Dalila

by Jason Donald

  Her bag feels heavier than normal with all the paperwork she’s carrying. It sits uncomfortably, the strap digging into her neck. She shifts the weight, hooking the strap over her other shoulder when, between the traffic, in the periphery of her vision, a shape moves. Her body recognises the shape before she does, her muscles primed by their own volition, poised to sprint, to fight. She casts the shape a quick look and immediately drops her head, tilting her shoulders away.

  It’s him.

  The rolled shoulders, the solid neck, the way his head dips forward making him peer at the world through his heavy brow.

  Markus. No mistaking him.

  Her body locks. Her will and power sapped into the vacuum of fear.

  He’s strutting away from her, looking down at his phone, but it’s certainly him. Here in Glasgow.

  She has to move. She knows she has to. With one big stride she hides herself behind a pair of phone boxes, blocking his view of her should he happen to glance back. Her heart is thrashing in her chest. She sees herself lying on that sofa in that flat in London. Markus standing over her. The sensation of his hand over her mouth, the way her forced her knees apart.

  Droplets of sweat start forming on her face. Her forehead itches under her woollen beanie. She tugs the hat off her head, trying to cool down, trying to think. Is that really him? Why would he be here? But she can’t play dumb with herself. It’s him. She’ll never forget his bulk. He’s here for her. She did this to herself. She was safe, hidden. But now trouble is back, sniffing the air to find her.

  As Markus turns the corner, Dalila scoots off in the other direction, trying to walk quickly at first before finally giving in and sprinting as fast as her legs will run.

  Dalila bursts through her front door and bolts it closed behind her. She runs to the bathroom and finds Ma’aza in there, scrubbing the toilet.

  It was Markus, gasps Dalila, trying to control her breathing. He was there. He was . . . near the library, he was there. Me, I saw him. I know that one. I saw him there.

  Who? asks Ma’aza, dropping the brush into the toilet bowl. Who did you see?

  Dalila exhales, knowing she is going too fast. She unzips her coat and flings it towards the coat hook at the front door, watching it fall to the floor. In London, she explains as slowly as she can, there was this man, and also a woman. But the man, Markus, he . . . I was sleeping and he came to me, and he tried to . . . They were supposed to help me. Those ones met me at the airport.

  Dalila feels her mind’s urge to tumble down into that memory, to dwell in it. She sets her feet as if to steady her balance and says, He attacked me but I ran away.

  And you saw this same man today? asks Ma’aza, as she peels off her pink rubber gloves.

  Yes.

  You are sure?

  She can’t believe Ma’aza would even say that. Does she think she’s bragging, trying to impress her? What she saw today could endanger them both. Is Ma’aza even on her side? The words can’t come fast enough for Dalila so she throws Ma’aza a look expressing all her thoughts at once.

  Don’t be like that, my sister, says Ma’aza. I can see you are frightened. Okay. But in our fear we can see fearful things. That is why I am asking, are you sure it was this man from London?

  It was him, snaps Dalila, her anger rising. He was there. I saw him. It was Markus.

  Ma’aza sets her hips and places her hands on them. Did he see you?

  No, I don’t think so.

  Are you sure?

  Yes. Yes, I’m sure, yells Dalila. He turned and I ran away. He didn’t see me and I just ran.

  Ma’aza looks at Dalila, her eyes scrutinise and analyse but don’t yet blame. Maybe this man is here for somebody else, Ma’aza says.

  He is here for me. For me, shouts Dalila, thumping her own chest. Because of stupid Facebook. Because I told my stupid friends that I am here in this stupid city. Because I am stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Okay, I believe you, says Ma’aza, reaching her arms around Dalila. I believe you. He doesn’t know where you live. He didn’t see you. For now, we are safe.

  Dalila wriggles out of Ma’aza’s embrace, struggling between the hope of being safe and the guilt of dragging Ma’aza into danger.

  Ma’aza retreats and grabs the toilet brush. She holds it up and declares, After today, you and me, we go all places together. Okay? It’s safer like this.

