Your and Sampson’s eyes goggle.
‘Whoa,’ breathes Sampson. ‘That is much too much money for an orphanage to have.’
He’s right. The numbers have so many zeros in them that you can’t keep track, so you click ‘Display in US dollars’, and even then, it’s still in the millions. There is some serious money moving in and out of this account.
‘The orphans should all be driving Mercedes Benzes with that kind of money,’ Sampson says.
‘This is serious,’ you say. ‘This is proof of who they’re buying their weapons from, and who’s giving them funds.’ You look down the page. ‘By checking the dates and the places of each transaction, we can work out roughly where the leaders of Arsenal have been living and hiding all over Somalia!’
Sampson gasps. ‘I shouldn’t have done this,’ he mutters. ‘Quickly, log off!’
He closes the page, shuts down his computer, and looks about the room, terrified.
‘I should have thought of that!’ he wails. ‘When you log on to a bank account from an unknown computer, the bank immediately sends a message to the account holder saying there’s been a new log-in from an unknown source! What if Arsenal traces it back to me? They’ll come and kill me!’
You didn’t know that could happen. Jamilah gives a little whimper and squeezes Sampson tight. You try to think fast. You imagine that your brain is whirring and clunking just like Sampson’s computer.
‘Can you ask the police for protection?’ you say. ‘They’d be interested in knowing about Bright Dream.’
Sampson sighs and chews a fingernail. A customer comes into the shop, and he serves them.
‘The problem with going to the police,’ he says when he’s finished, ‘is that once they found out you are the source of the information about Bright Dream, they’d probably throw you out of the country. They’re supposed to let you stay if you apply for refugee status, but so many Somalis have fled here, and Kenyans think you’re all terrorists. The police are told to do something about “the Somali problem”, so they arrest random Somalis without visas and throw them back across the border. I wouldn’t like to see that happen to you.’
You sigh heavily. How can people here think all Somalis are terrorists, when most Somalis are fleeing terrorists?
Sampson has been so wonderful and generous. You had hoped that you could stay in the safety of his shop for longer. But the threat of al-Shabaab has followed you, even here. You wonder if you’ll ever truly feel safe and free again.
A flurry of customers come into the shop, and Sampson gets busy serving them while you and Jamilah get busy putting price tags on items and unpacking vegetables. By the afternoon, Sampson’s naturally affable and laid-back disposition has returned, and he no longer seems worried about the morning’s blunder.
‘Let’s wait and see, my darlings,’ says Sampson, opening a packet of Manji Ginger Snaps. ‘There’s no need to call the police – I’m sure things will work out fine. Mwanamaji akimbia wimbi? Will the sailor flee from the waves? You’re still safe here. Have a biscuit.’
Jamilah takes three and grins at Sampson.
She thinks anywhere there are biscuits is a good place to stay, you think ruefully.
You’re not so sure, though.
To insist that Sampson calls the police, turn to scene 15.
To wait and see what happens without calling the police, as Sampson suggests, turn to scene 16.
Why would this stranger believe your story about the pen? You decide to run. You grab Jamilah’s arm and jump up from the bench. The man steps into your path, but you push past him and begin to run through the park towards the street.
‘Hey,’ he shouts, ‘I’m not going to hurt you! Kids!’ People are turning to look as you race by. A middle-aged man in a suit makes a grab for you. You dodge him. A woman walking along the path with a little girl jumps out of your way, yanking the girl, who stumbles and begins to cry. You are attracting a commotion and you haven’t even been in the city for one whole morning.
You make it to the far side of the park and back onto the street and slow to a walk, trying to blend in.
But the lady with the little girl has followed you. She shouts something in Swahili: – ‘Mwizi! Mtoto ya nyoka ni nyoka,’ she spits. People look at you in disgust.
To your horror, you see a couple of policemen approach. The woman raises her arm, points straight at you and Jamilah, and shouts: ‘Mwizi!’
You sprint again, yanking Jamilah with you, but the footpath is too crowded, and the police catch you.
‘Somali?’ they ask, in English, pointing at you. You nod. ‘Identity card?’
You don’t have one. Of course not.
They search your pockets and find the pen. You try to explain, but they won’t believe it’s not stolen. They keep it and shove you into a van. Their job is to get Somali refugees without papers out of Nairobi.
You think of the Kenyan news headlines Aunty Rahama read to you over the last few months:
Kenya rocked by bombs in Nairobi terror attacks.
Somalis in Kenya find themselves under suspicion.
Kenya deports Somalis, arrests hundreds in crackdown after attacks.
These aren’t headlines anymore – they’re pieces of your story. As the van rumbles through the streets, you bang on the wall that separates you from the driver and shout: ‘You have to let us stay, please! We are running away from the terrorists. We’re even more afraid of them than you Kenyans are!’
As you and Jamilah are herded into Pangani Police Station, fingerprinted, and locked in a cell, none of the officials speak to you. Not with their voices. But their body language shouts: You’re scum. You’re weeds. Get out and never come back.
The only other person in your cell is a thin man
