Dalila

by Jason Donald

  Three lines down, she reads more.

  YOUSIF MOHAMMED / ALGERIA / DUNGAVEL / RELEASED!

  KARIM BEGUM / PAKISTAN / YARL’S WOOD

  DENNIS KITUNGUKA / DRC / COLNBROOK / REMOVED 11/11

  J. K. MAZOMBA / ZIMBABWE / DUNGAVEL

  The list goes on for over thirty names. She is seeing something she doesn’t understand. Who is Dungavel and Yarl’s Wood? she asks Daniel.

  Those are places, he says. Those are the names of detention centres all across the UK. Dungavel is the closest one. It is here in Scotland. If they take you, there is a strong chance they will take you there.

  You think they’ll put me in a prison and send me to Kenya?

  Who can say what will happen?

  I can’t go back, Daniel. I won’t even get out of the airport. Do you understand? I have to stay here.

  Phil glances up from his phone conversation and Dalila realises she has been raising her voice. Daniel nods at Phil, letting him know there is no problem.

  Can I call you back? says Phil into the receiver. He puts down the phone and smiles at Daniel. They shake hands like brothers.

  Let me introduce my very good friend, Daniel says in English. This is Dalila Mwathi and she wants to register with the Solidarity Centre.

  Pleasure to meet you, I’m Phil.

  Nice to meet you, says Dalila.

  Phil’s shirt is crumpled, his jeans worn through at the knees. He doesn’t look like a man people would go to for help. Well, he says, placing both hands on his head and looking down at his desk. Um, first things first, you have to fill in a registration form . . . which we have somewhere here, let me just see if . . . ah, here you are. Do you speak English?

  Oh, this one is very educated, answers Daniel. Her English is perfect.

  Really? Well, if you fill that out, please, says Phil, then, um, then we’ll put you into the system. Maybe you can find a seat . . .

  Dalila sits down on the arm of the sofa.

  I am going to stand outside with the men, says Daniel.

  Okay, Dalila nods.

  As he leaves Abbi comes inside and starts collecting the empty mugs from all over the room. He steps over some boxes and pulls back a stained curtain to reveal a tiny sink, a kettle, boxes of tea and biscuits. He puts on a CD and starts hunching and dropping his shoulders to the rhythm of the reggae music, pointing at each person in the room.

  People smile, glancing at each other.

  But Phil flaps his hand and points at the receiver by his ear. Abbi turns the music down and says, Who wants some tea? He counts the raised hands, switches on the kettle and starts rinsing mugs.

  Taking a pen from the desk, Dalila begins filling in the form. Most of it is the same list of questions she is sick of answering. Name, age, date of birth, date of entry to the UK, nationality, country of origin, phone number, address, next of kin and number of dependants. The next section is a large blank page asking her to detail the reasons she fled her country and the basic points of her case. As she writes her story, it comes easier, as though the shape of it is more apparent.

  When the form is complete, Dalila sips her mug of weak British tea and glances around the room. A large map of the world is taped to the wall by Phil’s desk. Her eyes automatically drift south, across the coloured patches of African countries, until she finds Kenya. The heavy equator line splits her homeland, cutting right through the centre of it. Her eyes move north, tracing the path she flew to get here, across the blue Mediterranean and the compact countries of the European mainland, until she finds the little island of the UK and the tiny dot of London. Even further north is Scotland. Someone has pasted a big red arrow to the map. The sharp end of this arrow points to Glasgow. YOU ARE HERE, declares the paper arrow. Dalila looks at the space between her feet, trying to imagine the ground as the spot on the map. Glasgow. An old, cloudy town north of Moscow, north of Newfoundland, a place closer to the North Pole than it is to Kenya. She looks around at the people in this tiny room and wonders if, like her, any of them could have guessed they would end up here.

  Daniel stoops as he enters the Solidarity Centre, his smile a row of yellow teeth. Have you had time to talk to Phil?

  Not yet, says Dalila. I have filled out my form but that is all.

