by Jason Donald
Yes.
Did your uncle tie you up or restrain you?
No.
Did he lock you in a room somewhere?
The man on the screen in front of Dalila is like a character in a strange film. She has to concentrate to answer him sincerely and not to simply watch him perform.
The doors of the house were locked, she says, and the gates of the compound were always locked.
Were all the doors of the house locked?
The back door to the kitchen, it was open so I could cook and wash in the courtyard there.
Thank you, Miss Mwathi, says the presenting officer and he sits down.
Any final questions for the Appellant? asks the judge.
Helen leans towards the microphone and says, Yes, My Lord. She checks the notes before asking, Miss Mwathi, the man who helped you escape from your uncle’s compound and who provided you with the documents you needed, this Mr Charles Okema, are you still in touch with him?
No, says Dalila.
Why not?
Because he has died. I saw on the internet they found his body. He was murdered.
Thank you. With the court’s permission, may I refer My Lord to the submitted evidence article C3, the one referring to Mr Okema’s murder. While no one has been convicted of that crime as yet, there appears to be strong evidence that it was carried out by members of the Mungiki sect, which is consistent with Miss Mwathi’s version of events.
Still seated, Helen turns her face towards the camera and says, Your uncle, Kennedy Mwathi, is a member of the Mungiki sect, is that correct?
Yes, he is.
Miss Mwathi, could you remind the court of the treatment you received from Mr Kennedy Mwathi?
Yes. Dalila clears her throat. He kept me in his house. Me, I was like a prisoner there. He beat me with his hand and he hit me here with a belt, cutting the skin. She peels back the collar of her T-shirt to reveal the scar on her shoulder. He also, he raped me and threatened me with a knife.
Thank you, Miss Mwathi, says Helen, cross-checking her notes.
During your initial interview in Croydon, you omitted to mention that you were sexually assaulted. Why is that?
Dalila takes a deep breath. I don’t know. I was scared. Because I was very nervous to be in a room with these two men.
Which two men?
The officers who were interviewing me.
Did you ask for a female officer to be present during the interview?
Yes.
But only men interviewed you, is that correct?
Yes.
Thank you, Miss Mwathi. That is all, My Lord.
Thank you, Miss Foster, says the judge. We are now ready to proceed to the closing arguments.
The presenting officer immediately stands up. He shifts out from behind his chair and puts his hands on his hips. My Lord, he starts, the position of the Home Office is the same as when it first refused the Appellant’s case for asylum. Very little new evidence has been presented here today, but what we are witnessing is a story with facts that have changed and changed again. The Appellant claims to have been abused and imprisoned by her uncle. While the Home Office does not condone this treatment and sympathises with victims of abuse, it is not enough for this court to function on hearsay. Clear evidence needs to be provided, and in this instance, regarding these claims, it has not. Indeed, after claiming to be imprisoned for almost a year, when the time came to flee the house, Miss Mwathi seems to have had little to deter her. Furthermore, she appears to have had the money and contacts to arrange for her safe passage to the UK. Upon arrival, she did not immediately claim asylum but elected to perpetuate a lie that she was visiting family for a holiday. Later, when she did claim asylum, she withheld vital information regarding her case and regarding the names and whereabouts of the criminals who helped her.
Dalila watches the solicitor on the screen go to his desk and lift up the photographs of Markus and Mama Anne.
These people, who the Appellant claims not to know, are one Mark Kayode and Mariam Olushola, both wanted by the police in connection for human trafficking, falsifying documents, fraud and working illegally within the UK. Having paid these people for their services and stayed in their house, Miss Mwathi has consistently denied knowing their names or whereabouts. Miss Mwathi obviously has strong connections to an international criminal network and this government does not harbour people who consort with criminals. If released, I believe Miss Mwathi would quickly go underground in an effort to stay here illegally.
