You take the pen out of your pocket and unscrew it to examine the memory stick hidden inside. You could break the memory stick out of the pen and sell the rest, but it’s too beautiful, it meant too much to Aunty Rahama, and you wouldn’t want to risk breaking the memory stick itself. The pen’s ruby glints in the sunlight.
You still haven’t told Jamilah everything – not about the interview with Zayd, or what really happened after Aunty Rahama gave you the pen, while Jamilah was waiting at home scared out of her wits. But she’s been so brave on this trip, and you’re in this together now. You decide she’s old enough to know the truth. But before you can begin—
‘Hey,’ says another man walking by, ‘what’s that you have?’ He’s speaking Somali, but with a strange accent. He has a pot belly and is wearing a white shirt with lots of chest hair poking out of its neck.
‘Nothing,’ you reply quickly, but he comes closer, suspicious.
You quickly slip the pen away into your pocket, cursing yourself for having brought it out in public.
‘That looked like a valuable pen,’ says the man. ‘Since when do young kids have something like that?’
‘He thinks we stole it!’ whispers Jamilah urgently.
The man is right on top of you now. ‘Give it to me!’ he demands. ‘We need to hand that over to the police. Come on, now.’
‘This is our pen! Go away!’ shouts Jamilah, and then, to your horror, she pulls a horrible face at the man.
You slap Jamilah’s knee and shoosh her. You know from the truck driver that if you get into any sort of trouble in Kenya, you could be thrown out of the country by the police for having no identity papers.
You glance around. You and Jamilah can probably run faster than this overweight man, so if you start running now maybe you’ll have a good chance of getting away.
On the other hand, if you tell him the truth about why you have the pen, he might just believe you – though it is an incredible story.
What will you do?
If you run away from the man, go to scene 14.
If you tell the man your story, go to scene 13.
To read a fact file on crossing borders ‘illegally’ click here, then return to this page to make your choice.
You take a deep breath and prepare to tell the man your story. But to your amazement, he starts laughing at Jamilah.
‘That face!’ he chuckles. ‘Goodness me, child, that was uglier than a monkey’s butt!’
You laugh too. ‘I’m sorry about my little sister,’ you apologise. ‘She can be very … naughty.’
‘That’s all right,’ says the man. ‘So, you say it’s your pen, huh? I find that hard to believe. Why are you sitting on a park bench looking like a pair of unwashed monkeys if you have something as valuable as that in your possession?’
You like this man straight away. He tells you his name is Sampson. His fat belly shakes when he laughs – and he laughs a lot.
Your story pours out of you: how you came to have the pen; how you came to Kenya. What happened to Aunty Rahama. Jamilah listens wide-eyed, adding in the bits she knows. It’s such a relief to have a kind adult to speak to.
When you’re done, Sampson says: ‘Come and walk with me. I have a shop with better food than those overpriced bananas.’
Sampson’s shop is at the base of a tall apartment block.
‘It’s all Somalis living here,’ he tells you, gesturing to the enormous building. ‘I was raised a Christian, then I fell in love with my wife, a Somali Muslim, so now do you know what I call myself? I’m a Chris–Mus!’
You want to tell Sampson that’s not right, that he can’t be both at once, but he is laughing too hard at his own joke for you to speak over the top of him.
‘Chris–Mus, get it? Like the holiday!’ He wipes away tears as he takes out his key, removes the ‘Back in 5 minutes’ sign from the door, and leads you inside his shop.
You look around. There are bags of rice, and boxes of biscuits, tuna and hot sauce. There’s a yellow desk with posters stuck to the front of it advertising international calling cards, and on top of the desk, next to the register, is a large grey computer.
You have a bold idea. ‘Mr Sampson, sir?’ you ask.
‘Just Sampson is fine, my dear boy.’
‘My sister and I used to live behind a grocery shop in Mogadishu, and we’re used to helping out. We would be happy to sweep your floors and unpack your boxes, or anything you’d like, if …’
‘Come on, out with it! You want a place to stay? No worries! Just ask!’
You gulp. Sampson’s generosity is amazing. ‘Actually, I wanted to know if we could use your computer, to read what’s on the pen’s memory stick.’
‘And we want a place to stay, too!’ cries Jamilah joyfully.
You pinch her. In your culture, it’s more polite to refuse at first, so as not to seem overeager or greedy. But Sampson just laughs.
‘All right, my little flower. Just don’t pull that monkey-butt face at me again, okay? Aiieee! I thought my face would crack off just from looking at it!’
He grabs his face in mock pain. Jamilah laughs until she is gasping for breath. Her laughter is the best sound in the world.
For the last few hours of the day, you and Jamilah work hard in Sampson’s busy shop. You want to prove that you are worthy of the trust he’s put in you.
That evening, after all the customers have left, Sampson locks the door and flips the ‘Open’ sign over to ‘Closed’, and you plug the pen into his computer. Sampson and Jamilah crowd around you.
The computer whirs, clunks and hums. Your fingernails are digging into your palms.
Please let Aadan’s
