Dalila

by Jason Donald

  Oh, uh, yes. Thank you, says Dalila. When?

  The older girl leans and yells to her mother in the next-door flat. An exchange happens in a language Dalila doesn’t understand and then the girl tells Dalila, My mother says in twenty minutes. Just come to our house.

  That’s my house there, says little Rosa, pointing at the door next to Dalila’s. A fit of giggles suddenly grips the girls and they run into their flat.

  Dalila changes into her floral dress. She rubs moisturiser into her cheeks and along her forearms. In the kitchen she opens cupboards hoping to find a gift to take next door. There is a large bag of nachos, unopened. She grabs it.

  When she knocks on their front door, a voice calls out from inside, Who is there?

  It is me, from next door.

  The older sister opens the door and says hello as little Rosa grabs Dalila’s hand and drags her into the flat, calling to her mother, She’s here! The lady is here.

  Dalila kicks off her open-toed shoes as she is led down the hall, stepping over toys scattered along the hallway floor. She gets a glimpse of the bedroom. It is a nest of toys and clothes and school bags, Disney and pop star posters, magazines and teddy bears. A bunk bed lines one wall with a chest of drawers and a desk pushed up against the other wall, leaving just enough room to move down the middle.

  That’s my room, boasts Rosa, and this is the living room.

  Dalila is met by a stout, tired-looking woman with the same dark, wilful hair as her girls. She introduces herself as Olcay.

  Sit. Sit. Please, says Olcay, motioning to the table and chairs in the kitchenette.

  Thank you for inviting me, says Dalila. I brought this for you.

  With a dip of the head, Olcay takes the bag of nachos, saying, Thank you. You . . . very . . . kind. She tries to say something else but gives up and starts talking to her elder daughter in another language. The daughter sits down at the kitchen table and translates. My mum says she’s happy to meet you and you’re welcome in our house any time.

  Thank you, Dalila smiles.

  Olcay pours tea from a pot into a pink Barbie mug and places it in front of Dalila.

  You . . . are . . . welcome, replies Olcay, clearly delighted and then self-conscious about her English skills. She opens the packet of nachos and pours the contents into a plastic mixing bowl and places it on the table. The elder daughter takes only one crisp. But the youngest puts her whole hand into the bowl and then the other. She stands looking up at Dalila, nibbling fistfuls of nachos.

  Dalila can’t hold back the giggles. She hasn’t been around children for such a long time and feels herself falling in love with little Rosa.

  Rosa whispers into her big sister’s ear. They giggle and scramble out of the door calling, We’re coming back in a minute.

  Dalila holds the Barbie mug, enjoying the heat seeping into her cold fingertips, as Olcay attends to the food on the stove. On their balcony is a clothes horse and two children’s bicycles. A toy kitchen set stands in the corner, the colours faded by weather. Only a sheet of metal panelling separates this family’s balcony from the balcony in Dalila’s apartment.

  The television is on, quietly chatting to itself, holding back any awkward silences. Their living room is neat yet packed with furniture. A sofa, a bookcase, a wardrobe, framed family pictures, DVDs stacked under the glass coffee table. A double mattress is tucked against the wall behind the sofa. Its faint blue colour almost complements the wallpaper. Almost. She stares at it, as if this mattress is, somehow, important.

  This flat, Dalila realises, is a mirror image of her own. The girls’ room is backed up against her own room and it is, she realises, their voices that she has heard coming through the wall. Their kitchenette and living room sit back-to-back against Ma’aza’s room and kitchenette. Their flat is exactly the same size as hers, with the same dimensions. She glances up at the mattress again. It dawns on her that while the girls sleep on bunk beds in the bedroom, the parents must sleep through here, laying the mattress out each night and tucking it away again in the morning.

  The girls come bursting into the kitchen and the little one announces, Me and Parla are gonna do a play and you have to watch.

  Of course, grins Dalila.

  Rosa takes Dalila’s index finger and pulls, leading Dalila to the sofa. You have to sit here, she says.