The solicitor adjusts his suit jacket and steps away from the camera and back towards the judge. With regards to the risks she faces if sent back, he continues, the Appellant has argued that Mr Kennedy Mwathi is a politician, a member of the Mungiki sect and a ruthless businessman with a vast empire who abuses and destroys those who oppose him. However, with a quick bit of research, we know that he is not yet a politician and his new interest in politics is speculative and opportunistic at best. The man owns a taxi business, that is all. To claim political asylum would be to stretch the definition. Indeed, Kenya is classified by the Home Office to be a safe and politically stable country. It is an economic powerhouse on the African continent and a holiday destination to thousands. There is no reason to believe that when Miss Mwathi is returned to her country of origin she would be unable to find a safe place to live outside of Nairobi. Upon removal, we propose that she be placed in the custody of the Red Cross, who would provide for her, and that the initial decision by the Home Office to deny her Leave to Remain should stand.
He buttons his suit and sits down.
Dalila stares at the screen in confusion. She cannot get over the feeling that this is all happening far away and might even be unreal, yet right now, here in this tiny room with a TV and camera something is happening to her life. It is being decided and she has no power to affect it.
Helen Foster remains seated and leans towards the microphone as she reads from her notes for her closing argument. My Lord, she starts, I would like to begin with the issue raised by the presenting officer regarding the discrepancies in my client’s presentation of events. During my client’s initial interview, we have just heard testimony that she requested a female officer to be present but the request was not granted. The Home Office has a responsibility to accommodate vulnerable female asylum seekers, which, in this instance, it failed to do. I would further point out that my client has since provided us with all the necessary information regarding her case and this information has remained consistent. There was a large amount of fear and confusion on the part of my client during the initial interview, she did not fully understand the asylum system in the UK and I would request that this is taken into consideration.
Helen removes the top sheet of paper and starts reading from the next page.
My client’s uncle, Mr Kennedy Mwathi, has been campaigning for a seat on the Nairobi city council and elections are due to take place next month. This political dimension to his reputation is real. With regards to my client’s case, the politics are real too. You do not have to be an elected official to politically oppress people. Mr Mwathi is a known member of the Mungiki sect, who are very politically active. As she made clear in her initial interview, my client is an eyewitness to Mr Kennedy Mwathi committing murder. She watched him brutally kick a boy to death. Also, the man who helped my client escape, Mr Charles Okema, has since been murdered. Furthermore, if My Lord would refer to the statement provided by my client’s colleagues and college professors, it claims that Mr Kennedy Mwathi has been questioned by the local police in connection with two other murders and, at present, is implicated in numerous police investigations regarding extortion, tax evasion, and driving under the influence of alcohol. In light of Mr Kennedy Mwathi’s alleged murderous activities, I believe the safety of my client could not be guaranteed. Indeed, by returning her to Nairobi, I believe Her Majesty’s Government would be placing my client directly in harm’s way. Also, considering Mr Mwathi’s new career path, I believe there is now
an undeniable political dimension to my client’s asylum claim, and to deny this would be to ignore a fundamental tenet of the Geneva Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees 1951.
Dalila watches the judge sit back. He taps a pen against his notepad, but Helen does not look up. She presses on.
With regards to the allegations that my client consorts with an international criminal gang, I will reiterate that these claims are preposterous. The truth is Miss Mwathi has been hounded and attacked by this gang. They even attempted to kidnap her. This gang has links to Mr Kennedy, who, as we know, is linked to the Mungiki sect. My client’s attempted kidnap is clearly detailed in the police report, of which you have a copy, and she provided the police with the SIM card from the phone of the man Miss Mwathi knew as Mr Markus. It is clear that she is working against this gang in an effort to bring them to justice. Miss Mwathi is not working with them.
Finally, I would like to remind the court that although Kenya is a holiday destination for many, the Home Office has it blacklisted for its many human rights abuses directed against women. My client would face a real and serious risk of harm and even death if she was returned. For the UK government to place my client at such risk would contravene the European Convention on Human Rights. I therefore believe that the initial decision to reject Irene Mwathi’s claim for asylum was wrong. And I would recommend that she is released from detention in Dungavel Detention Centre immediately and given Discretionary Leave to Remain in the UK until such time as it is safe for her to return to her country of origin.
