Dalila

by Jason Donald

  I found Ma’aza, she says into the receiver. They brought her here. I saw her in the medical unit, because now she is a hunger striker.

  What? says Daniel. Ma’aza is there, with you?

  Yes, I saw her. But they won’t allow me to talk with her. She looks sick, Baba.

  She is a fighter, that one.

  I know, says Dalila, but I am worried for her. She will fight and fight but it will change nothing. She will die for nothing.

  Okay, Dali, be calm, says Daniel. It is best if you can speak to her.

  I tried but they won’t let me near. They put handcuffs on me and locked me in here.

  I see. Well, first you must think and be calm. When you are ready, when there is a good time, you must try to see Ma’aza again, says Daniel. She will need you, Dali.

  Okay. Okay. I will call Phil and tell him everything.

  I will tell Phil all of this, I am going to the centre now. You must keep your credit, in case we need to get in touch or if something else happens.

  Thank you, Baba. We have to help her.

  What can I bring for you tonight? asks Daniel.

  Even me, I don’t know. If you can bring some more money, because no one here has cash, she says. And phone credit top-up cards.

  Okay, anything else?

  Dalila thinks, as she wriggles in the handcuffs and puts the phone to her other ear. When you see Phil, could you look in the clothing bank for boys’ clothes? I need clothes for small boy. Eight years old.

  Dalila is taken to an office she has never seen before. She stands in front of a desk while a guard waits at the door behind her. At the desk sits a woman who is dressed in the same uniform as the other guards but introduces herself as the Residential Units Manager.

  Miss Mwathi, says the manager, I believe you speak English?

  Yes, I’m from Kenya.

  Quite. The manager lifts a sheet of paper from her desk. I’m also aware that you have completed this complaint form regarding the incident that took place in the medical unit earlier today.

  Me, I only want to know where is my friend, says Dalila. She looked very ill and I was worried. Is she still here?

  We’ll get to that, says the manager, placing the form on her desk and interlacing her fingers. But first I need to make a few things clear. You are here at the taxpayer’s expense and as such your behaviour should reflect the appropriate gratitude. It has been explained to you that in this centre we run an Incentives and Earned Privileges scheme. At the moment you are on the Enhanced Level but if we should see fit to downgrade your status to Standard Level we could remove your phone and internet privileges. And if you ever again lift a finger against one of the employees in this facility we will place you in temporary confinement for as long as I see fit. Have I made myself clear?

  Yes, says Dalila.

  Now, to the matter of your friend. How do you know this woman?

  When I was moved to Glasgow, they put me in a flat together with her. Me, I known Ma’aza. We are friends.

  Glasgow, you say? Yet Ma’aza was arrested for working illegally in Luton and detained in Yarl’s Wood Detention Centre.

  Ma’aza ran away. Me, I know nothing about her work, says Dalila. There was a raid, a dawn raid in the flat next to ours. She became frightened and ran away.

  I see, says the manager. You mentioned in the complaint form that you were, quote . . . only trying to help. If I could see Ma’aza, I could help. She will talk to me. She won’t fight with me and maybe she will eat. Do you still believe this to be the case?

  Yes. We are friends and I know her. I want to help her.

  Okay. Thank you, Miss Mwathi. You can go now. The guard will escort you to your room.

  That night her visitation privileges are withheld. She texts Daniel.

  Sorry Baba, they won’t let me C U. THX for coming. I know it is a long drive. If they let me have visitors again I will SMS U.

  His reply comes a few minutes later.

  I like the drive. I left a package for you. Did you see Ma’aza? Will email you tomorrow. Be strong.

  Before breakfast the next morning, Mohammed and his mother Zainab enter the dormitory. The boy has more colour to his face though he looks a little sullen. Zainab takes her son to the shower and makes sure he is properly washed and dried. As they come out of the bathroom, Mohammed is wrapped in a towel. Dalila approaches and says, Hello. How are you, Mohammed?

