by Jason Donald
Dalila lifts the bread roll and forces herself to take a bite.
By 7 p.m. she is waiting outside the visitors’ lounge with a group of men. Some push forward to ask the guard if their name is on the list, if they have a visitor, their solicitor perhaps.
Dalila stands back from the group, against the wall.
The guard reads the list of names and numbers of those who have visitors.
DG3331 Irene Matty? calls the guard. Her heart leaps and Dalila forces her way to the front of the group. A female guard asks her to raise her hands. She does. The guard pats her down.
Daniel stands as soon as he sees her and it takes a strong and steady willpower not to cry and run towards him.
They shake hands. Hello, Dali, says Daniel. He clasps both his hands around hers.
Thank you, Baba.
How are you?
Thank you. It’s bad here, Baba. Thank you for coming.
It is not a problem. I will come again tomorrow, if you like. But sit, please. I have lots to tell you.
They sit. The room is similar to an airport lounge. Lounge-style benches with low coffee tables. Dalila looks at Daniel. She has so much she wants to tell him, to explain, but looking at him, here, she can’t find the words.
Daniel adjusts his glasses and looks around the room. In Kiswahili, he whispers, You know, I believe this to be the ugliest hotel I have ever seen.
Dalila almost smiles. She reaches out and touches his arm, so thankful that he is real and here with her.
I have good news, Dali, he says. The solicitors from Dundee think you have a case. Phil spoke to them this morning. He emailed everything to them. They are going to put together an appeal and they’ll probably call you tomorrow.
She thinks she understands but her mind is struggling to focus. What? is all she can say.
Daniel leans forward. The Dundee solicitors are filing an appeal against the decision to deny you Leave to Remain. They will make an appeal. The Home Office cannot put you on a plane if there is an appeal. So you are safe, for now. You won’t be taken to Kenya in four days.
She hears that last sentence but does not believe it.
They appealed my case?
Yes. They will call you tomorrow to explain everything. I gave them your number.
So they will let me out?
I don’t know. Phil told me that you’re likely to have the hearing soon, at that time you will be given their decision. He thinks you have a good case. You are a woman. Kenya has a bad reputation with women. And your uncle is becoming political, this new information will strengthen your claim. It is good for you.
At the back of the visitors’ lounge a couple sit close together, caressing each other. He is clearly the detainee in his sweat pants and flip-flops. She wears a long green shawl and her black hair flares out from a hair tie on the back of her head. She lifts her legs onto his lap and nudges his cheek with her nose.
Have you eaten anything today? asks Daniel.
She watches the couple. The boy adjusts her legs on his knees and starts fiddling with the buckle on her shoe.
I believe, says Daniel, that those vending machines only sell food with absolutely no nutrition. It will be like not eating at all. He stands up, goes to the machines and brings back two hot chocolates in paper cups, a packet of Maltesers and two bags of crisps. He opens out the crisp packets till they are flat silver sheets on the coffee table.
A picnic, says Daniel, holding his arms out wide.
Dalila smiles and runs her hands along her thighs. She looks up at him. The lenses of his glasses are smudged, he hasn’t shaved in a few days but his face is beautiful. Seeing him here, in this place, is such blessed relief. Beautiful, beautiful Daniel, with his little jokes and easy manner. She watches him sip from the paper cup. He leans forward on his seat and fiddles with the visitor’s tag on his wristband. Gratitude overwhelms her. She wants to thank him, and hold him and kiss his hands for every smile and reassuring word he has ever given her, to tell him that he is the only true family she has now. Her tears are rising, building, threatening to gush over into full-blown weeping.
Thank you, Baba, is all she can manage to say, taking a Malteser and popping it into her mouth.
You like the food? he asks.
Dalila nods as she chews. Her tears spilling down her smiling face.
I brought shoes for you, he says, looking at the socks on her feet. I also have phone credit and ten pounds in cash and I brought a jumper in case you get cold. What else? Oh, yes, a toothbrush.
