You gasp – there are three files on the memory stick! The first is, indeed, a sound recording of the interview with Zayd.
‘Let’s hear it!’ Sampson cries. You’re dying to find out what’s in the other two files, but you want to be obliging to your host.
You, Jamilah and Sampson listen to the interview together. Hearing it all again takes you right back to the lime lady’s ruin: the terror of hiding in that hole and hearing al-Shabaab drag Zayd away. Listening to Rahama’s voice again is bittersweet. At the end of the interview, you wipe hot tears from your eyes. Jamilah lets out a loud sob, and you hug her close.
‘Phew,’ says Sampson. ‘Now I know why Arsenal came after you. Your aunty was going to broadcast that? She’s a hero.’
The second file is titled ‘Bright Dream’. It’s an email from Aadan to Aunty Rahama.
From: [email protected]
Dearest Rahama,
I’ve started to look into Bright Dream (www.brightdream.org.sm). On the surface, they look like a regular orphanage, raising funds for kids of war.
If they’re doing something dodgy, it should show up in their bank account transaction history. Their donations form lists an account with Nile Bank, number 1793 2026. I haven’t been able to guess their password, though.
Rahama, I’m so proud of what you’re doing, and I know how much you care about your work, but it feels more and more urgent to me that you get out of Somalia. How is your visa application going? I dream of the day you and the kids will be here living in Australia with me.
All my love,
Aadan
The third file is a Word document called ‘My Story’. But when you try to open it, a notice comes up: ‘This file is password protected. Please enter your password.’
Why would Rahama have left a password-protected document on this pen and not told you what the password is? Did she expect you to guess? You try a few different words and names, but nothing unlocks the document.
My Story, you think. Whose story is on there? What does it mean? You sigh.
‘What are you sighing for, boy?’ asks Sampson. ‘You have the email address of your aunty’s boyfriend in Australia now. You can contact him that way.’
He’s right! You were so busy reading the body of the email that you failed to notice Aadan’s email address there at the top!
‘Can you help me send an email?’ you ask.
‘Leave it to me,’ says Sampson. ‘We can use my email account. I can write tonight to tell him where you are, and let him know what’s happened. You can use my phone to call him as soon as he replies to the email. Now, let’s get you comfy for the night.’
Sampson makes a bed of blankets at the back of the shop for you both. ‘I’m sorry I can’t take you home,’ he apologises. ‘We have my wife’s whole family visiting in our tiny apartment at the moment – you couldn’t squeeze a mouse in there! I wish I could show you more hospitality. There’s a saying in Swahili: Kwenye ng’ombe kuna pembe –where there are cows, there are horns. You take the good with the bad, hey?’
Once Sampson has left and you’ve completed your Isha’a prayer, Jamilah falls asleep straight away, but you lie awake listening to the hum of the shop’s refrigerator and the rumble of passing cars. You hope that Aadan will reply soon with a number you can call him on. What could be hidden on the password-protected document? And how can you find out more about Bright Dream if you can’t log in to their bank account?
Just as you’re starting to drift off, two pieces of the puzzle click into place. Bright Dream’s account is with Nile Bank – and the Nile is the most famous river in Africa. Zayd said: Cross the river on the banner of the eagle. What if ‘the river’ is Nile Bank? What if ‘banner of the eagle’, or something like it, is Bright Dream’s internet banking password?
‘Cross the river on the banner of the eagle,’ you say eagerly to Sampson the next morning as soon as he walks in the door, then you explain your thinking.
Together, you, Sampson and Jamilah go to the Nile Bank log-in page online and try ‘banneroftheeagle’ as the password. No luck.
And there’s been no email reply from Aadan yet – no luck there either.
‘What is the banner of the eagle, anyway?’ asks Sampson. He types the words into Google. His computer hums and whirrs again, then an image comes up in the search results.
Sampson gasps. ‘The terrorist flag!’
You recognise the flag, but you never knew it was called ‘the banner of the eagle’. It’s a black flag covered in white Arabic calligraphy.
‘It’s not a terrorist flag – it’s an old Muslim flag,’ you say. ‘It’s been around for ages. It doesn’t belong to Arsenal, but they’ve taken it and twisted it for their own use … just like everything else.’
‘What does the writing on it say?’ asks Sampson.
‘It says: “There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his messenger.” It’s the Shahada – the Muslim declaration of faith.’
For a moment, you forget about the search for the password as you think of your mosque. These words – the Kalima Shahada – are written on the inside walls in beautiful calligraphy. As you close your eyes, you can almost smell the sweet, earthy smoke of the uunsi incense they burn there. You remember the voice of your imam, and your heart aches as you wonder if you’ll ever find another mosque anywhere in the world just like it.
Sampson interrupts your thoughts. ‘What if the password is “Shahada”?’ he suggests.
‘I don’t think so,’ you say. ‘It would be too obvious – only someone pretty stupid would pick that.’
‘Or someone who thinks they’ll never be caught,’ says Jamilah.
She has a point. You type in Shahada, and
