Rahama’s golden pen melts in the fire, taking her story with it – now just another mystery held in Allah’s unknowable hand.
To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 7.
You creep down the alleyway to the back door of your home. You can hear a whimpering, like the sound of a puppy who’s been left alone in the dark. You open the door a crack and the whimpering stops. You can’t push the door open any further, because someone is huddled against it, trying to keep it closed.
‘Jamilah,’ you call softly, ‘it’s okay. It’s me. Let me in.’
The door swings open and Jamilah gives in to sobs. ‘I hate you!’ she shouts. ‘I hate you!’ But she’s clinging to you like she’s drowning.
‘It’s okay. I’m sorry you were all alone …’
‘I heard a bomb!’ She hiccups. Her shoulders are shaking. ‘And then you didn’t come back, for hours and hours. Where were you?’
You take in a sharp breath. This quivering, messy, terrified child is yours now. Nobody else is going to protect her, or explain to her what’s happened. Whether she lives or dies could well come down to the choices you will make in the days and weeks to come.
Now you know how Aunty Rahama must have felt, when she was left to raise you both after al-Shabaab laid siege to the marketplace where your hooyo and aabe worked and they were killed. You want someone bigger and wiser than you, showing the way. But you’re it.
There’s a note, you remember. She said to look under her pillow. She said it will explain everything.
‘Where’s Aunty Rahama?’ Jamilah asks you. ‘Where is she?’
You can’t answer her – not yet. You pull Jamilah down to sit with you on Rahama’s bed, keeping her close with one arm while reaching for Rahama’s pillow with the other. It still smells like her. You blink away hot tears.
Under Rahama’s pillow, your fingers find a piece of folded paper. You can only pray that this letter will hold a clue as to what you should do next. You don’t want Jamilah to see how scared you are.
As you unfold the letter, a wad of banknotes falls out, and you quickly stash it in your pocket with the pen. You breathe a sigh of gratitude. Now at least you’ll have a little cash to help you.
To my favourite nephew (all right, you’re my only nephew),
When I was little, I found an ants’ nest in the corner of our food cupboard. I poked it with a stick, and the ants came for me. I squashed as many as I could, but there were too many, and I was badly bitten. Writing reports exposing the truth about al-Shabaab has had the same effect.
If you’re reading this, it probably means that al-Shabaab has finally caught up with me. But please try not to be sad. Instead, be fast, be smart, be brave. When your mum and dad were killed and you came to me, I was only two years older than you are now. I know you can do everything I did, and more.
Keep out of al-Shabaab’s way. They don’t know that you and Jamilah exist, or about the pen and what it contains.
That pen is my sword! It was a gift from a man I love, an Australian–Somali called Aadan Williams. I’m sorry I haven’t told you about him sooner – he lives in Melbourne, Australia, and I’ve been looking for a way for us to move there too, but it was too early to get your hopes up. He is a journalist like me, so he understands why I’ve risked my life for the truth.
If something bad does happen to me, I want you to call Aadan on the Australian number on the back of this letter. Tell him what’s happened, and he should be able to help you.
This pen really means so much to me. In the darkest of times, it’s given me hope that freedom does exist.
Now I pass it on to you, because there is no one else I know in the world with such an enquiring mind and fearless heart. You are a special boy. I haven’t managed yet to work out what Cross the river on the banner of the eagle means, or to find out anything more about Bright Dream. Take this pen, and with Aadan’s help, finish what I couldn’t.
I love you. Look after Jamilah for me, and tell her I love her too.
Aunty Rahama
Through your tears, you flip the letter over and see Aadan’s phone number on the back. You hope fervently that Aunty Rahama was right – that Aadan will be able to help you. The money now in your pocket won’t last you more than a few weeks.
Rahama was wrong about one thing, though: al-Shabaab certainly do know that you and Jamilah exist, probably thanks to Qasim – and they’re likely coming to find you right now.
Jamilah is shaking, still clinging to you. Her hair is damp with sweat.
‘I don’t want you to leave me alone ever again,’ she says accusingly. ‘We have to stay here together and wait for Aunty Rahama to come home.’
She has no idea how much danger you’re truly in. And she’s so frightened and so young. How can you make her understand? How can you tell her that Rahama is dead?
You take a deep, shaky breath. ‘Jamilah,’ you say, stroking her damp hair, ‘Aunty Rahama’s not coming home. I’m so sorry.’
‘No,’ says Jamilah, starting to cry. ‘You’re lying!’
You cup her chin in your hand and make her look at you. ‘I know you don’t want to believe me, but it’s true,’ you insist. ‘The bad guys from Arsenal found her, and we have to go, before they come and find us too.’
Jamilah buries her
