‘Uh … about as big as me and my sister,’ you reply. You take nearly all the notes from your pocket.
The man narrows his eyes and looks you up and down. He knows what you’re really asking. ‘Can you keep her quiet at the checkpoints?’ he asks, nodding to Jamilah.
‘I’m not stupid – I’ll stay quiet,’ she says defiantly.
‘Huh,’ says the man drily. ‘Not stupid, eh? You could have fooled me. Look, it’s not up to me to ask why you’re doing this, but just know that if you get caught by soldiers or the police without identity papers, they can throw you straight back across the border. Happens to Somalis all the time. Half my business comes from taking them back there again. I’ll do it, though.’
After the man has loaded his truck, he pushes you and Jamilah into a hiding place at the back of his truck among the dozens of rolls of carpet. As the door slams shut and the engine starts to rumble, Jamilah begins to cry.
‘I don’t like that man,’ she whimpers. ‘It was a bad idea to go with him. I think we should stay here in Somalia.’
‘Shoosh, Jamilah,’ you whisper.
The man’s warning words are echoing in your head, but you choose to ignore them, telling yourself: We’ll figure it out when we get there.
‘If you’re quiet, I’ll let you see Aunty Rahama’s story pen.’
‘What do you mean, story pen?’ asks Jamilah.
You and Rahama have always told stories to Jamilah before bed every night. Now you need a story to make Jamilah feel safe and brave. You take Aunty Rahama’s pen from your pocket. The ruby twinkles in the dim light.
‘You saw her give this to us after school,’ you say, showing it to her. She nods, her eyes bright with wonder. ‘It’s a story pen – and story pens are magical. They don’t need ink, because they run on love and laughter. When someone holds a story pen in their hands, they will think of a wonderful tale, and everyone else will listen. Are you ready for a story? All this carpet is reminding me of something that once happened to Igal Shidal.’
Jamilah chuckles. ‘Igal Shidal is always so silly!’ she says. ‘I like those stories.’
‘Well, you’ll love this one,’ you say. You feel warmth returning to your voice, as if Aunty Rahama were sitting right beside you with her arm around you.
It’s dim and stuffy in the back of the truck. The engine rumbles and the truck sways as it makes its way through the morning traffic.
Goodbye, Mogadishu, you think to yourself. You don’t know if you’ll ever see your home city again.
You swallow the lump in your throat and say to Jamilah, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time some bad men came after Igal Shidal? They wanted to kill him.’
‘That doesn’t sound funny,’ says Jamilah worriedly.
‘But Igal Shidal had a plan. He called his wife – he was always so bossy to his wife. He said, “Hey, wife! The bad men are coming! Hurry up! I’m going to pretend I’m already dead. Get a carpet and roll me up in it!”
‘So his wife got a carpet and rolled up Igal Shidal. “Now drag me out onto the porch!” came his voice from inside the carpet. “Quickly, before they get here. Oh, you’re so slow, woman!”
‘Igal Shidal’s wife dragged him out onto the porch all rolled up in his carpet. “I can hear them coming!” she whispered. “The bad men are on their way to this house! What shall I do?”
‘“Get down on your knees, silly wife, and cry over the carpet, and say, Oh, my poor husband Igal Shidal is dead! They will believe you and leave us alone,” he commanded.
‘“Waah! Waah! Oh, my poor husband!” she cried. The men were approaching the house.
‘“Cry louder!” said Igal Shidal from inside the carpet. “Is that all the crying you would do if I were really dead?” You see, he couldn’t stop bossing his wife around even when he was pretending to be dead.
‘The men came up the steps. The wife was wailing. Igal Shidal was all rolled up in the carpet.
‘“Is your husband dead?” asked one of the men.
‘“Yes, my poor husband, waah!”
‘The man was suspicious. “Really? When did he die?”
‘Then came Igal Shidal’s voice, loud and clear from inside the carpet: “Say he died yesterday!”
‘“He, um, he died yesterday,” said the obedient wife, but too late, because everyone had heard Igal Shidal’s voice from inside the carpet!
‘The bad men unrolled him, and they said, “This man is pathetic. He is such a coward he pretended to be dead rather than face us, and he couldn’t even pretend to be dead properly. Such an idiot is no threat to us! Let him live here with the women and children.” And the bad men went on their way!’
Jamilah nuzzles into your arm as the truck sways along. ‘Tell them I died yesterday!’ she chuckles quietly.
After a while, the sounds of the city die away, and the back of the van begins to heat up in the desert sun. The warmth, the darkness and the swaying soothe you both to sleep.
YOU WAKE A couple of hours later when the truck lurches to a sudden stop. You hear men’s voices.
‘Get down,’ you say to Jamilah. ‘This is a checkpoint, and Kenyan soldiers might want to check the truck. Get under the carpet and don’t make a sound.’
‘Not like Igal Shidal,’ Jamilah whispers, and despite the horrible situation you’re in, a tiny smile crosses your lips.
You wriggle down just in time: with a rolling, metallic roar, the back of the truck is opened, and light floods in.
You feel the truck bounce as the soldiers jump up into it to search it, and then: Thump. Thump. They are hitting and kicking at the carpets, and getting closer and closer to where you are lying!
One of them kicks the carpet you’re under. The carpet muffles the blow, so it doesn’t hurt, but you