  The boy doesn’t answer but his mother says, He’s doing much better. We are going to try and have some breakfast.

  Good, says Dalila. Breakfast is good. Also, I have something for you, Mohammed. Do you want to see what it is?

  The boy lowers his head.

  I have it here, says Dalila. She goes to her locker and brings out some folded clothes. This is for you.

  The boy looks at Dalila’s swollen, bruised wrists. He glances around the room at what else might be out of place this morning.

  Please. Dalila holds the clothes closer. It’s okay. It is a gift. I have a friend who comes to visit me, she explains to Zainab. He brought these.

  From the expression on her face, Dalila knows she consents to the gift.

  Zainab crouches down next to her son. What do you say to the nice lady?

  The boy looks at the clothes and points to the T-shirt. Are they Ninja Turtles? he says.

  Dalila looks down. Uh, yes, I think they are. Do you like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

  I only like Batman, says the boy.

  Well, you know more than me about this, says Dalila, but I like the colour. What do you think?

  The boy shrugs.

  Zainab runs her hand over the back of her son’s head. If you put these on, then when we get home I promise to buy you a Batman T-shirt. Does that sound fair?

  The boy nods as he takes the clothes.

  Thank you, Irene, says Zainab as her son gets dressed. Please, you must sit with us for breakfast.

  Dalila spends the afternoon in the library, hoping to use one of the computers. As she sits at the table, reading the newspaper from two days ago, a man approaches the table. She looks down and shifts away.

  Sister, don’t be afraid, says the man. My name is John. From Sudan. Can I ask you a question?

  She waits, knowing the guards are nearby, planning to scream if he tries anything.

  I know you give clothes to the boy. You are very kind. Please, I ask, where do you get such clothes?

  Dalila looks up at the man. My friend brought them from Glasgow.

  Did you buy these things?

  No, there is a charity. They have a clothing bank. Sometimes they can get things.

  I understand, says John. He glances around to see who is watching. I have problem, he says. I can show you? His sweatshirt is tied around his waist. He lifts the flap covering his buttocks. Underneath, his jeans have a large L-shaped rip, exposing his underwear.

  Dalila swallows.

  He shifts the sweatshirt to cover himself again. When they remove me from Colnbrook, he says, this happened. I have no other trousers and I don’t know anybody in Scotland. Is cold here, but I can’t wear this jumper in the day because my trousers is teared.

  Dalila nods. I will ask my friend.

  Thank you, says John. My size is 34–32. Thank you.

  *

  Within four days, word has got around that Dalila can get things. Detainees ask her for clothes. Socks, shoes, headscarves, jumpers and underwear are the most requested items. But people also need credit for their phones, cash and printouts of documents. She keeps a precise list with each person’s name and request and a check to see that they receive what they have asked for. Everything is relayed to Daniel or Phil via text. Daniel visits every evening and sometimes brings Tracey, the volunteer from the centre, to help him. They meet other detainees and offer advice about their cases, promising to contact solicitors or friends and family members in other parts of the UK.

  I’m sorry for always asking you to do this, Daniel, she tells him one
evening.

  It’s no problem, Dali, he says. This is all Ubuntu. Our pain is shared, as well as our purpose. I get up and do this now. It’s a life larger than my own. And my flat is much cleaner, because I am never in it.

  Dalila laughs out loud. That’s a good thing, she says. An unbelievable thing.

  One evening, after visiting hour is over, Dalila distributes the clothes and phone cards Daniel has brought. She checks off each item against her list and writes out the new requests for the following day.

  As she is about to go to bed, two guards come to her room, with them is the Residential Units Manager.

  DG3331. Irene Dalila Mwathi? the manager reads from her clipboard.

  Yes?

  Pack your things. We are moving you.

  Dalila gathers her few possessions and is taken down a corridor sealed off from the general population. The last time she came this way, she was in handcuffs. She is shown to a room where she recognises Ma’aza lying on one of two beds.