  As soon as Dalila sits the play begins. Parla perches on the sofa’s arm, raises a recorder to her lips and starts a tune. She’s awkward and self-conscious while Rosa picks up a toy guitar and wildly strums open chords, skipping from one end of the living room to the other. Their mother smiles and half-heartedly tries to shush them, but this only makes their little performance even more dynamic.

  The girls suddenly stop and look towards the front door, their ears attuned to a sound that Dalila had not heard. Delight bursts across their faces as they scramble towards the door calling out, Baba. Baba’s home.

  Dalila stands, Barbie mug in hand, unsure where to be. She moves into the kitchen and places her mug on the table. She smiles at Olcay, who is wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

  Baba, Baba, this is our friend, says Rosa, leading her father by the finger. She lives next door and she is called Irene and she also did athletics in her school.

  Oh, says her father, that is very nice. His accent is thick but his command of English is much better than his wife’s. He places his hand lightly on his chest and bows ever so slightly as he addresses Dalila.

  Welcome. Welcome to our home, he says, I am Mr Erdem. He offers his hand and Dalila shakes it.

  I am Irene, says Dalila.

  It is a pleasure to meet you and always a pleasure to have guests for dinner, he says, glancing at his wife and the food she is preparing. He touches Olcay on the shoulder and whispers something in their language. He is heavyset, dressed in a brown suit with a grey tie and black polished shoes. Close-shaved, with greased grey hair slicked neatly to the side. He moves deliberately, almost slowly, around his family and when he smiles, Dalila notices that his mouth appears more pleased than his eyes.

  Olcay gives her daughters tasks and soon all the women, including Dalila, are setting the table, laying out knives and forks. Parla fills a Tupperware jug with water. Rosa folds square sheets of kitchen roll into triangles. Dalila puts a glass at each place setting, while keeping one eye on their father.

  Mr Erdem sits on the sofa and unties his shoes and carries them down the hall. He returns still wearing his suit and tie but his feet are clad in slippers. There is a weariness to his movements, and it is not lost on Dalila that the girls have become less animated since his arrival. He sits back down on the sofa and switches the TV to some foreign news channel.

  Little Rosa comes waddling through, struggling to carry the chair from her bedroom desk, and places it at the table.

  You have to sit next to me, she tells Dalila, and Parla can sit there and my mama there and Baba there.

  Olcay lays out a plate of warm flatbreads wrapped in a tea towel. She places a bowl of rice and a dish from the stove on the table too, before calling through to her husband.

  Everyone sits.

  Olcay stands again and leans over the table and hands some bread to Dalila. Please . . . eat, she says.

  That glass is for you, Baba, says Rosa, and this one is for me.

  Thank you, my child, says Mr Erdem, touching the back of his daughter’s head. He takes a deep breath and looks at each member of his family in turn. He nods gently to himself before scooping some rice onto his plate.

  He offers rice to Dalila and tells her in a rather formal tone, It is a blessing to have you join us today. You are always welcome at our table.

  Thank you very much, replies Dalila as a swell of gratitude grows up around her. It has been so long since she sat with her own family like this and she wants to explain how good, and sad, it feels just to sit here, pretending to be part of their family. Just to be included feels like waking up with sunlight on her face, after a long, restful sleep. An
d before she starts crying she knows she should say something, so she says, Me, I am . . . I feel blessed to be here.

  With only one day left before her interview, Dalila hurries back to the library to prepare her case. An email from Muthoni lies in her inbox.

  Xaxa Dali,

  I have news! Your uncle has been busy these past months. He is always out, smiling and shaking hands. People say he is generous, always buying tea and presents. It is also rumoured that he has made large donations to the Narc political party.

  These days he is always in a suit. Many believe he will run for a city council seat.

  When I spoke to BB, he said last month two bodies were found, bodies of matatu drivers who used to work for your uncle. These two were not Mungiki. There is speculation that those ones who can harm your uncle’s reputation are disposed of. But, of course, I can’t get proof of this. But I can say that in Nairobi many respect him and many fear him.