  Daniel leans over to glance at the form but Dalila lifts it to her chest, not yet ready to reveal her story to anyone.

  Daniel straightens up. I understand, he says. Come. Let’s see if we can talk to Phil.

  Phil, my friend, says Daniel in English, we need your advising.

  Ah yes, says Phil, looking up at both of them. There is a rare kindness to his eyes that Dalila has seldom seen in this country. Perhaps this is why people come to this man with their problems.

  How can I help?

  Not quite sure where to start, Dalila digs out the letter from her bag.

  This morning, I got this letter from the Home Office, she begins. She flattens it out on the table and reads the first line aloud: I have arranged an interview for you to discuss your claim for asylum in the United Kingdom. She runs her finger down the page and reads out again, You should bring this letter to the interview. You should also bring any documents which you would like to submit in support of your claim.

  Yes, says Phil, leaning over the desk, so this is the summons for your Substantive Interview. Who is your case owner?

  She is Miz Col-gin, says Dalila.

  Hmm, I don’t know her, says Phil, but during your interview she’ll listen to your case and decide if you’re eligible for Leave to Remain.

  It says here, Dalila continues, reading out a line from the letter, Your legal representative may only attend your interview if they are suitably qualified under the terms of Part V of the Immigration and Asylum Act 1999. Must I have a lawyer? I think lawyers are too expensive for me.

  Phil turns to the desk and lifts a folder from which he pulls a sheet of paper.

  These are the details of most of the solicitors who are likely to take on asylum cases, he says.

  He grabs a pen off the desk and starts scoring through most of the names. We know for sure these offices aren’t taking on any more cases, explains Phil. But you could try Mr Rafa. He takes on a lot of asylum cases. Now, I won’t lie, he’s a bit . . .

  Phil makes a hand gesture Dalila has never seen before. She takes it to mean that Mr Rafa is unreliable or questionable in his methods, or perhaps his motives.

  Daniel pushes his glasses to the bridge of his nose and peers at the list. This one, he is okay? he asks, pointing with his middle finger to the name at the bottom of the list.

  From what I hear, they’re okay, says Phil. But they’re based in Dundee and they tend to give their asylum cases to their younger employees in order to get them a bit of courtroom experience.

  Dundee? asks Daniel. Where is this?

  It’s the other side of the country. Not actually that far, really. About two hours away, but they probably won’t make the drive. They do most consultations by phone and make the journey for court days. But they’re good.

  These are the only ones to help us?

  To be honest, they might not even be of any help. I mean, look around you. Everyone’s worried. Migration is suddenly a hot topic. The newspapers, well, they’re going nuts. Downing Street is posturing but no one really knows what to do. So people are looking for assurances, they’re all turning to solicitors.

  Daniel nods and takes the paper. Dalila watches the resignation grow on his face.

  Miss Dalila, says Phil. I see you filled out our registration form?

  Dalila nods.

  Would you mind if I look at it?

  She takes a deep breath and hands the form to Phil.

  He scans the details and says, So you’re from Kenya?

  Yes. Me, I lived in Nairobi before.

  Phil reads over the private details of her story. His eyes express a quick intelligence, absorbing the implications and nuances of her story, without ever flinching at the horror of it. Whe
n he has read it all, he gives her a brief look. A look which seems to say, Thank you for trusting me with this. You are safe. I won’t expose you.

  When is your interview? he asks.

  My interview is in four days.

  He puffs out his cheeks and appears to be weighing up options. Okay, here’s my advice, he says, leaning closer. Daniel steps closer, too, and now the three of them are having a private, more softly spoken discussion, in this room full of people.

  The first thing you need to understand is that Kenya is on the White List, says Phil.

  Dalila tilts her head to show she is listening, waiting.

  Okay, so the White List is an unofficial list of countries that the Home Office deems safe enough to send people back to.

  But, for me, Kenya is not safe, says Dalila.