  This is an isolation room, says the manager. Ma’aza will be kept here until she eats. You said you can make her eat?

  Yes, I think so, says Dalila.

  Good. Stay with her. Make her eat. There’ll be a guard posted outside should you need anything.

  Thank you, says Dalila.

  The door closes and she kneels by the bed.

  Ma’aza is gaunt and drowsy. Her eyes roll towards Dalila, she swallows slowly and says, You look terrible, my little sugar sister.

  Dalila laughs and puts her hands on Ma’aza’s cheeks and says, And you are absolutely beautiful. She kisses Ma’aza’s forehead.

  Why did you run? says Dalila, stroking her friend’s hair. Ma’aza’s eyelids close and open again.

  Dalila sits on the floor next to the bed. I thought we made big plans, remember? You and me, we are supposed to get a house in Canada, and watch movies on a very big TV.

  Ma’aza’s eyes close and her mouth stretches into a smile.

  You promised we would eat junk food and BBQ every day and grow very big and fat, remember?

  I remember, Ma’aza says weakly. And you? You promised the manager you will make me eat, didn’t you?

  Why are you doing this to yourself?

  I do it because . . . I choose it. They don’t control me. You do not control me.

  But you will die, Ma’aza.

  Maybe it is better. Ma’aza turns her face away. After a few moments she says, I’m sorry I left you.

  If you are sorry, then eat something. Do it for me, so we can be strong and get out of here.

  They will never let me out, says Ma’aza.

  Maybe, after time, they will. Please eat, just one small bite.

  I was working . . .

  What? says Dalila. I can’t hear you. She sits on Ma’aza’s bed and leans closer.

  I went to Luton, whispers Ma’aza. I was working there, in a kitchen, like a factory. She licks her lips and says, The police, they arrest many of us. After four days in the cell they take me and some others to Yarl’s Wood. The Home Office says I am a criminal because I work in the kitchen. They reject my case and want to send me back to Ethiopia.

  Shh, says Dalila, reaching over for the water bottle. Here, take this. Drink.

  Ma’aza drinks a little before pushing the bottle away. They try to make me fly back but Ethiopia doesn’t accept me, she says. They say I am Eritrean. So I don’t fly.

  But that’s good news, says Dalila. You can stay.

  Ma’aza opens her heavy eyelids and says, You don’t understand. You never understand. The Home Office do not release criminals and my country won’t accept me. Like this, I am trapped. They will keep me in Yarl’s Wood for years. To stay in that place? It is better to die.

  Ma’aza closes her eyes and says, I have lost everything.

  Okay, whispers Dalila. I understand, I do. But I am going to stay here till you go. I am your friend. I will lose with you.

  She lies down on the bed, takes hold of her hand and turns off the light.

  Fifteen minutes before her appeal is about to begin, a guard escorts Dalila to a small room near the main reception. On the table in this room is a flat-screen TV. Above it, a webcam pointed at the single chair. Dalila is told to sit on the chair.

  The guard switches on the screen and fiddles with the cables leading under the desk towards a computer terminal. He closes the curtains and adjusts the camera to point at Dalila. An image flickers onto the screen of a man’s face.

  Hello, can you hear me? he asks. Testing. Testing.

  Dalila nods and the guard says, Aye, we can hear you. How’s things at your end?

  All looks good here, says the man on the screen. Can see you fine. Sounds alright. He moves away from the camera to a desk in a courtroom of plain pine furniture. The judge’s desk is higher than the large table in the centre of the room. There are floor-to-ceiling windows behind the judge’s seat and through them, in the distance, Dalila recognises the white and black spires of the churches near the YWCA where she went to her one and only English class. The man comes back to the screen and says, Good morning. I am the court bailiff and this is the Asylum and Immigration Tribunal Court in the Eagle Building in Glasgow. Are you Irene Dalila Mwathi?

  Yes, she says to the camera.

