‘We’ll get him – you finish the job!’ you hear one of the men behind you shout.
You glance back and see Qasim peel off and begin to run away from you, towards the broadcast building. You duck and weave down the busy street, trying to shake off the three men still in hot pursuit. Every so often, you manage to glance behind you. An AMISOM soldier is running towards Qasim, and Qasim raises his gun, but he doesn’t shoot the soldier. Instead, he points his gun at the backpack by the rubbish bin. He shoots the bomb.
A fountain of fire shoots upwards. The noise seems to rip the world in two.
Rahama.
An invisible wave of pressure slams your body and knocks you off your feet. There is a deafening crunch as the broadcast building collapses behind you. Smoke, ash and debris are falling all over the street, and the air is filled with screams. You struggle to your knees, then a piece of flying rubble hits the side of your head and you black out.
You wake up some hours later, as the sun is setting. AMISOM soldiers are pulling the debris away from around you.
‘This kid’s alive!’ you hear one of them shout.
You sit up and brush off the dust and ash. Your whole body feels unsteady, as if there’s a pile of scrambled eggs where your guts should be, but you’re otherwise not badly hurt.
‘Rahama?’ you croak. ‘She was in the broadcast building …’
Your rescuers’ faces look grim.
‘You’re the only person we’ve found alive so far, this close to the blast,’ one of them says, shaking his head sadly.
You manage to climb to your feet.
‘Where are you going?’ cries the soldier. ‘Wait here and we’ll take you to hospital!’
But you have to get back to Jamilah as soon as possible. You stumble away from the chaos, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You make it along street after street as night falls. When you see your street, relief washes over you. Safe at last.
Except, you realise suddenly, home isn’t safe any longer. You still have a copy of the story that al-Shabaab killed Aunty Rahama for, hidden in your pocket. You were found at the bombsite trying to raise a distraction to foil their plans. You threw the detonator into the sewer, and that forced Qasim to shoot the bomb, which probably killed him, so you are partly responsible for Qasim’s death now, too.
The men who were pursuing you knew you were Rahama’s nephew – and even if they were killed, there’s a good chance that more of them know where you live. You can only hope and pray that you get to Jamilah before they do.
To read a fact file on religious extremism click here, then go to scene 10 to continue with the story.
To continue with the story now, go to scene 10
You let Aunty Rahama’s pen fall back into your pocket. You walk away from the crowd, Qasim’s hand firmly on your shoulder.
‘Um … thank you, Qasim,’ you say, acting like this is just a normal situation and you don’t know anything about the bomb. ‘I, uh, promise I won’t get up to any more mischief …’
‘That’s right. You won’t.’ Qasim’s voice is as hard as his hand. He is steering you towards the broadcast building. You are still a safe distance away from it, but you are facing it now.
Qasim moves his grip from your shoulder down to your hand. ‘I want you to see what happens to those who ignore Allah’s law; who disrespect al-Shabaab.’
With his free hand, he holds the phone in front of you. You see a number on the screen. With his other hand, the one holding yours, he forces your finger towards the green ‘call’ button.
‘Call this number,’ Qasim says. ‘Call it, and you will see what we are capable of.’
‘Go to hell!’ you shout, and with all your strength you try to wrestle away from him. But Qasim is much stronger than you are; he won’t release your hand. You panic.
‘Bomb! Bomb!’ you start screaming. ‘There’s a bomb in the broadcast building! He’s trying to make me blow it up! Bomb!’
Qasim’s eyes light up with fury. You manage to snatch the phone from his other hand, and you smash it against the ground with all your might. Qasim growls like an enraged dog and grabs you around your neck. You feel his fingers pressing into your throat.
‘That was a stupid thing you just did,’ he hisses.
Another bearded man in black – an al-Shabaab militant – appears at Qasim’s side. ‘People are starting to notice!’ he snaps. ‘Why haven’t you detonated it?’
Qasim stiffens to attention. This man seems to be his superior. ‘This boy just destroyed the detonator,’ he mumbles, nodding towards the broken phone at your feet, and for a hopeful moment you think you’ve foiled their plan.
But the other man presses a gun into Qasim’s hand. ‘Then go and finish it yourself,’ he barks. ‘I’ll take care of the boy!’
Qasim runs towards the broadcast building with the gun in his hand. You break free of the other man’s grip and start sprinting after him, shouting, ‘Stop that man! There’s a bomb!’
People are screaming and running away now. Qasim glances back at you and raises his gun.
You think, Allah, please, help me.
But instead of shooting you, Qasim turns again, points his gun at the black backpack … and shoots the bomb.
You are hurtling through the air. There is no up or down anymore, only the blast, and you are inside it. The noise rips through you. You are caught in a cartwheel of debris and death.
Time slows, and though even the air itself seems to be on fire, a calm and thoughtful voice in your head simply says: So, this is how I die.
A huge piece of concrete topples from the