  The following morning Dalila and Ma’aza both march across the empty site where the factory once stood. Ma’aza strides out in front, head up, blotting out the rest of the world, focusing only on her destination. Dalila walks quickly behind her. She can’t shake the horrible sense that Markus is stalking up behind her. She’d rather be in bed but yesterday she lost the whole day worrying about Markus and she has to get back to the library to complete her application. She scans the windows of a passing bus, studies the shapes of people across the street, peeks through shop doors but she doesn’t see him.

  Back inside the library, it feels a little safer. She and Ma’aza book computers next to each other. Dalila sits down and rubs her sweating palms across the tops of her thighs. As she logs on to the internet her head is alive with questions. Hoping the focus will calm her, she leans into her thoughts. What does her case owner need to know? How much context should she write into her statement? What is her uncle likely to do to her if he finds her? Is there a way of linking him to other violence to prove what he is capable of? And, if she was sent home, who could she trust? Who might meet her at the airport? How would they even get past the airport matatu and taxi rank without her uncle’s employees spotting them? Where could she possibly go to hide? To Naivasha? To Lamu? If anyone informed her uncle where she was, there would only be one possible outcome for her. But before the end, before that quick passing over, he would want his revenge and that is what she fears the most. She knows how angry he can get and he would want to make it bad for her, worse than he had done before, worse than she could possibly face.

  Her fingers tremble on the keyboard. She bites down on the inside of her lip and then opens her mouth, easing out the tension building up around her jaw.

  Things might change, she tries to convince herself. Her uncle might die. It could happen. He has many enemies. When he dies, she can go home. The thought excites her. Just as fate put her here so, too, fate may erase her problems. But for now she has to wait. If it takes a lifetime, she will wait.

  Ma’aza stretches her arms above her head and yawns. Ish, she sighs, everything in the news is people coming to Europe. More and more people on boats, dying in the water. Even more are walking. somebody is making money from this, believe me.

  Dalila looks at the blinking cursor on her screen. She can’t think about Syrians right now, she has to focus on herself, focus on her own safety.

  She googles matatu gangsters.

  She googles police corruption Kenya.

  She googles matatu gangs police corruption Nairobi.

  She writes out quotes and notes the source and date of every article. After an hour of reading, she sits up straight and stretches her back, pointing her elbows towards the ceiling. What she’s gathered so far is good. It supports her story, showing precisely how the Mungiki members are known to operate across Nairobi via the matatu networks. They pay off the police, or the police simply tolerate the Mungiki running the slums. Since her uncle is a Mungiki member and runs a matatu business, he has incredible reach. He will definitely find her if she goes back. And if she goes directly to the police they are likely to inform him that she is in their custody.

  What else would her interviewers need to know? What was Phil’s advice? Asylum isn’t a reward. She’s got to show the danger she faces, but she hasn’t established that yet.

  Closing her eyes to think, her fingers slip under the neckline of her blouse and find the twisted, hardened skin of her scar. She remembers the screaming, her screaming. She remembers the belt buckle whipping down. The blood. She remembers him dropping his trousers. She remembers her f
ace being pressed down hard against the carpet. His smell comes to her. Heat rises on her neck and it feels as if her uncle is standing right behind her, right here in the library. She opens her eyes and stares at the door to the toilets, hoping she doesn’t throw up.

  With jittery fingers she googles victims of Mungiki.

  She googles police brutality Nairobi.

  She googles Nairobi rape statistics.

  She googles Mungiki retribution, murder.

  At noon Ma’aza says, I have to go, I am too hungry.

  Dalila looks up from the screen. Okay, she says. One minute.

  Only one minute, says Ma’aza. She hangs her head to one side, stretching her long neck.

  As Dalila logs off and gathers her notes she asks, Can you walk with me to the Solidarity Centre? It’s just there. I will be safe with them and you can go.

  Ma’aza nods, before tilting her head to the other side.