  Good. You’ll soon see the judge come in. He’ll sit up there straight ahead of you. Your solicitor will sit here to your left and the Home Office presenting officer will be seated over there to your right. If at any time you cannot see or hear what’s going on, you just let us know, okay?

  Yes, okay.

  Don’t need to talk so loudly, says the bailiff, we can hear you fine.

  He goes back to his desk, as Helen Foster enters the courtroom. Wearing an expensive suit, with her make-up perfectly done, she looks just like a professional lawyer, a TV lawyer. She comes up to the camera and says, Hello, Irene. How are you today?

  I’m okay.

  Good. That’s nice, says Helen. Right then.

  The judge enters. The court bailiff and the two other people in the courtroom rise.

  Dalila stands, awkward and alone in the small room, not sure if she should participate in these formalities. When the people on the screen take their seats, Dalila sits, too.

  The judge begins proceedings by asking Helen Foster a few questions about Dalila’s statement and the articles and letters of support submitted during her Substantive Interview. The judge has a clipped grey beard and his manner is direct, yet he is soft-spoken with his questions. Dalila watches her solicitor, who leans forward to the microphone on her desk to answer each question, otherwise keeping her head down over her notes. The judge then looks at the Home Office presenting officer and asks, Would the Respondent like to begin cross-examination?

  Thank you, my Lord. I only have a few questions for the Appellant. He stands and addresses the camera.

  Miss Mwathi, could you describe for us how you came to the UK?

  She thinks back and says, My friend, he helped me, his name is Charles Okema. He took pity on me when I was in my uncle’s house. He said, if he had money, he can get papers for me and help me to get away. So I, I stole money from my uncle and gave it to him. After two weeks Charles took me from the house and brought me to the airport. There I caught the plane to the UK.

  And where did this Charles Okema get these documents? asks the presenting officer.

  He told me he received them from a man called Eddie.

  Do you know Eddie’s second name? His address?

  No, says Dalila. I never met him. I don’t know him.

  So, he gave you false papers and put you on the plane, is that correct?

  No, the papers were not false, she says. The passport and ID card are mine. They are real ones. The tourist visa is also real, but he had to buy it. And also pay for the flight ticket. That is why Charles needed the money.

  The solicitor rubs his forehead and thinks for a second before saying, But he did tell you what to say at Border Control when you arri
ved in the UK, did he not?

  Yes.

  You were instructed to pose as a tourist, all the while knowing you were going to claim asylum once inside the UK. Am I right?

  Yes.

  The presenting officer lifts a photograph from his desk, walks up to the camera and holds it up for Dalila to see. Miss Mwathi, do you know this woman?

  Yes, says Dalila, this is Mama Anne.

  Her full name, please.

  Dalila thinks back to the name written on her instructions when she first arrived in the UK. Her name is Anne Nafula Abasi.

  And this person? Do you recognise him? The solicitor holds up another photograph.

  This one is Markus, says Dalila.

  That’s not their real names, is it?

  I only know these names, says Dalila.

  When you arrived in Heathrow you lied to the Border Control and told them that these people were your aunt and cousin, respectively, didn’t you?

  Yes, says Dalila, lowering her head.

  Speak into the microphone, please, interrupts the judge.

  Yes. Me, I said this.

  According to your statement, you went directly from the airport to their house and spent the night with them, did you not?

  Yes.

  Could you provide the court with the address at which you stayed?

  I don’t know the address, says Dalila. I only followed them. I told the Home Office many times, I don’t know the address. It was dark. I ran away from there because Markus, he . . . attacked me, so I don’t know where the flat is.

  I see. So you maintain that you don’t know the real names of these people or where they live, yet you were happy to arrive in a foreign country and stay with them. Why is that, Miss Mwathi?

  I don’t know, says Dalila. Me, I didn’t know anyone at that time. I only wanted to be away from my uncle. I went with them because it was arranged for me. They promised to help me.

  Very well, I have one more question. You claim your uncle abused you and kept you prisoner in his home, is that correct?