Dalila

by Jason Donald

  One morning, Dalila is standing in line for breakfast, checking over her list of requests from detainees.

  A guard approaches and says, Irene Mwathi? DG3331?

  Yes? says Dalila, looking up at the man.

  Come with me please.

  She is escorted by the guard to the office where the Residential Units Manager is waiting for her. The manager waits for the guard to enter and close the door behind him. She begins by saying, Miss Mwathi, we have two matters to discuss. First, I would like to congratulate you on the progress you have made with your friend Ma’aza. She appears to be eating regularly and the nurse informs me that her health has improved dramatically.

  Yes. Now she is eating soup, replies Dalila. I bring it from the canteen.

  And I believe Ma’aza is now able to walk around a little, even to use the bathroom by herself?

  Yes. Every day she is a little stronger.

  I don’t know how you convinced her to abandon her course of action, but I am impressed with your efforts. You kept your word, and for that, I thank you.

  Thank you, says Dalila. She is my friend. It makes my heart glad to see her become strong again.

  The manager nods. She slides a paper across her desk and says, This bring us to our second matter for discussion. I understand that you have received a Determination letter informing you that your recent appeal was not successful.

  Yes, but my solicitor has applied for bail and we will try for a Judicial Review.

  Well, I have to inform you that since your appeal was not successful, I have received new orders for your immediate removal. These are your new removal directions. As you can see by the details listed here, your outward flight from London to Nairobi is in four days’ time. Today you will be transferred to Yarl’s Wood Detention Centre, where you will be housed until your flight. Your personal belongings have been collected for your convenience. Officer Malcom here will escort you to the vehicle.

  Dalila sits, caged in the back of the van, for nine hours. By the time they drive through the security checkpoints of Yarl’s Wood Detention Centre, she is exhausted.

  The building feels like a hospital. Long white corridors with hard rubber floors. Every door she passes through has to be unlocked first and then locked behind her. On some doors there is even a small sign reminding the guards to Lock it! Prove it!

  At the small reception area, she once again has her photograph and fingerprints taken. They ask for her name, nationality, date of birth and double-check everything against her file. Her belongings are examined and she is told to strip to have her clothes checked.

  Dalila undresses and waits for the female guard to go through her things.

  We’ll need to check your bra too, says the guard.

  Dalila unhooks her bra and wriggles out of the shoulder loops. She wraps one arm across her breasts and drops the bra onto the table.

  The guard steps towards her and says, I’ll need to check these. She puts two fingers under the waistband of Dalila’s underwear and feels all the way around for hidden items. Dalila raises her face to the ceiling, her body tight and shivering. She feels herself wanting to rise up and hover near the corner of the ceiling.

  Her bra has no underwire, so it is returned to her.

  Get dressed, says the guard, opening the door and standing in the hallway.

  Dalila pulls the T-shirt over her head and then puts her arms into the jumper Daniel brought for her and zips it up. She shoves her bra into the pocket of her jumper and as she is stepping into her jeans a male guard comes into the room.

  Let’s go, he says.

  She follows him down a long white corridor. An argument is going on somewhere and Dalila can hear crying and shouting. A door is slammed shut, and then another door.

  The guard brings her to a gate in the middle of the corridor. He leads her in, shuts and locks the gate behind them. Two metres ahead is a similar gate. The two of them are caged in the corridor. Dalila flattens herself against the wall, as the guard brushes past. His keys are attached to an extendable cord which is fixed to his belt. He yanks the cord out in front of him, fiddles with his keys and unlocks the next gate.

  They come to a door. The guard opens it and flicks on the light. It is a small room with two single beds, a toilet and shower. One bed is empty and neatly made. On the other lies a woman in the foetal position with the pillow over her head. She stirs and squints against the light, pulling her long black hair away from her face.

  Irene Delilah Mwathy, says the guard, this will be your room. It’s lights out now. Breakfast at 7:30 a.m. Goodnight.

  She steps into the room and the guard locks the door behind her. The woman on the other bed lies back down and pulls the pillow over her face.

  Dalila lies down and her fear presses her to the bed like a physical force. She struggles to breathe under the weight of it. She sends a text to Helen, her solicitor, telling her where she is and asking for help. She texts Phil and Daniel, listing her flight details and location and the word Help, and then she holds the phone to her chest and waits.

  She listens to boots marching down the corridor, the rattle of keys and a slamming gate. She hears crying. Someone nearby is crying and soon they are wailing. It becomes a desperate, frustrated howling as some woman, somewhere down the hall, pounds her hand against the door again and again and again.

  *

  At 7:30 a.m. the gate at the end of the corridor slams open. Keys jangle and the stamp of approaching boots is unmistakable. A door is thrown open. Two in One, barks a guard.

  Dalila sits up in her bed.

  The boots march closer and the next door is thrown open. Two in Two, the guard calls.

  The door to her room is flung open. A male officer tramps in and switches on the light. In the corridor is another guard with a clipboard. Two in Three, shouts the guard to his colleague standing just outside the door. The guard leaves. The footsteps and roll call continue down the corridor. The woman on the other bed gets up and shuts the door. She shuffles over and uses the toilet. She showers and comes out dressed and towelling her long hair.

