‘Of course you can stay as long as you want,’ says Jok.
‘But the safest place in the camp,’ suggests Adut, ‘is probably with the UNHCR. They have a little group of houses locked behind big fences, with a security guard. You’re allowed to stay there if you can prove your life is in danger in the camp.’
In the morning, Jok gives you the money for a mini-bus fare to the UNHCR buildings. Dadaab is so vast that it would take you and Jamilah hours to walk there.
‘First though,’ you tell Jamilah, ‘we’ll go to Aunty’s and get the pen, so we can prove to the UNHCR that they need to let us stay in the locked section.’
But as soon as you approach Aunty’s tent, you realise something is wrong. There’s no cloth hanging to dry outside on the line, no smoke wisping from the cooking fire, no hum of her voice – the place is silent as a grave.
‘Wait there,’ you tell Jamilah, and she stands out on the road while you duck inside Aunty’s tent.
You gasp. Two men are sitting inside, and they stand as you come in. ‘Where’s Aunty?’ you demand. ‘Did you kill her?’
They just laugh. ‘Your “aunty” realised she could afford much more than a tent in Dadaab if she sold us a little treasure we’ve been looking for,’ says one of the men in a soft, oily voice.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out your pen. It lies in his palm, glinting red and gold like the setting sun.
You look to the doorway. Your little sister is standing there, frozen with confusion. She hasn’t realised yet what this means – she’s still too little and trusting to realise that Aunty has sold you out to al-Shabaab, and that now they have what they were after from you, you are about to die.
‘Run!’ you shout. ‘Go, Jamilah!’ She disappears from the doorway and the second man whips a gun from his pocket, but she is gone.
‘We’ll catch her,’ says the man with the gun. Then you make a leap for the door, but his bullet hits your chest before you can even take two steps.
The men stand up, the oily-voiced one slipping your pen back into his pocket. Their two black shadows loom over you. They are watching to make sure you are dead.
But I’m not dead, you think.
You can hear a drumbeat calling you to dance. It’s the sound of your own heart, and it booms through your body like an ancient song. The shadows of the men are dancing like black ribbons. Your feet move as though you were a stone skipping over water.
You can hear a song: a cry of the desert that wails and swoops like an eagle. A woman’s voice sings, full of sorrow.
Oh, my son, you have come through the desert.
How you must long to rest your head.
Oh, my son, I know you are tired.
I will bring you pure water and my own fresh bread.
Oh, my son, I see your tears falling.
I know how you’ve struggled and what you’ve been through.
Come, my son, and let me dry them…
… in the garden where love can be born anew.
The drumbeat slows, and you know the dance is at an end. You recognise the singer’s voice now – it’s that of your mother. You haven’t heard it since you were a child.
You close your eyes, ready for the last of the pain to fall away. The tall black shadows depart. The drumming of your heart stops.
To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 19.
You’ve come this far looking after the pen on your own. You decide you’d rather keep it yourself for now.
‘It’s just a trinket that belonged to our aunt,’ you say. ‘But I know it looks valuable, so sometimes I worry that it might be stolen. Our aunt was a student, and she gave it to me as a reminder to always work hard on my education. It’s not worth anything, but it does mean a lot to me. I write poems with it sometimes. Please may I have it back?’
‘Oh, so it has nothing to do with Arsenal?’ asks Aunty with a raised eyebrow. ‘Because Jamilah told me—’
‘Jamilah’s scared of Arsenal, so when our aunt gave it to us, she told us it would keep us safe from the bad guys. Like a lucky charm,’ you lie. ‘You know, Jamilah still believes in it …’
You smile confidentially, playing the part of the older, wiser brother, and ruffle your sister’s newly braided hair. It feels bumpy, like a fuzzy corncob. Jamilah pulls her hijab up over it and scowls at you.
‘Those men were probably just friends of Aunty Rahama’s from home, visiting to ask after her,’ you say to Jamilah. ‘That’s why they knew her name. Don’t worry, I’m here now. Let’s go home, and I’ll make dinner.’
Aunty hands the pen to you without another word.
Jamilah huffs and kicks the dust as you walk home.
‘Why didn’t you tell Aunty the truth?’ she mutters furiously. ‘You made me look like a dumb little kid who believes in magic pens!’
‘I’m sorry,’ you say, because you know you made her look foolish. ‘But it’s better if no one knows about our secret, not even Aunty. Arsenal could be anywhere, listening in.’
You’re afraid to return to your tent, but you’ve decided not to trust Aunty, and it’s a long walk across the camp at night-time to Jok’s. You decide that would be even more dangerous than staying put. You try to pretend things are all right for Jamilah’s sake as you settle down for the night in your tent, but you can’t sleep.
You sneak out once she’s asleep, back to Aunty’s tent. You can’t shake the feeling that she didn’t swallow your lie.
A little orange glow from a kerosene lamp filters through the cracks of her tent and onto the sand.