You brought me a toothbrush? she asks, as salty tears slip into the corner of her mouth.
Yes, says Daniel. He moves to sit next to her and places his hand on her knee. She puts both of her hands on top of his, squeezing his knuckles to thank him again, her throat too tight to say the words.
I had to leave everything at the desk when I went through security, says Daniel. I’m not allowed to bring anything in here, but the guards will make sure you get your package.
They sit close together and eat their picnic but every time Dalila feels herself starting to unwind she is tempered by the sense that their visit is passing far too quickly. At the end of the hour a guard announces that they have five minutes before visiting hour is over. Daniel leans closer and says, Dali, I will come again soon. I think tomorrow. But listen to me carefully now. He takes her hand and looks right into her.
I know what it is like to be in these places, he says. You cannot change all this, instead, you must guard a secret place inside you. Keep that place good and full of beauty. Some people, like your uncle, are hyenas. They will hunt you and kill you, even eat your bones. But the ones here, he says, directing his chin to the guards, these ones are termites. They take small bites, always eating at you. In the end, the hyena and the termite are the same. They devour everything. You must protect what they cannot eat. Keep your heart secret. Find a purpose for your days, a reason bigger than this place. It will keep you going. When I was in prison, the men who found this, even if they did not survive, they prevailed. You must prevail, Dali. Do you understand me?
Before breakfast, Dalila pulls on the slipper-like shoes Daniel brought for her. They are a little too big, but warm. The fleece jumper he brought is thicker than a blanket and she feels less shivery as she goes to the canteen. Determined to eat something this morning, she manages half a banana and a bowl of cornflakes. She buys herself a hot chocolate from the vending machine and sits at the table watching the other detainees. The mood in the canteen is quieter than yesterday. People talk in huddles and shoot worried, wide-eyed looks at the guards.
The mother sits down opposite Dalila, and helps her son into his seat.
Hello, says Dalila. I am Irene.
Zainab, says the mother, placing a hand on her chest. This is my son, Mohammed.
The boy looks down at his cornflakes and pushes the plate away.
Zainab speaks quietly to her son in a language Dalila doesn’t know, then she turns to Dalila and says in English, He is not feeling well today. I think he has pain in his stomach. Every day he says he feels sick. But I think today everyone is sick.
Dalila is surprised at Zainab’s neat English accent. She leans in closer and asks, What is going on? I notice that everyone is quiet today.
Last night they brought in women from Yarl’s Wood, whispers Zainab. Do you know Yarl’s Wood?
It is a detention centre like this, says Dalila.
Not like this. Zainab shakes her head. This place is alright. It’s relaxed here and they don’t treat you bad. But Yarl’s Wood is different. It is a place only for women. Pray they never take you there. The stories from that place are horrific.
Zainab places a hand on her son’s back and encourages him to eat.
She turns back to Dalila and says, Last night, they brought in six women from Yarl’s Wood. Four of them were put in the dorm opposite ours. They said the other two are in the medical unit. They are hunger strikers. When there is trouble, like a hunger strik
e, they’ll do this. They’ll move the hunger strikers and troublemakers to other detention centres so they don’t have power together.
Those women will bring trouble here? asks Dalila.
I don’t know, but I don’t fear them. I am worried about the vans. When the van comes here with new people, they don’t leave empty. Some of us will be taken today or tomorrow.
Lying on her bed, Dalila clutches her phone. It vibrates. A text from Daniel.
Solicitors coming today. 3:30. They have your number. Be strong.
Moments later, she gets a text from the Dundee solicitors’ office confirming the appointment.
At 3:30 p.m., Dalila is searched before being allowed into the visitors’ lounge. A man in a silver-grey suit stands and puts out his hand towards her. Hello, you’re Irene, I take it?
Yes, she replies, shaking the man’s hand.
I’m Duncan Finley and this is my associate Helen Foster.
