‘Of course not,’ replies Sampson, ‘but it could have been any of my customers. As well as being a shop, I’m something of an internet cafe. My customers often log on here to use email, YouTube, Facebook—’
‘We get the picture,’ snaps the first man. ‘You should pay more attention to who is using your computer. Who was on it at six o’clock this morning?’
‘I have no idea,’ says Sampson firmly. ‘Now please leave my shop.’
The man with the gun raises it, and you stuff your fist into your mouth to stop yourself from screaming. But instead of shooting Sampson, he shoots his computer. Shards of glass explode everywhere, and the monitor catches fire with a crackling sound.
The man shoots the computer again. Pieces of metal fly through the air, and the bullet embeds itself in the wall behind it with a dull crack.
The men leave the shop without another word. They shoot the glass doors as they go, sending a tinkling cascade of glass to the floor.
Sampson puts out the fire with a blanket. ‘Are you okay, children?’ he calls.
‘Yes!’ you shout back.
You squeeze out of the gap you were hiding in and run for Jamilah’s cupboard. You help her out and she huddles in a corner behind the counter, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth.
‘Jamilah?’ you ask, cupping her chin in your hand. She won’t look at you. ‘It’s okay. They’ve gone.’
Still she won’t talk. She just carries on rocking and staring blankly ahead. Tears are running down her face.
How much can we take? you wonder. How many times can our safety be broken before we never feel safe again?
You made a promise to Rahama to protect your little sister, but how? Nowhere seems safe now.
You don’t know what else to do, so you begin sweeping up the glass from the doors to help Sampson.
A small crowd has gathered outside, gossiping and pointing. ‘I’ve called the police!’ someone shouts.
You turn to Sampson. ‘I’m so sorry,’ you say. ‘I had no idea they could track us down here.’
‘I know,’ he replies and sighs. His voice is kind but weary. ‘It sounds like the police are on their way. Don’t worry about my shop – I’ll find a way to pay for it. But the police can’t find you here. They could throw you out of the country. I’ve been thinking,’ he goes on, ‘that perhaps the best place for you is Dadaab.’
‘The refugee camp near the border?’ you ask in a small voice.
‘They have schools there,’ Sampson says, ‘and aid organisations that can look after unaccompanied children. You can get protection and an education.’
You hear a police siren approaching. It looks like you don’t have much choice. Sampson quickly opens the till and gives you a wad of notes.
‘Trucks leave the central marketplace for Dadaab a few times every day,’ he tells you in a rushed voice. ‘Take the 407 bus from out the front, it goes straight there. Use this money for the truck fare. Safe travels, my dears. I’m so sorry I can’t do more.’
You go to grab Jamilah from her hiding place, but she suddenly rushes past you and squeezes Sampson’s legs so tightly that he has to put a hand on a shelf to keep his balance.
‘I love you, Uncle Sammy,’ she sobs.
Sampson’s eyes are full of tears too. He starts stuffing your and Jamilah’s pockets full of drinks and snacks for the trip. You check that Rahama’s pen is also still in your pocket – it is.
You manage to dash out the door before the police arrive, but by the time you reach the marketplace, the last bus for Dadaab has already left. You spend the night in the deserted marketplace, waiting for the dawn.
To read a fact file about 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.
The next morning, you get a ride to Dadaab in the open bed of a truck, with about sixty other Somalis, but no other kids. You all jam in together. A couple of elderly people sit down, but everyone else has to stand.
At first, you concentrate on getting Jamilah to look around at the city, then the countryside, trying to distract her from her tears. You encourage her to eat some of Sampson’s snacks. Eventually, though, all your energy ebbs away and you just concentrate on keeping you both upright in the crowd, despite your aching legs and the sand stinging your face.
You’re in the middle of the desert now. The truck doesn’t stop for anything – the driver doesn’t care if his passengers need to pee or stretch their legs. He might not even notice or care if one of you falls off, condemning you to a slow, dry death in the desert. The crowd tightens like one single creature sucking itself in whenever the truck hits a pothole and lurches.
It is both a relief and a disappointment to see the outlines of Dadaab refugee camp in the distance. By this time the sun is low in the sky, and the smoke from cooking fires and the dust around the camp envelop it in an amber cloud.
You’re reminded of the little pretend towns you and Jamilah used to make in the dirt: clods of earth for the homes; thorns stuck in the ground for fences; and little twigs for people, wearing clothes of dried leaves.
But then you get closer and see the mind-boggling size of the place. Greyish-white dome tents are dotted over the red sand as far as the eye can see. The truck rumbles deeper into the camp. It goes on forever.
There are mothers with clinging babies stoking fires, and boys playing soccer with a paper-and-string ball like you and your schoolfriends used to make in Mogadishu. Ragged
