Good! you think, and you throw another rock at the window. This one clinks against the windowpane, then tumbles to the street and nearly hits a woman in a blue dress. She screams and looks around, outraged.
Any minute that bomb’s going to go off, and right now I’m still close enough to be killed by it, you think.
‘Come on, Rahama, come on! Bomb!’ you yell again, so loudly that you feel a scraping in your throat.
Now people are taking notice. Some are muttering and walking away quickly. Others are shaking their heads and pointing at you.
‘Hey!’ shouts the woman in the blue dress, crossing the street. ‘Did you just throw a rock?’
‘Yes, because there’s a—’ you begin, but you’re cut short by a shopkeeper.
‘You hit my customer’s car with your rock, you dumb kid! Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to throw rocks?’
There’s nothing for it. If you stay around to argue the reasons with them, the bomb will go off, and you’ll all be killed. If you run, they might chase you. Maybe you can cause enough commotion on the street that Rahama will hear it, take notice and come outside too. Gulping back your fear, you turn and start sprinting.
‘Hey!’ shouts the shopkeeper.
‘Stop that kid!’ yells the woman.
You dart away down the street and cross the road, dodging in front of cars and a goat-herder, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Someone swerves and falls off his bicycle. There is bleating and tooting and shouting.
The more noise the better, you think grimly.
‘Idiot!’
‘Stop!’
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Angry faces surround you. Instead of helping the man on his bicycle up, on impulse you grab the fallen bike, and try to ride away.
A woman catches you, though. She gets you in a headlock, and is she ever strong. She must have raised twenty children, as she knows exactly how to put an end to mischief. ‘A bike thief!’ she shouts triumphantly.
‘A rock-thrower! A vandal!’ adds the shopkeeper.
‘He won’t pay for the damage he’s caused. Teach him a lesson!’ cries the bike-rider.
Any second now, you think. You pray desperately that Rahama is getting out. The woman forces your face-downwards onto the ground and you can hardly breathe. Spit and tears stream from your eyes and nose. You brace yourself, because you know the crowd is about to start raining blows on you.
‘Criminal kids like these,’ says the headlock woman conversationally to the crowd, ‘hah, I’ve caught dozens of them. They have no fathers to teach them morals. One day, Somalia will have a proper police force and strong families again. Until then, you just have to discipline them as best you can.’
With these words, the mob comes at you from all directions. You can’t escape, and the blows become faster, until you’re feeling scared you might black out. You pray for it to end soon.
‘Stop!’ shouts a commanding male voice. ‘I know this boy. I will take responsibility for him.’
You struggle to look up and you see – to your horror – Qasim. His eyes have a hard, glittery look to them. The woman lets you go and you stand up slowly, massaging your neck. Everyone in the crowd takes a step back, like a pack of jackals when a lion steps into their midst.
‘He is Rahama Daahir’s nephew. I know where he lives. I’ll take him home myself and see to it that this won’t happen again.’ When the crowd still seems wary, Qasim opens his wallet and starts handing out notes. ‘For your troubles, madam. Please, sir, this will pay for your car’s broken window.’
The crowd is pleased now: in their eyes, you have paid for the damage you caused and justice has been done. Qasim clasps your shoulder. Then he gets out his phone. Your heart stops. If he calls the number of the phone that’s attached to the bomb, it will explode and Aunty Rahama will be killed.
‘It’s all right,’ he tells you quietly in your ear. ‘Walk away with me now, and you will come to no harm.’
You could walk away with Qasim. He has helped you to get away from the angry crowd, and perhaps it’s safer to play along. Given that he could detonate the bomb at any moment, it seems unwise to enrage him, especially with the crowd on his side.
But you also know that Qasim is completely untrustworthy. You put your hand into your pocket and your fingers curl around a small weapon: Aunty Rahama’s pen. Instead of playing along, you could stab him with its sharp nib, make a grab for his phone, and run.
What should you do?
If you walk away with Qasim, go to scene 9.
If you try to fight Qasim, go to scene 8.
You whip the pen out of your pocket. You stab it, as hard and fast as you can, towards Qasim’s face, but he puts up his hand to block you. Your arms collide, and Qasim’s phone falls to the ground. You both make a grab for it – but as Qasim bends over, you shove him, hard, and he loses balance. He sprawls on the pavement, and you grab the phone, pen still in your other hand, and start running.
Three strong-looking bearded men in black run towards you.
‘He’s Rahama Daahir’s nephew!’ you hear Qasim shout to them. ‘He has the phone!’
You know that the men will do anything to get hold of Qasim’s phone, and quickly, so that they can still detonate the bomb. They’re not shooting just yet – probably because they don’t want to raise the alarm and have people start to evacuate the area – but they might fire at you at any moment.
You see a broken hole in the pavement. A deep pool of dark-brown sewage
