‘Unroll these carpets,’ you hear a soldier’s voice command.
‘What, all of them?’ says the truck driver’s voice. He must be inside the truck too as he sounds close. ‘I can unroll one or two, sir, but to do them all would take—’
‘Shut up and do it or you’ll be arrested!’
You feel your carpet move as the driver grabs the carpet nearest to you. You hear a hiss as it is dragged from the van, and the flapping sound of it being unrolled. You can also hear your heart booming like a hip-hop anthem. You’re still trying desperately not to cough.
The truck driver speaks again, his voice low and persuasive this time: ‘Sir, I know that if I were to deliver this consignment on time, my customers would be so happy they would pay extra. Is there a way to fast-track this?’
He’s offering the soldier a bribe to let you through without unrolling any more carpets! It works. There is some muttering, the door slams shut, and you’re on your way again.
You whisper thanks to Allah under your breath: ‘Alhamd lilah!’
Two hours later, you almost wish that the soldiers would search the truck again just to give you some air. This metal box you’re in is now as hot as an oven. Jamilah’s head rolls around on her neck. Her eyes are glazed, and her lips form little raised squares of dry skin. Your own tongue feels like a bloated, dry sponge in your mouth. You give Jamilah sips of the water the driver gave you. It’s now as warm as a cup of tea.
Finally, after what feels like another two hours, the driver stops, in the middle of the desert. The air that rushes into the back when he opens the door is hot and dry, but at least it’s fresh. Relieved, you climb out into the searing afternoon sunlight. The road ripples like oil in a blue-hazed heat mirage. Enormous salt pans glitter, and sandy wind stings your skin. A tough, black thorn tree is the only sign of life.
The driver refills your water bottle from a blue plastic drum he keeps in the front of the truck.
‘Do a wee if you need to,’ he says gruffly, but you and Jamilah shake your heads – you’re both so dehydrated that you don’t need to. ‘We’ll stop for the night at Garissa. You two will need to stay in the truck.’
He gives you some water to wash yourselves before you all begin the Asr prayer. Your croaky voices reciting the words, and the buzzing of the flies seeking out moisture in the corners of your mouth and eyes, are the only sounds.
You set off again. The truck slowly cools as the sun gets lower. You eat some flatbread the driver gave you earlier for dinner, and slowly the cracks and pinpricks of light in the back of the truck dim to black.
You wake briefly when the truck comes to a standstill at Garissa and the driver takes his rest. In the morning the truck’s engine starts again, and by late afternoon you can hear the honking and hubbub of a big city.
The truck pulls to a stop and the driver opens the door and helps you and Jamilah out. Your legs feel shaky. The truck’s parked in a large vacant garage, which seems to be below ground. There is nobody else in sight.
‘We’re in Eastleigh, a suburb of Nairobi,’ the driver tells you. ‘This is where all the Somalis in Kenya live, except the ones in the camps.’
You have to pay the driver extra to cover the bribe he gave at the checkpoint, which leaves you with only two five-hundred-shilling notes left – enough for one or two days’ food. You feel sick handing over the money, but he saved your life, so you thank him. Then you walk up the garage’s steep entry ramp and out onto the street.
You hold hands with Jamilah as you walk along the sealed road, both of you wide-eyed. Mogadishu is a big city, but it’s nothing like modern, overdeveloped Nairobi. Skyscrapers tower above you. A rubbish truck with sweeper-brooms rumbles past, making you jump. A woman chatters in Swahili on a mobile phone, shopping bags over her arm, her hair exposed and shining in the afternoon light.
You lead Jamilah into a grocery shop. A bell beeps and cold air blasts your head as you walk through the door. When you try to buy two bananas, the shopkeeper points you to a money-changer down the road.
You swap your remaining thousand Somali shillings for three crisp Kenyan notes: a hundred, a fifty, and a twenty. You blink, hoping that these Kenyan shillings can buy much more than a Somali shilling does at home. The notes are brown, yellow and blue, with a bearded, baggy-eyed man printed on them.
You return to the grocery shop to buy the two bananas. The shopkeeper takes your twenty-shilling note, and he doesn’t give you any change.
You and Jamilah then wander down the street until you see a beautiful green park. Looking around tentatively, you find a bench and sit down to eat.
A Kenyan man in a suit walks past. A dog with a rope on its neck walks beside him, and you stare curiously. Won’t the dog bite him?
‘What are you looking at, refugee scum?’ the man mutters in English as he passes you. ‘Nick off back to Somalia, filthy kids.’ His dog snarls.
Jamilah tucks her feet up under her on the bench. You clench your jaw and squeeze her hand.
‘Don’t worry. Not everyone here will be like that,’ you say to her.
You need a plan for how to survive. Your money might be nearly gone, but Aunty Rahama also left you the pen. What if there’s some extra information on there that would help – like another copy of Aadan’s number in
