‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispers Jamilah. ‘He’s scary.’
He hears her, and his eyes snap upwards and lock onto you. ‘They tattooed me,’ he says in Somali. ‘See, here on my skin, these words.’
You look at the man’s skin, but there’s nothing there, only a bruise where he’s been rubbing.
The hairs stand up on the back of your neck. You don’t want to talk to him, but your curiosity wins out. ‘What do the words say?’ you ask him.
‘Terrorist,’ he spits. ‘Vermin, parasite, illegal. Somali scum.’ You shudder. ‘They’ll put them on you too,’ he mutters. ‘They will.’
You know that, although the man is deluded, those words are yours and Jamilah’s now too. You belong nowhere: not here in Kenya, and not home in Somalia, where al-Shabaab wants you dead. There is no space between the borders where a pair of unwanted kids might rest.
To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 12.
‘No, Sampson, you need to call the police,’ you insist. ‘Trust me – Arsenal are and deadly. You really might be in danger. And besides, if the police take us seriously, they might be able to make use of this information and do something about shutting down Bright Dream and al-Shabaab.’
Sampson tries to persuade you and Jamilah to hide from the police. He wants to concoct a story about how a customer left the pen in his shop, but there would be too many holes in his story.
‘How will you explain how you worked out what the internet banking password was?’ you ask him.
Besides, you want to talk to the police yourself. You’ve gone through a lot of danger to bring this information out of Somalia, and you want to make sure that they take it seriously. You just hope they won’t throw you and Jamilah out of the country.
The two police officers who come to the shop look stern and sceptical in their blue uniforms. There’s a small, wiry man and a woman with hair that looks as tough and tightly curled as a pot-scourer. Luckily they speak English.
‘We’ll have to take this pen into the office to investigate its contents,’ Pot-Scourer says once you’ve finished telling them your story. ‘Are you sure you don’t know how to get into the password-protected file?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ you say, ‘but I’m afraid you can’t have the pen.’
Sampson persuades them to copy its contents onto a second memory stick he has spare. The police agree, and they also make assurances that they will give Sampson’s shop extra surveillance in case al-Shabaab tracks him down from the banking log-in.
‘For the children’s safety, it would be best if we send them to Dadaab,’ says the wiry man to Sampson. ‘Just in case al-Shabaab have tracked them this far. They can apply for refugee status with the UNHCR there.’
You’ve heard of Dadaab. It’s a Kenyan refugee camp close to the Somali–Kenya border. It’s in the middle of the desert – the last resort for thousands of people for whom the only other choice was death. If you can’t stay in Nairobi, then Dadaab would be better than being sent home. You’re just not sure how much better.
Sampson begs the police to treat you well, as they begin to lead you and Jamilah away. He follows you out the door, filling both your pockets with biscuits and drinks for the trip to Dadaab.
He kisses your forehead, then Jamilah’s. She is crying. You are trying not to.
‘Good luck, children,’ he says as you’re dragged out the door. ‘Anipa mungu kwa kadiri yangu: God gives you a load to carry to the extent of your strength. I know you will be strong enough for whatever may come next.’
‘I love you, Uncle Sammy!’ Jamilah hiccups. You see the police officers exchange a soft look with each other.
‘All right,’ Wiry Guy says, clearing his throat. ‘There’s a ride to Dadaab that leaves every few hours from the market. You can stay the night at the police station, and we’ll put you on that first thing tomorrow. Now let’s get you out of here.’
To read a fact file on refugees and asylum seekers click here, then go to scene 17 to continue with the story.
To continue with the story now, go to scene 17.
It’s just so tempting to believe that Sampson is right: that al-Shabaab won’t find you here; that they won’t be able to trace the glimpse you got of their bank account. Sampson’s big belly puts you in mind of a bear – a relaxed, protective uncle bear. You want to believe that no harm could come to you in this safe country, Kenya, in this brightly lit shop filled with good things to eat, under the friendly gaze of Sampson. You agree not to call the police.
You go on with your day. Jamilah has a little nap behind the counter. You fill in an order form for next week’s supplies, under Sampson’s guidance. A group of women come into the shop looking for henna to dye their palms for a wedding ceremony, and Sampson is busily helping them when two men come in too, their faces wrapped in chequered scarves, reflective sunglasses covering their eyes. One of them raises a gun.
The customers squeal and run out. You see Jamilah wake with a start and hide in a cupboard under the counter, and you duck and squeeze into a tiny gap between the wall and the refrigerator.
Sampson rushes to confront the men.
‘Tell us why you logged in to Bright Dream’s bank account,’ snarls one of the men in Somali.
‘What’s Bright Dream?’ asks Sampson. ‘I never log in to any bank account but my own!’
‘This computer was reported to have been used to access our bank account,’ growls the other man,