He stands aside, allowing Dalila to shake his associate’s hand. This woman, Helen, appears to be only a little older than Dalila. Her hand is damp and cold. Her heavy eyeliner gives her a slightly startled appearance.
We’re having a coffee. D’you want one? says Duncan, pointing at the vending machine.
No. Thank you.
You sure?
Maybe hot chocolate, says Dalila.
While Duncan buys the drink, Dalila sits down and watches Helen’s eyes dart around the room. Helen leans back in her chair and then seems to notice Dalila. She slides forward on her seat and says, So you’re from Kenya?
Yes.
That must be nice, smiles Helen. All that sun.
Yes, Dalila replies. In an effort to keep the conversation going she adds, Sun is good.
Helen looks at the guards and then up at the CCTV camera. She picks up her notes and studies them.
Duncan returns with the drink, and says, Looks like you two are getting to know each other. That’s great. Helen here is one of our bright young stars at the firm. Very competent. She’ll be representing you during the hearing. I’m just a glorified taxi driver, me. He laughs out loud and Helen manages a weak smile.
You are solicitors? Dalila asks. From Dundee?
That’s us, says Duncan. Now, we’ve been sent most of your documents from, let’s see here, from Phil at the Solidarity Centre. We’ve filled out the appeal form and got that in. But there’s a few things we need to discuss in preparation for the hearing. Mibbe we can start with you telling us why you left Kenya?
As they discuss the case, Dalila struggles with their thick accents and often has to ask them to repeat themselves. Duncan does most of the talking while Helen takes notes. She seldom glances up at Dalila, preferring the familiarity of her notes. Her nails are perfect and her eyebrows tightly shaped. The suit she wears is newer and smarter than the one worn by Duncan, who looks like he’s been living in his suit for years.
Well, this has been great, Irene. A lot of interesting things have been flagged up. So, here’s what we’re gonna do, says Duncan. Looks like you’ve got a strong case for an appeal, given that sending you back would contravene the Human Rights Act because you’d be in immediate danger. So we’re – well, actually Helen is – gonna push for Discretionary Leave to Remain, aren’t you, Helen?
The young solicitor looks up from her papers when she hears her name and says, Yes, that’s right.
Duncan waits for her to continue, but she goes back to her notes. He smiles at Dalila.
The, uh, the other thing that’s interesting is the political dimension, says Duncan. With your uncle entering politics we could argue you’d face political oppression back in Kenya.
Dalila nods.
I’m optimistic. I mean, the truth is, over eighty per cent of asylum cases are rejected straight off, but it’s in the appeals that a case gets to be heard by a proper judge. I don’t think your case was properly thought through by your case worker. Looks like you’ve got a good chance.
Will I go with you to the court? Dalila asks, hoping to get out of detention, even for a day.
No, no. It’s all done by video link now. You’ll be able to hear and see everything that’s happening on the screen. You’ll see Helen, she’ll be there. And if the judge needs to ask you a question, he’ll speak to you directly. It’s exactly like being there. The whole thing will take about forty-five minutes.
The judge will ask me to speak, to tell my story again?
No, you shouldn’t need to go over it all again. It’s just that you might be asked a question. But not to worry. Helen will deal with everything. She’s very competent. One of our bright young stars.
Crying and movement in the dormitory wake Dalila in the middle of the night. Mohammed writhes in his bed, inconsolable. As Zainab tries to soothe him, his crying gets louder until he is openly wailing. By now, all the women in the room are awake. Some turn over and try to ignore the commotion. One woman hisses, Shh.
Zainab gets up and calls one of the night-duty guards. The guard comes in and switches on the light to groans from the other women. When Mohammed sees his mother with the guard his crying intensifies.
He is not well, Zainab tells the guard. He says his stomach hurts and I think his temperature is high.
The guard looks down at the boy and he looks around the room at the rest of the women sitting up in their beds.
Right, uh, well, says the guard, I guess we better get him down to the medical unit. Can you carry him? he asks Zainab.