  I am Shada, the woman says. From Iraq.

  She appears to be in her forties. Her eyes are slightly swollen and she looks exhausted and withdrawn.

  I am Irene. From Kenya.

  Wash, says Shada, pointing at the shower and sink. Then breakfast.

  Dalila rises and uses the toilet while Shada wraps a scarf around her head. Since she has no toiletries of her own, Dalila washes her hands and face at the sink and stands ready in the clothes she slept in. When she comes out of the bathroom, Shada has placed her towel on the ground and is saying her prayers.

  When Shada is finished, she says, We go.

  The canteen is similar to the one in Dungavel, except here there are no loose chairs, only wooden booths. Dalila buys a hot chocolate from the vending machine and sits down with Shada. Shada nods, takes out her phone and texts. Within a few minutes another woman sits down at their booth next to Dalila.

  This my friend, says Shada, introducing the other woman. Her English better.

  Farida, says the friend. Can we borrow money?

  Dalila sits straighter.

  We will pay you back, tomorrow. Only four pounds.

  Me, I don’t have, says Dalila.

  You buy from the machine, says Farida, so you have.

  Why do you want money? For what?

  For toiletries.

  But you have in your room, Dalila says to Shada, even me, I saw them.

  Farida leans in closer. They don’t give us what we need. We must buy toothpaste, Tampax, shampoo. If we have these things it is easier for us, but they only give us seventy pence per day.

  Dalila looks at one face and then the other. She doesn’t trust these women but doesn’t want to make enemies of them either. So we need toiletries?

  Yes, we all need, says Farida. You also need this. If you give us money, we can show you where to buy these things.

  My cousin is visitin
g tonight, says Farida. He will bring money for you, but now we need to buy.

  Okay, says Dalila. She takes a one-pound coin and two 50p pieces from her pocket and slides it over.

  Shukran, says Shada.

  The three of them leave the canteen and go to the small kiosk. Taped to the wall is a price list and beside it a poster of a cartoon snowman in a red hat and scarf, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. Dalila buys toothpaste, a toothbrush and a bar of soap. For now, that is all she needs. She has a little more money stuffed in her sock but she is cautious about exposing it.

  Farida and Shada each buy two small bottles of shampoo and nothing else.

  An announcement on the loudspeaker asks all detainees to make their way to their units for roll call. The people waiting in line at the shop glance at each other. They look at the guards, who immediately start herding everyone out of the hall. In the corridor people are moaning and shaking their heads and Dalila gets the feeling that what is happening is not part of the regular routine.

  In the crowds, Dalila gets separated from Shada. She gets to her room and wonders what she is expected to do next. Shada bursts into the room a minute later and the two of them stand side by side listening to the count starting at the bottom of the corridor. Two in One. Two in Two. The guards walk up to their door, lean in and scan the room. Two in Three. The keys and boots and voices move to the next room. Two in Four.

  Shada closes the door and lifts both hands up against her mouth.

  Something bad is happening? asks Dalila.

  I hear they find a woman, says Shada, she cut her arms.

  They are kept in their rooms all morning. Shada lies down on her bed with her knees tucked, while Dalila takes a shower. She quickly gets dressed and as she brushes her teeth the guards do another roll call. She tries to think. There are only three days left till her flight. She has to do something.

  She sits on her bed and looks at her phone. She has her charger with her but she is low on credit. Perhaps they sell top-up cards at the kiosk? She could use the little money she has left to buy more credit. As soon as she is allowed out of her room she will do this. The phone rings in her hand and she almost drops it.

  Hello? Dalila?

  Yes, it is me.

  Hi, it’s Phil. Listen, I am—

  Phil, they put me in Yarl’s Wood, she blurts out. Please help me, I am scared. They want to put me on a plane in three days.

  I know, I know. Look, I am doing what I can. I have contacted the airline and complained. A volunteer will call them every two hours to complain. This can be effective, because the flight captain has final say about who is allowed on his plane. If he decides you are too disruptive or whatever, he can refuse to have you on board and they will have to delay your removal.

  Good. Thank you. You have to do this, she says. I can’t go back, but it is very bad here.

  I know, Dalila. You’ve got to be strong, okay? Now, I’ve also contacted some friends in London. They have your flight details and they are going to try to go to the airport on the day of your flight and protest against your removal. So, we’ll just have to see if this has any effect, but usually, if people can, you know, cause a ruckus, then the Home Office often backtracks. They like to do things quietly.

  Thank you, Phil.

  Don’t thank me yet. I have to go, but I want you to know we are doing what we can, okay? Be strong, Dalila.

  I will try.

  Phil hangs up.

  Dalila grips her phone tightly in her fist. Phil’s plan sounds good. It could work, but she won’t know until she gets to the airport. The silence after his phone call is awful and she desperately wants to talk to someone. She texts Daniel again.

  Baba. Phil called me. He has a plan. Can U pls contact my solicitor? If U visit tonight, ask to see Ma’aza. She is stronger now, but make her eat. Make her laugh, like U helped me. She will need you.