  I get that. I really do. You’ve got the Foreign Office saying a country is too dangerous for UK citizens to visit, but the Home Office seems to think the same country is safe for refused asylum seekers. Who knows why? Last week Iraq was put back on the White List. Can you believe that? The good news is that Kenya is complicated. Its White List status only applies to men. The Home Office still admits that the dangers facing women are severe enough to not send women and girls back there. Now, they change their minds a lot. They’re bloody impossible to predict, but I think you’ve got a strong chance of a favourable decision.

  This is good news, smiles Daniel.

  Phil raises his shoulders to his ears. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but here’s the most important thing to remember: during their Substantive Interview the biggest mistake people make is to tell, in great detail, all the terrible tragedies they’ve been through and then expect that to be enough for them to stay in the UK. It isn’t. Let me make something very clear: Leave to Remain is not a reward for the injustices you’ve suffered. Leave to Remain is protection. It’s a protection from the dangers you’d be in if you were sent back. You understand?

  Dalila nods.

  So when you tell your story, obviously, you have to give them all the reasons why you fled Kenya. Don’t leave anything out. But, and here’s the smart thing to do, don’t focus on the past, focus on the future. You’ve got to understand that your job is to prove what harm will come to you the moment you return to Kenya, and if they decide to send you back, then they will be responsible for putting you in harm’s way.

  Daniel nods slowly. Yes, he says.

  Spurred on by Daniel’s nodding, Phil continues, You’ll need evidence. Documents, articles, signed letters, anything to support your story. And you’ll need to prove who is after you and how they’re likely to find you, even if you’re sent back to a different region in Kenya. Have you got friends you can contact in Kenya?

  Yes, on Facebook, says Dalila.

  Perfect. Ask them what’s going on back home. Get them to write letters and gather signatures. Find anything to support your story.

  This one is a journalist, interrupts Daniel, with a hint of pride in his voice. With computers, she can find things.

  Great, Phil says to Dalila, because what you have to do now is build a solid story for yourself. You’ve got to spend the next few days focusing on this. You can even write a report and hand it to your case owner as an opening statement for your interview.

  I can do this, says Dalila.

  Now, there’ll be a small panel of interviewers and they’ll ask all kinds of questions, trying to find a gap in your story, a flaw, but with a strong story, that’s properly evidenced, I think you’ll have a chance.

  The three of them nod, happy with the plan that’s been formed.

  How do you know this? Dalila asks Phil.

  Oh, you know, that’s a whole story in itself, says Phil.

  Dalila feels a sudden stab of guilt. She can’t believe she just put him on the spot after he was delicate enough not to ask her any awkward questions. Lowering her head, she’s about to turn to leave, when Phil says, I mean, it’s no big secret, but I used to work at the Home Office.

  Really? says Daniel. You?

  It’s not something I advertise, but, yes, I used to work down in England. I was a case owner.

  Hmm. Yes, and now you do this, says Daniel.

  Phil glances around the crowded room and shrugs. And now I do this.

  Why did you change?

  Lots of reasons really, but the toy monkey was the final straw.

  Dalila glances at Daniel.

  I started at the Home Office straight after uni. It was a solid job, my parents were proud, I rented a nice flat, the whole thing, and, you know, I took it seriously. I researched each case that crossed my desk, studied the law and tried to make the best, most informed decisions I could. But after 9/11 it got . . . more political. We were given quotas and encouraged to reject as many cases as we could. So, one day our supervisor announces to the whole office that we’re going to play a game. At the end of each week, the case owner who’s granted the most asylum seekers Leave to Remain would be shamed with a stuffed monkey placed on their desk.

  Phil wipes his hand across his forehead. Believe me, the symbolism of a monkey wasn’t lost on us. In fact, most people in the office thought it was bloody hilarious. Anyways, by the end of the month, I had won that monkey three weeks in a row. And so, now I’m here.

  It’s clear now what she has to do. Dalila goes straight to the library and books a computer for two hours. With pen and notepaper ready, she starts.