  I have attached two links to articles in the Standard newspaper. One speculating about his move into politics, and the other suggesting that the death of the two matatu drivers was not accidental.

  I am also putting together a letter for you, supporting your stay in the UK and gathering signatures from trustworthy friends and colleagues here at the college.

  Your friend,

  Noni

  PS I feel like a real reporter gathering all this information. I have my first real story before I even graduated!!

  Dalila reads the letter twice and then carefully picks over the articles. She spends the rest of her morning typing up her statement, detailing exactly how she believes she will be captured if she returns to Nairobi and what her uncle is likely to do to her. She references all her concerns, linking them to similar cases in Nairobi, showing that her specific case and her particular fears regarding her uncle fit with the general climate of corruption and violence towards women in Nairobi and those whom the Mungiki dislike.

  In conclusion, she states that, more than anything, she wants to go home. Her only wish is to complete her studies, to visit her family’s graves, to rebuild her life. To live where she belongs. But she cannot do any of this while her uncle is still alive. She needs a safe place until the day comes when she can return.

  Dalila sits back, satisfied. She emails the document to herself.

  Feeling confident, she decides to walk towards Govan. Autumn leaves lie pulped in a heap along the pavement. The surface of a puddle is crusted with ice. She touches her toe to it and it splits, fragile as eggshells.

  A bell tinkles as she opens the door to a charity shop. The assistant comes through from the back, a stout woman with a dark fringe touching the frames of her glasses. They nod to each other and Dalila browses through blouses.

  Is there anything you’re looking for? asks the assistant.

  Me, I want a jacket, answers Dalila.

  Like a coat?

  No, maybe like this one. Dalila holds up a beige two-piece suit. The skirt is knee-length and the jacket wide with heavy shoulder pads. But, for me, I only need the jacket, says Dalila. I have an interview tomorrow.

  Ah, right you are. Well, we might have your size over here.

  She follows the assistant to the end of the rail.

  The woman lifts her chin and appraises Dalila’s size through the bottom of her glasses. She turns to the clothes and picks out an item.

  How about this? says the assistant, holding up a pale green suit. Or perhaps . . . this? She holds up a navy blue jacket.

  Dalila points to the jacket.

  She tries it on and stands in front of the mirror. The sleeves are a good fit but the shoulder pads are broader than she imagined. It’s a bit loose for her narrow frame. But the effect is strong. She fastens the single button at her stomach and it suits her even more.

  You’re such a slip of a thing, smiles the assistant, but I think that one’s alright on you. Now, you’ll need to finish it off with something like . . . Let’s see now. The woman fingers through the hangers and selects an ivory-coloured scoop-necked blouse. Here. What do you think of this? Why not try them both on together?

  When Dalila steps out of the changing room, the assistant lifts her chin again, to see through the bottom half of her lenses. Very nice, she says, very smart. You’re bound to get the job wearing that.

  Dalila turns to the mirror. The scooped neckline is an improvement and the jacket collar covers the scar on her shoulder, just. But it works. She looks like a serious person, a professional. She looks like a newsreader.

  In her dream, that night, she is back in Nakuru, in the village where she grew up, in the primary school she attended. She is an adult sitting on the little bench surrounded by unfamiliar children who stare and giggle behind their hands. The desk is so low she has to sit with her knees to one side. Being here is ridiculous. She can’t believe she’s here but they said that something on her record was incomplete. They insisted that she goes back and does it again. They were very firm about this. She simply can’t go on until she takes this class again. She is livid, her anger sits high up in her throat but she doesn’t want to lose her temper and frighten these little children. She blinks her eyes, trying to focus on the chalk scribblings on the blackboard, but none of the words make any sense.

  On the morning of her Substantive Interview, Dalila showers and puts on her new blouse and jacket with her black trousers. The dark blue of the jacket doesn’t match her black trousers, but it’s all she has.

  She goes to the bathroom and says to Ma’aza, Are these trousers okay? I don’t know.