  At the centre, Dalila again asks to print off a few web pages. She calls the Dundee solicitors’ office but the results are the same as yesterday: after putting her on hold they take her number and promise to call back.

  When she phones Mr Rafa, he answers on the first ring. He listens to her situation for a few minutes before interrupting her. I am unable to take on any more clients, he says. With this recent shift in political mood, my workload has doubled. I’ll be honest with you, Miss Mwathi, stress levels are high. I’m in court hearings all day and I’ve filed so many appeals I can hardly keep up. So, attending a Substantive Interview is not a priority.

  But, she says, would you . . .? Maybe, if you have time you could—

  You should be able to present your case clearly at the interview, he interrupts again. Your command of English is obviously excellent, which is an advantage, believe me. If you need any more advice, you can always try the Scottish Refugee Council. Of course, if you have any issues further down the line with your case, then feel free to call me. In the meantime, why don’t you try this new solicitors’ office in Dundee, I believe the Solidarity Centre has their details. Apparently they are taking on asylum cases.

  Dalila drops the receiver and thumps her forehead down on the desk.

  Is everything okay, Dalila? asks Phil.

  Yes. Okay. Everything is fine.

  What is it?

  I don’t know. I don’t understand, says Dalila. Everything is confusing me.

  She stands up and grabs her papers from the printer. Everything is too complicated and, me, I read it but . . . Why are there so many papers? She waves them at Phil and then throws them on the desk. It’s too much. I don’t understand anything. And every day on the news it’s Syria, Syria, Syria. All those people coming here. What about Kenya? We have danger too, but the news is silent. No one cares about us. If you come from Kenya it is just papers and more papers. Every day I’m trying to make sense, and to fill these papers, and report to Festival Court, but they don’t care. Better if I walked from Syria, with my face in the news. Then people will believe me.

  Abbi and a few others in the centre are staring at her. Dalila lowers her head and starts gathering her application notes.

  I know it can be overwhelming, says Phil, his voice calm and contained. I appreciate that. How can I help? What exactly don’t you understand?

  Phil’s face is open and she’s sure she’ll cry if she keeps looking at him.

  This, says Dalila, flipping through her notes. This, I don’t understand. She points to a section on her Statement of Evidence Form. For these parts, I don’t know what I must put, she says. I must put one for the basis of my claim. Look here, section C2 is for race or nationality, and C3 is for religion and C4 is my politics and for C5 it says any other reason including membership of a particular social group.

  Phil is already nodding as if he knows what she is about to ask.

  You know about my . . . the reasons I had to run away from Kenya, says Dalila, but my reasons don’t fit with this form.

  Yeah, I see this a lot, says Phil. It’s a common problem for women claiming asylum.

  Why only for women? Her voice pitches higher than she expected. She leans closer to Phil and almost whispers, They don’t want women in the UK?

  No, no, it’s not like that. It’s a historical issue, says Phil. You see, the key legal document that defines who qualifies as refugee was put together in Geneva in 1951 just after World War Two. At that time, they were focusing on the problems in Europe, so refugee status was granted to those who had been oppressed because of their race, nationality, religion or their political affiliation. Those were the main legal definitions. That’s why it’s listed like that on your form. It’s the law.

  Dalila looks down at her form, still unsure how to fill it in.

  The problem is, Phil continues, back then they weren’t actually thinking about the rest of the world. It simply didn’t cross their minds to consider issues like forced marriages, FGM, famine, child soldiers, rape or domestic violence. That’s why women often fall through the net, because what they are fleeing isn’t covered by the law. To be fair, the laws have widened in scope a bit since 1951, which is why you have section C5 on the form. See there, where it says, any other reason including membership of a particular social group. That’s for people in your position. You understand?

  Dalila nods. So what must I put there?

  Well, just put that you’re a woman, says Phil. The violence you’re fleeing and the persecution you fear is specific to being female. Now they might argue with you, okay? You’re going to have to be prepared for that. My guess is the Home Office will say that what happened to you was just a tragic set of domestic events, that it’s hardly a nationwide policy targeting women. They’ll argue that it’s not like all women in Kenya suffered the way you did. So they might try to send you back to a different part of Kenya.

