Wasn’t every great tree that the wind blows
Once a tiny seed?
To read an interview with Hani Abdile, the young Somali woman who really wrote this poem, click here.
To read a fact file on bottle-lights and other great inventions, and find out who really invented the plastic bottle-light, click here.
To continue with the story, go to scene 18.
The next morning, you leave for school in high spirits, knowing that by the afternoon, you’ll at least be talking to Sampson, if not Aadan in Australia too.
Because Jamilah is young, she finishes school before you do, so you’ve told her you’ll meet her back at the tent that afternoon, then you’ll go together to make the call.
You’re tempted to skip school and call right now, but you promised Jok you wouldn’t skip class for any reason. You and Jamilah feel like part of his family now, so you take that promise seriously. Jok and Adut had their own children, six of them, but they were all out collecting water when Sudanese terrorists – the Janjaweed – rode into their village and torched it. Adut and Jok had no choice but to run, and they never saw their children again. They don’t know if they are dead or alive.
Unfortunately, not everyone thinks as highly of Jok as you do: his one hand, his distinctive looks, his job picking up rubbish, and his Sudanese background in a mainly Somali camp have all marked him as an outsider.
There’s a group of four boys in your class, the rudest and cockiest ones, who think they’re better than everyone else, because they were born here in Dadaab. They have noticed your friendship with Jok, and they tease you for it, calling him One-hand Jok and you Jok’s Other Hand, or just Stink Boy. They hold their noses when you enter the room, and pick on you any chance they get.
Today, you’re dismayed to see when you arrive that the only spot left to sit on the concrete floor is right next to them. The tallest boy, Yasir, tries to trip you as you walk past him, and the others snigger.
As the lesson begins, Dayib, who always wears a yellow baseball hat that says ‘Michigan General Motors’ on it, drops a note in your lap. It has a poem scrawled on it.
One-hand Jok, One-hand Jok,
smells like the rubbish that’s in his sack.
One-hand Jok, One-hand Jok,
ugliest of ugly and blackest of the black.
Jok’s Other Hand also smells like poo.
We guess his mummy must have crapped him out, too.
You hate how these boys are racist towards Jok like that. But if they want you to get upset at a stupid prejudiced poem about poo, of all things, they have another think coming.
‘At least call it by its real name,’ you whisper, and you cross out ‘poo’ and scribble a really foul Somali swearword for diarrhoea over the top. After all you’ve been through, it’s not like you’re going to fall apart and cry over a rude poem.
But it gets worse. The teacher sees you pass the note and gives both you and General Motors a strong smack across the palm with a bamboo cane, in front of the whole class. The humiliation hurts more than the cane.
The four boys corner you after class that day, just as you’re in a desperate rush to get away and make the phone call.
‘Did you leave Somalia because of the famine, Stink Boy? No wonder you’ve got legs like sticks and your brain rattles around in your head!’
‘Is that why you walk around picking up rubbish? You think it will be good to eat? Num num num!’
‘Here, eat this, Stink Boy!’ A shower of pebbles and dirt patters over you.
‘Eat this!’ A larger stone strikes your shin.
Their nasty taunts make you ball up your fists, and a fire is growing in your belly – you want to crush them like bugs! But you really can’t afford to be held up today.
Then you remember you have a pocketful of the coins you’ve been saving for the phone calls. Instead of fighting them, you could throw one on the ground – they would all dive for it, and you could get away. But that would leave you short for the calls …
To fight the gang, go to scene 19.
To try to distract the boys with money, go to scene 22.
The sparks in your belly are leaping higher and higher, now fuelled by a bonfire of rage. You won’t risk your hard-earned money. You’re ready for a fight. But you have something to say first.
‘You think you’re better than me somehow because you were born here?’ you shout. ‘Think that makes you special? Big deal! It doesn’t!’
‘Shut up, Stink Boy,’ sneers Yasir. ‘You have nothing. No family, no girlfriend, no future.’
You don’t let it show, but the taunt about your family cuts you inside. The loss of Aunty Rahama is still a raw, aching hole that never goes away. Then you think of Jamilah, and a fierce, protective love burns even brighter than the fire inside you.
‘I have more than you could ever dream of! I have my sister, and we’re going to Australia! You know nothing about me! You think I’m some useless kid, but I escaped from al-Shabaab! They killed my Aunty Rahama because she was an awesome journalist who knew secrets that could destroy them! What does your mum do?’
‘Don’t you talk about my mum, you little piece of crap,’ snarls General Motors, advancing towards you. His three friends also raise their fists.
You fly at them, and you’re soon tangled in a net of fists and yells. In no time you’re down on the ground, sand in your eyes.
You feel some of your coins tumble out of your pocket onto the ground and hope desperately that they don’t notice them, but they do.