  Ma’aza continues brushing her teeth as she gives the outfit a side-on glance. With her mouth full of toothpaste, she lifts her thumb in approval.

  And for shoes? says Dalila. My basketball shoes are warmer but maybe not good for the interview. She says this hoping Ma’aza might pick up on the hint.

  Ma’aza spits and rinses. Without a word, she walks past Dalila and goes to her room, returning seconds later with a pair on black slip-ons.

  These are better, says Ma’aza.

  Are you sure?

  The shoes won’t help your case, but they are better for interview.

  Thank you, says Dalila.

  Ma’aza and Dalila take one more trip to the library to see if there is an email reply from Muthoni. There is.

  Dali, my friend,

  I put together this letter and got as many people as possible to sign it, but some are too scared to sign.

  I hope it helps. Good luck! Xxxx

  In the attachment is a scanned copy of a letter.

  To the Government of United Kingdom, regarding the case of Irene Dalila Mwathi in the application for safety and refugee status,

  We, the people signing this letter, are worried about the safety of our sister, friend and fellow student.

  Irene Mwathi’s family were tragically killed during the political riots following the Kenyan General Elections. Many people believe the killings were random acts of violence, others suspect that they were maliciously lynched for business gain. There is an ongoing police investigation into this matter but the judicial system here cannot be trusted since there is a lot of corruption. Irene Mwathi’s uncle, Mr Kennedy Kimotho Mwathi, has been questioned by the Nairobi police with regard to this case but has not been arrested. No one else has been charged.

  Mr Kennedy Mwathi is a powerful businessman in Nairobi and all over Kenya. Recently, Mr Kennedy Mwathi has announced his interest to run as a councillor in Nairobi. Some of his opponents who have spoken out against him have later been found dead. Others have been badly beaten. When questioned by the police, the wounded claim to have been in accidents or the victims of robbers. There is a culture of fear surrounding Mr Kennedy Mwathi and presently he is implicated in five separate police investigations involving murder, extortion, tax evasion and drunken driving.

  We believe that if Ms Irene Mwathi is returned to Kenya, she will be killed just like the people who have spoken up against her uncle, Mr Kennedy Mwathi.
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  She is an honest and very hard-working student leading her class in the School of Journalism and Mass Communication at the University of Nairobi. She also had many friends and would never hurt anyone. We would all dearly love to see her again. However, we would ask that you allow her to temporarily stay in the United Kingdom where she is guaranteed to be safe until the police investigations against her uncle have been concluded.

  We ask this in good faith for our kind and hard-working sister, Irene Dalila Mwathi.

  The letter is signed by nineteen of her former classmates and friends at college, and by three lecturers, including the head of the Media and Communications Department.

  Her eyes tear up. She wraps both hands across her nose and mouth in case a tide of emotions bursts out of her. As she rereads the list of names who signed the letter, the face of each friend blooms in her memory. Their friendship and courage are astonishing and a deep homesickness shifts in her stomach. Tears roll down her face as she wishes she could hug each one of these beautiful people, her true friends, her true family.

  Outside, the fresh wind is bracing and helps to settle Dalila’s emotions as she walks with Ma’aza to the Solidarity Centre.

  Be lucky today, my sister, says Ma’aza, as she gives Dalila a brief hug. I will see you tonight?

  Thank you, says Dalila. Yes. Tonight. Maybe I take a lift home with Phil. I can text you.

  Inside, Dalila signs the registry book and prints out the scanned letter from her friends. While she waits, she accepts a mug of tea from Abbi.

  You look good, sister, he says, noticing her blouse and jacket. And no gold shoes? What happened?

  Dalila looks at Ma’aza’s slip-ons on her feet. Me, I have my interview today, she explains.

  Ah, you look good. You look like a lawyer, from the TV, says Abbi. They give you Leave to Remain for sure.

  Dalila shakes her head but smiles warmly at him.

  And if you smile at them like that, for sure, you even get their phone number.

  She laughs, a little embarrassed, and gently slaps Abbi on the shoulder.