  No, I cannot, says Dalila. My uncle can find me anywhere. Even here, in this city, I have fear for myself.

  I understand, Phil quickly replies. Let me just ask . . . would you mind if I asked you a personal question?

  Dalila studies Phil’s eyes, trying to guess at what he might ask. Has he heard about Markus?

  Is your uncle or any of your family part of the Mungiki sect?

  Yes, my uncle, he is Mungiki. How do you know about this?

  I’d say almost all the Kenyan women who come through here have had problems with the Mungikis, says Phil. The Home Office knows all about those bastards. When presenting your case, I’d recommend you try to show how politically connected your uncle is. Show that if you went back to Kenya you’d be silenced as a political dissident, simply by being there, even if you don’t speak out against him.

  It’s a clever point and Dalila likes the force behind it. Yes, she says, this is good. I can say this.

  It’ll definitely strengthen your claim, Phil assures her, because you’ll be claiming as part of a particular social group under section C5 and for your political opinions under section C4.

  The rain comes down hard and Phil offers to give Dalila and the few others in the centre a lift home. The van stops outside her building and Dalila waves goodbye to Phil as she jogs inside. She steps into the lift and presses number 17. Her toes are numb and damp inside her basketball shoes. She removes her hat and shakes out the silver droplets of rain trapped between the fibres.

  As the lift doors open, a little girl bounces towards Dalila. Clamped between the girl’s ankles is a ball wedged into a disc, like a plastic Saturn, on which she pogos, squealing with delight. She rides her planet into space for only a second, arms flapping outwards, skirt billowing, her dark tangles of hair reaching, weightless, before gravity reclaims her and all goes limp. Up and down, up and down.

  A taller girl skips after her saying, My turn. My turn.

  They appear to be sisters, with the same thick wavy hair. Their open front door is right next to Dalila’s. As she approaches her door, key in hand, the older sister says, Do you live here now?

  Before Dalila can answer,
Mrs Gilroy opens her door across the landing and her little dog wriggles between her feet and escapes.

  Both girls squeal with delight, falling to their knees to greet the little dog. Toby! Hi, Toby. Come here, boy. Ears back, tail wiggling, Toby darts from hand to hand, licking their fingers.

  Standing in her slippers and dressing gown, Mrs Gilroy shakes her head and says, Right, you girls, I know it’s raining but yous have got to keep it down if you’re gonna play on the landing. I can hardly hear the telly for all this commotion.

  Toby is licking my fingers, laughs the littlest girl, her Scottish accent almost as strong as Mrs Gilroy’s.

  Aye, he’s known to do that. Now, did you hear what I said, Rosa? Irene here’s just moved in and yous are making a God-awful racket.

  The little one, Rosa, looks up at Dalila. When did you come here?

  Me, I moved here one week ago.

  Oh, says Rosa. Then she says, Do you know what? We did sports at school today and, you know what, we did running and I’m the fastest girl in my class but Ashley Worsdale is faster than me.

  Really? says Dalila, squatting to the child’s height. Even me, I used to run in my school, ten thousand metres around the soccer field.

  The older sister watches Dalila through the tangles of her fringe. Her eyes are wary. Dalila smiles at the elder girl and stands up.

  Can Toby come and play in our house again, Mrs Gilroy? asks the little one, as she rubs the dog’s ears back with both hands.

  Perhaps another time, love, says Mrs Gilroy. She shuffles towards them. Toby’s had a long day already.

  Mrs Gilroy picks up her dog and lightly touches each girl’s head before she goes inside. Dalila, too, unlocks her door and goes in. She hangs up her coat and unlaces her shoes, placing them neatly together against the wall.

  A knock at the door startles her.

  She attaches the chain and opens the door two inches. The sisters stand side by side, staring up at her. The elder one speaks. My mother said we have to ask you something.

  Yes?

  Do you want to come and eat with us today?