The solicitor stops and looks up at the judge. That is all, My Lord.
The judge gathers up his papers and stands as the bailiff calls, All rise.
The camera feed dies and Dalila is left staring at a screensaver ball bouncing around the television.
Dalila is escorted from the video-link room back to her room. Walking down the corridor, it’s difficult to process what just happened. If only her solicitor had been more charismatic, more vigorous in her delivery. But when Dalila thinks about the arguments her solicitor made they all seem solid. Everything was backed up by documents. Still, there is an uneasiness she can’t escape.
Her phone buzzes. There is a text from Daniel asking how her appeal went. She replies,
Don’t know. Maybe good.
For days Dalila stays with Ma’aza in the isolation room. She moves her bed closer to Ma’aza’s and at night she listens to the murmurs of her delirious sleep. She washes her friend with a damp cloth. While she braids Ma’aza’s hair, she tells her all about Daniel and providing clothes and phone cards for the other detainees.
Yet Ma’aza never eats, and Dalila never asks her to.
Dalila keeps her lists. Every morning in the canteen after breakfast she meets with detainees and writes down their requests, and then emails the details to Phil. She gets some more clothes for Mohammed and a scarf and blouse for Zainab. She keeps a strict list for phone top-up cards and hands them out on a first-come-first-served basis.
One evening, as Dalila enters the visitors’ lounge, Daniel approaches carrying two cups of hot chocolate. He hands one to her and says, Heri ya Krismasi.
Is it Christmas already? she asks.
Not for a few weeks yet, shrugs Daniel, but look around you.
Tinsel adorns the picture frames and on each coffee table is a small origami Christmas tree.
How do you think they celebrate in here? asks Daniel. Maybe they will roast a goat for dinner?
I wish, sighs Dalila, slumping onto the couch.
Don’t worry, says Daniel, I believe you could be out before Christmas.
Really? Why do you say that?
Daniel sits down next to her. There is now a big campaign for your release, he says. Phil has put together separate posters, one for you and one for Ma’aza. They list the basic details of your cases and they call for your immediate release from detention. He has posted these all across different forums on the internet. Mrs Gilroy has got involved, too. She has been on the phone to the council, to different Scottish MPs, the Housing Associations, charities, women’s groups and even her husband’s old trade union to gather whatever support she can.
This is unbelievable, says Dalila.
Oh yes, says Daniel. Even Abbi is helping. He has been handing out flyers around the neighbourhood. People care for you, Dali. There is hope.
I’m trying to believe that, she says, sipping the sweet hot chocolate.
Just before lights out, Dalila dashes to the library and grabs a large red book in the children’s section called One Thousand and One Jokes. She convinces the guards to let her take it into her room.
Look what I found, she says to Ma’aza, holding up the book. I know you like comedy but we have no TV so I will read for you.
She switches off the light and gets into bed next to Ma’aza. Using the torchlight on her mobile phone, Dalila opens the book at random and reads.
What do cats eat for breakfast? she whispers to Ma’aza.
There is no response from Ma’aza, so she reads the punchline.
Mice crispies.
She tilts her head towards Ma’aza. Nothing.
Even me, I don’t understand this, says Dalila. It’s not funny.
Flicking through the pages, she reads out another joke. What did the envelope say to the stamp? After a pause, she reads, Stick with me and we’ll go places. I think this one is good, says Dalila. Ma’aza rolls her head towards her and raises a scarred eyebrow.
Dalila turns the page and tries another one. How do you make God laugh? she reads. Tell Him your plans.
Ma’aza smiles. Raising her finger, she whispers, That one is funny.