  First, she logs onto Facebook and sends Muthoni a private message.

  Xaxa Noni! I need a BIG favour. Can you find out what my uncle is doing now? How is his business? Etc.

  I have an important interview here with the UK government in 4 days. They want proof and statements of the danger I face if I go back home. Maybe you can start by asking BB and Anne and those guys. But be smart girl. Ask quietly, and only people you can really trust. No Mungikiz!

  Be safe! Asante.

  She googles her uncle’s name, Kennedy Kimotho Mwathi. An old newspaper article pops up. It’s from the days when her uncle and her father first expanded their matatu business together. There is another article covering her family’s funeral, which she hurriedly reads twice.

  As she scrolls through the results she discovers another man with the same name as her uncle who opened a training camp for long-distance runners. There are many articles for this man, including links to his website, Facebook and LinkedIn account.

  She clicks on Images. Only two pictures of her uncle appear, pictures connected to the two newspaper articles. The other images are of the runner Kennedy Kimotho Mwathi.

  Dalila pauses for a moment, her fingers stroking the keyboard, thinking. For her interviewers to understand a man like her uncle and the reach he has, to understand the danger she faces, they would need to know about Mungiki.

  She googles mungiki sect Kenya.

  She googles mungiki sect politics.

  There are three excellent articles, from which she takes notes, detailing how the Mungiki sect came from the Kikuyu, her own tribe. Starting as a religious sect, they have recently become more politicised, even shaving off their signifying dreadlocks to integrate into mainstream political and civil positions of power. The article highlights how they control the vast slums like Kibera and many other neighbourhoods of Nairobi, often providing electricity and security in return for mandatory payments from the families living there. How they operate out of the matatu terminals, giving their influence an instant network that extends right across the city and indeed the country.

  Just as her time is about to run out, she goes to the library desk and asks to print out the articles she has been studying.

  She is told she cannot.

  Dalila quickly jots down the web links for each article, before pulling on her coat and leaving.

  She marches three blocks back to the Solidarity Centre. Only Abbi and one other person sit on the sofa. Phil is sipping from a mug; he looks up and smiles at her.

  Excuse me, Mr Phil, she
asks.

  Phil. Just call me Phil.

  Phil, she says. I found articles to help my interview, but at the library they don’t let me print. Could I . . .?

  Yeah, sure, you can do it now if you like, he says, getting up from behind his desk and offering her his chair.

  Dalila sits down at his desk and says, It is only a few pages.

  Absolutely, no problem at all. Did you, uh, did you get hold of a solicitor yet?

  No. Me, I didn’t phone.

  Well, you could use this phone while the pages are printing, he says.

  She stands up but Phil slides the phone towards her. No, no, it’s okay, he says. You just sit there and make your calls.

  She calls Mr Rafa, but there is no answer. When she phones the Dundee office, they keep her on hold and then ask for her mobile phone number and promise to call back.

  At home, lying on her stomach across her bed, she starts scribbling notes, composing her statement to her case owner. She can’t remember the last time she worked like this. Part of her mind is writing and part of her is watching herself. It’s calming to be writing longhand, like doing homework, she thinks.

  She works late into the evening. Her head nods once, twice, before she lays her cheek down onto her application form and a deep sleep wraps around her. She dreams of walking to college with Noni. They discover they both have the exact same mobile phone, which Noni finds hilarious. We’re so alike, Noni laughs. We’re like twins. But Dalila begins to feel uneasy without knowing why. There’s a sense of being late, or perhaps she should be somewhere else. She holds both phones, one in each hand. They are the same. In fact, they are exactly one and the same phone.

  The morning wind is strong as Dalila short-cuts her way across the flat mud and concrete remains of where a factory once stood. It occurs to her to drop into the Solidarity Centre and warm her fingers around a hot mug of tea. Perhaps have a quick chat with Phil? But no. She should get to the library early, stay focused on her application. She crosses the street, passing the corner shop as the Polish owner nods hello and rolls open the shutters for business.