  By mid-afternoon, they are finally let out of their rooms. Dalila goes straight to the kiosk and buys more credit for her phone. She walks around till she finds a common room where many women are watching TV. She sits down and wonders what to do next. She can feel the minutes slip away, pulling her ever closer to the moment of her departure. There must be some action to take. Perhaps a form to fill out or advice from a local charity. She wonders if they have similar visiting hours like she had with Daniel up in Dungavel. But then she remembers that guests have to specifically request a visit with a detainee. She texts Phil.

  Maybe you have friends in London who can visit me tonight?

  After a few minutes her phone rings. It is her solicitor, Helen, who explains that she is unable to represent Dalila any more because Yarl’s Wood is in England. Scotland and England have different judicial systems and she isn’t qualified to work in England. This is a well-known trick of the Home Office, to move detainees from one part of the UK to another where they will have to seek new legal help. But Helen assures her not to worry. She will try to contact a few solicitors that she knows in England. Perhaps one of them could come and meet with Dalila.

  The phone call leaves Dalila feeling unsettled and she walks the corridors trying to compose herself. Breathing steadily, reminding herself that Phil has a plan. People are trying to help. It will all be okay.

  That evening before lights out, Dalila sits on her bed listening to Shada talk to herself quietly as she showers. A gate is unlocked and boots march up the corridor. The door to their room is thrown open, and five male guards enter. One guard opens the door to the bathroom and Shada screams as the man looks at her.

  Get out, screams Shada. Get out. Pigs.

  Dalila scoots back against the wall with the covers pulled up to her neck.

  The guard in the bathroom reads out Shada’s name and number and says, Get dressed. Get your things. You have five minutes.

  Where you take me?

  Just dry yourself and get dressed. You’ve got five minutes. The guard shuts the door.

  After a few minutes Shada comes out with only a towel wrapped around her. Her eyes move from guard to guard. I get my things, she says.

  C’mon. Let’s go, says the guard. We haven’t got all night.

  Shada grabs her clothes and toiletry bag and walks back to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Quickly, says the guard.

  Two guards sit down on her bed. Another starts gathering Shada’s possessions and putting them into a plastic grocery bag.

  One of them looks at Dalila. Just stay where you are, alright? This will be over soon, he says.

  After a few minutes a guard knocks on the bathroom door. Shada? Let’s go.

  Okay, I come.

  Minutes pass.

  The guards look at each other. We should go in, says one of them. He pushes the door but it’s jammed. The others help him and Dalila squeezes back into the corner, making herself as small as possible.

  Shit, says a guard, you’d better get a medic. Call the medic.

  One of the guards rushes out while the others drag Shada from the bathroom. She is naked and delirious, white foam drains from her mouth.

  What the fuck happened? shouts a guard. Is she having a fit?

  Could be, says one guard.

  No. She’s not epileptic, says another. It’s not on her file.

  It’s this, says another guard, coming out of the shower cubicle with shampoo bottles in his hand.

  She’s drank the bloody shampoo. How the fuck did she get four bottles of shampoo?

  It’s another long night of crying and the sound of doors being shut and locked. In her sleeplessness, Dalila pictures Shada’s naked body, the glazed eyes, the soap oozing from her lips. It was stupid to give her money. Why didn’t she suspect something? Why couldn’t she tell Shada was so desperate?

  Death is close tonight. Dalila senses it stalking the hallways. She holds up the photograph of her father and brother and tries to imagine the men who came into her home. Did her father know immediately that the men were there to kill him? She
imagines her brother would have shouted and fought. But her father? Her mother? How did they choose to act? How did they choose to lose? They are not in the room with her, she can’t feel them, but she wonders if they are watching to see how she holds her head. How will their daughter define her own story? Will it be any different from their own?

  By the next afternoon, there is still no message from Daniel or from Phil. While she waits for a reply she manages to log on to Facebook and sends Muthoni a message.

  Xaxa Noni, I need help. Things are bad. I think they will send me back. I have a flight tomorrow morning. I arrive in Nairobi at 8:10pm. Flight KA 1078. I don’t know what they will do with me. I am so so worried some person will see me there. There are too many matatu drivers at the airport. If one of those Mungiki sees me he will tell my uncle.

  Please Noni, can you meet me there? Maybe I can stay with you? Please.

  Her time runs out on the computer, but in the evening after dinner she is able to get another half-hour slot to check her mail. There is a reply from Muthoni.

  Dali, don’t worry. I will come. My friend has a car, he will bring me. He has family in Lamu and maybe you can stay there with them. If he can drive to Mombasa, from there you can go to Lamu. It is so far from Nairobi. You will be safe there.

  Excited to see you tomorrow, my sister.

  Dalila runs her hands across her face in relief. She reads the message three times. She types a short reply and then logs out. She can’t imagine going back. She will not go back because Phil has a plan to stop her getting on the flight, so everything is going to be okay.

  But if she does go back, if something goes terribly wrong and at the airport they somehow get her on the plane, then at least Muthoni will be there when she lands. She could wrap something over her head, disguise herself, quickly get in the car and slip away without being recognised. It could work.

  In the evening she gets a phone call. It’s Daniel.