The morning light is different, paler and more diffused. Without waking Ma’aza, Dalila rises and goes to the window. The world is white. Snow lies untouched on every surface. Large flakes twirl as they drop, landing in the white with silence. She puts on all her clothes and heads out to the recreation yard. It’s freezing, bitterly cold, and exhilarating. The snow is cat-like in its disregard for rules, resting on top of the CCTV cameras, clinging to the razor wire, adorning the tops of cars and trees.
She dances around the yard, grinning at the other detainees. It’s as if the world is reborn, pure and breathless. They lift their faces to the sky and hold out their tongues, lapping at the falling flakes, chasing tiny, fragile portions of this beauty to take into themselves.
A letter arrives at the detention centre for Dalila. It is titled, A Determination. As she reads it, she understands that her appeal has not been successful.
She texts her solicitor and the solicitor calls back right away. There is a long discussion about a Judicial Review, about the possibility of bail, about even appealing directly to the European Court of Human Rights, but Dalila can tell by the tone of Helen’s voice that the news is bad.
Instead of having lunch, Dalila returns to her room. She lies down on her bed and rests her elbow over her eyes.
In a frail voice Ma’aza says, What?
They rejected my appeal.
Ma’aza struggles up to a seated position. What will you do now? she asks. More appeals?
No. It is over, says Dalila. Every time, you told me they will send me back. Now I understand. There is no escape.
You cannot talk like this, says Ma’aza. I also told you, many times, to survive, to be strong.
Dalila gets up and paces to the door and back. I can’t believe what I am hearing, she spits. You lie there like a bony, dehydrated cat and lecture me about survival. Why are you allowed to give up? You think you have all the answers, but you are trapped in here with the rest of us. She levels her eyelids and throws Ma’aza a hard, flat look.
Ma’aza sighs long and slow, trapped by her own logic.
I can only be okay if you are okay, says Dalila.
Ma’aza raises her hand in defeat and lowers it across her eyes. Fine, she says. If I eat, you must believe, okay? Together we survive.
Dalila crosses her arms, uns
ure if she can really trust Ma’aza.
After a moment Ma’aza says, When you stand like that, you look like my mother. Come, bring me food.
Dalila goes over to the stash of food she received from the manager. She picks up an orange, forces her thumb into the crown and tears away the peel. Sitting down on the bed, she hands over a segment. Ma’aza’s thin hand takes the fruit and puts it in her mouth.
Chew, says Dalila.
Ma’aza rolls her eyes. She chews and swallows.
More, says Dalila, giving her another segment.
As Ma’aza eats, Dalila folds up her Determination letter and tosses it onto her bed. I am so tired of surviving, she says.
What else can you do? says Ma’aza.
Dalila nibbles the rough edges around her thumbnail. She pictures herself sitting on a plane, circling down and down into Nairobi, but quickly shunts that image from her mind.
In those last weeks with my uncle, she tells Ma’aza, I would lie on the floor for hours. Only lie there, surviving, with my face against the tiles. Almost nothing was left. He had taken everything. I was empty, so empty. I didn’t care any more.
Ma’aza opens her mouth as if to speak, but stays silent.
Me, I cannot be like that again, says Dalila. I have to mean something. My life has to mean something real. I cannot only run and survive, always going from place to place. I want to help others, you know? I want to give and be like . . .
Dalila fights back her emotions and in the process loses track of what she is trying to say. She looks at Ma’aza and clasps her hand, allowing the turmoil to settle for a moment. Every day I am trying, my sister, she whispers to Ma’aza, I am trying so hard to prevail.
For the next week, Dalila fights. She fills in another application for bail and, with the help of her solicitor, she applies for a Judicial Review of her case. When Phil visits the detention centre, Dalila tells him all about Ma’aza’s case. They draft a letter to include in the ongoing internet and letter-writing campaign calling for the immediate release for Ma’aza on health grounds and Phil assures her that he can secure many high-profile signatures before the letter is submitted to the press, the Home Office and key members of the Scottish Parliament.