. When I first arrived, everything felt different. I didn’t sleep well and I had all this paperwork from the Home Office. It was too much. I didn’t understand it.

  Dalila looks up at her building. She wants to go home, to be out of this cold, but she finds herself suddenly saying, My form came yesterday, the Statement of Evidence Form.

  Yes, this is a big one, says Daniel.

  But when I tried to write my story I . . . I don’t know. Most of my form is empty, I have no evidence. It is only my word. My case owner said I don’t need a lawyer but on the form it talks about having one and I don’t know where to get one. Do you have one? Are lawyers expensive? They must be, in this country everything is expensive. So I don’t know what to do.

  Daniel doesn’t answer straight away. He adjusts his glasses and nods as he looks out across the car park. Dalila realises he is giving her a minute to calm down.

  Have you been to the Solidarity Centre? he asks.

  No, what is this?

  They are a charity for asylum seekers. I know them. They helped me. Maybe they can help you. It is too late to see them this afternoon. Can you come for me on Monday morning? I will take you there.

  Waiting outside Daniel’s building, Dalila tucks her chin under the collar of her coat and watches her breath appear and disappear about her face.

  Damp cold – different.

  Winter sunlight – different.

  Breath – same.

  Daniel arrives and the two of them set off. The morning is lit by a sharp, horizontal light reflecting whitely off shop windows. Steam dances above the tarmac and miniature clouds chase after every car’s exhaust pipe. Daniel is animated, talking about cars and pointing out funny street names and explaining something about the trees in this country which she finds hard to follow.

  They walk shoulder to shoulder and she’s aware of his bad breath. Daniel doesn’t limp but he favours his left leg. There is a stiffness to his foot and he prefers the security of the grassy verge over the frosted pavements.

  They cross the road. Their shadows, narrow as twigs, stalk the length of the street.

  I’ve noticed your English is already very beautiful, says Daniel. What work do you do?

  I was a student, she replies, but I didn’t complete my studies.

  What did you plan to do after your studies?

  In her mind it’s the same scene she has had since she was twelve. She imagines standing on location dressed in a business outfit and wearing an expensive weave of glossy shoulder-length hair. As she says her lines into the camera the crowd keeps respectfully out of the shot. That’s it. That’s her dream.

  It sounds stupid now, she says, but I dreamed of being a news reporter on NTV Kenya, a journalist, but I don’t know any more. It is the dream of a little girl.

  Ah, of course, says Daniel. I can see this now. You listen very well. You observe. Everyone needs to know someone with your skills. Your purpose is a listener. You are a story collector.

  Dalila has never seen herself that way.

  Yes, to listen is very important work, says Daniel. People like you will always have employment in this world.

  The Solidarity Centre is only one block away from Festival Court. It looks like a corner newsagent. There is no sign. One shutter is pulled down over the window and the shutter over the door is only rolled up three-quarters of the way.

  Three men stand at the entrance, smoking and stamping their feet against the cold. As they are about to enter the centre, Daniel recognises one of these men.

  They clasp hands and nudge shoulders. Abbi, it is a long time, my friend, smiles Daniel. How are you?

  Abbi shrugs and turns up his palms. You know how it is, he says, every day is every day.

  And this? asks Daniel, pointing at the man’s beard. This is new.

  Yes, laughs Abbi, smoothing down the hair on his chin. You know, everybody, they want to be Bob Marley and the Wailers.

  They smile and nod and Abbi fist-bumps one of the men.

  Gentlemen, says Daniel, she is my good friend Dalila. She is new here.

  Dalila lowers her head, feeling self-conscious. She shakes hands with each man but only Abbi speaks, saying, Welcome, sister.

  Daniel raises his hand slightly, not to wave goodbye but rather to put this conversation on hold. He turns, ducks under the shutter and into the centre as Dalila follows.

  Inside, the centre is really just one room. One room containing three rooms’ worth of stuff. It’s a nest of filing cabinets, posters, leaflets, a photocopier, a scanner and printer, boxes piled on boxes, used coffee mugs, pens and pencils, a tissue box and children’s toys. The room is so small that Dalila finds herself standing behind Daniel, unable to enter any further.

  By the door is a waist-high pile of plastic bags stuffed full of second-hand clothes. Against one wall, three people sit on a sofa. One woman perches forward, rubbing her fingers in front of the glowing bars of a portable gas fire. At the far end of the room, a thin man with a wilting ponytail stands behind a desk. He talks into the phone wedged into the crook of his neck. He hasn’t shaved for a few days and he scratches the whiskers under his chin as he reads something on the screen. His desk is stacked with folders, loose papers, a stapler, printer ink cartridges and more coffee mugs.

  In Kiswahili, Daniel tells Dalila, The purpose of this place is to help people like us. Phil is a good man, he knows many people. There are no guarantees, but he will try to help. He can advise you about your application. He is the man to know. I will introduce you, but first I must show you this.

  Daniel lifts a large black ledger from the desk. The sticker on the cover i
s the face of an American Indian chief wearing an elaborate feather headdress. Around the edge of the sticker are the words, My Heroes Have Always Killed Cowboys.

  He opens the book and explains, First you must register with the Solidarity Centre. It’s a simple form. You tell them the basic story of your case and give them your contact details and the details of your friends. Then, most importantly, before you go to report with the Home Office down the road, you come here first and write your name and the time in this book. After you have swiped your card you come back to this place and sign out. Do this every time you have to visit the Home Office. It is safer.

  Why? asks Dalila.

  Because, my sister, they are taking people. More and more people go to report and discover they have been refused. They are immediately put into a van and taken to a detention centre. But not always. The Home Office is a place of secrets. No one knows for sure what they will do. So, if you sign this book, but you don’t sign out at the end of the day, Phil and the other volunteers will start making phone calls. They can trace where you have been sent and try to help you. And, you know, sometimes their efforts actually work. It’s always good to have someone on your side.

  A woman in a headscarf hurries into the centre. Please, I am late, she says to Daniel.

  Of course, says Daniel. He hands the ledger to the woman. She quickly signs it and dashes out the door.

  Do you see that board? says Daniel, pointing to the whiteboard behind the desk covered in handwritten notes. Those are the people who have been taken recently, he says. Those are the ones in most need.

  Dalila is a bit startled by the expression on Daniel’s face. She takes another look at the whiteboard and reads the notes more closely. The top line reads,

  MARY NARTEY / GHANA / YARL’S WOOD / REMOVED 8/11