Yes, I can take him.
Zainab wraps her son in a blanket and lifts him up onto her hip. The guard leads her out of the room and shuts the door. After a moment one of the women lets out an annoyed sigh. She hops down from the top bunk, switches off the light and returns to bed.
After breakfast, Dalila asks for directions to the medical unit. When she finds it, the guard at the door stops her.
My friend, she is in there. She came last night with her son, Dalila explains.
But the guard tells her, There’s no visiting just now.
When can I visit?
Depends on who it is.
My friend Zainab, says Dalila. Her boy is Mohammed. Last night the boy was not well.
Yeah, I know who you’re talking about, says the guard.
Can I see them? I brought apple juice.
You’ll have to come back later, says the guard. The doc’s in there just now doing her rounds.
Dalila returns after lunch and this time they let her in. The medical ward is a room sectioned off by curtains. Mohammed is asleep. He looks pale. Zainab is sitting next to him, holding his hand.
Hello, Zainab whispers.
How is he? whispers Dalila.
He had a fever during the night, but I think he is doing better now. He is very worried and says he wants to go to school. Can you believe that? Zainab smiles. He never wants to go to school.
I brought this for him, Dalila says, placing the carton of apple juice next to the bed. When I am feeling bad, sometimes apples help.
You are very kind, says Zainab.
Her son murmurs and shifts in his sleep. Zainab stands up and places her palm across his forehead.
Dalila waits, hoping Zainab might create an opening for conversation but she is too focused on her child.
Also, I want to thank you, says Dalila. When I came here, it was only you who spoke to me. Thank you for that.
It was nothing, says Zainab.
A nurse comes in, pulls back a curtain and checks the chart of a man with a swollen face and his arm in a cast. After seeing to the man, the nurse sweeps back another curtain, revealing two beds, with a woman in each.
She signals to the guard at the door. These are our two hunger strikers, she says. They’re still refusing to eat so I’ve been ordered to separate them. Could you bring some help?
The guard steps out and returns with three other guards to assist the nurse. Two guards begin rolling the first bed out of the ward. Dalila stands well out of the way. On the second bed
is a thin woman with loose curly hair spread across the pillow. As the guards wheel the bed out, Dalila gets a proper look at the patient. The recognition makes her step back.
Ma’aza? Ma’aza, is it you? Excuse me, I know this woman, says Dalila, approaching the bedside.
Stay back, barks the guard.
She is my friend, explains Dalila. I know her. Is she okay? Ma’aza, are you okay? What happened?
Right, you, says the guard. Back. Now.
Mohammed wakes up with all the shouting and starts crying.
Where are you taking her? says Dalila. Is she sick?
I said, get back.
But me, I know this one, Dalila shouts. We lived together. I just want to—
The guard puts his arm up and pushes Dalila back, away from the bedside. She moves his arm out of the way, saying, I only want to speak with her. I know this woman. Ma’aza? Hello? Ma’aza?
More hands are on her, spinning her around, and she loses balance, stumbling, grabbing at the guard as he grabs her. She lands on her knees and from behind a force knocks her onto her stomach.
Stay down, shouts a guard.
It’s okay, she says.
Her arms are pulled behind her back and her wrists cuffed. She can hear Mohammed shrieking and crying over the shouts and orders being barked in the room.
Dragged like luggage, the handcuffs biting into her wrists, she gets dumped in an isolated room. The guards leave without removing the handcuffs. She lies there, alone in the room, with her face to the side and all she can think about is Ma’aza. She must have been one of the women brought in last night. They said Yarl’s Wood. She was brought in from there. Is she on hunger strike? How did she get caught and taken there?
She rolls onto her back, wriggles her hands down, and by pulling her knees right up she is able to squeeze her forearms around her hips. She unhooks one leg at a time till her cuffed hands are in front of her. Digging into her pocket, she retrieves her phone and calls Daniel.