‘Just eight tents down that way,’ you hear Aunty’s voice murmur. ‘A pen made of gold with a ruby in the end. The little girl said it was her Aunty Rahama’s and it held a secret …’
Your hear men’s voices conferring so softly you can’t make out what they’re saying.
‘My money?’ asks Aunty. ‘You promised it to me, and I need it.’
You sprint back to your tent and drag Jamilah upright.
‘Whassup?’ she mumbles.
‘Quiet! Follow me!’ you hiss. ‘Al-Shabaab are after us.’
You have the pen and your money in your pocket, and you’re both wearing your only set of clothes. You’ll have to leave your schoolbooks and the pot you cook on behind.
Jamilah stumbles out of your tent, her blanket around her shoulders. You see black figures coming down the path from the direction of Aunty’s tent, and you shove Jamilah through the gap between the two tents behind yours.
Bending double, your arm on Jamilah’s back, pressing her down too, you start to run, weaving between tents until you reach a wider road.
‘Run with me to Jok’s place,’ you whisper to Jamilah. ‘Al-Shabaab are after us.’
You make it to Jok’s hut in record time. His hut has a door, which he unlocks to let you in.
At first, you and Jamilah are shaking so much that you can’t get the words out to explain to him why you’re there. But after a cup of tea, Jamilah eventually falls asleep curled at the end of his bed like a cat, while you, Jok and Adut stay awake talking. You’re certain you can trust them, and you show them the pen and tell them what’s on it.
‘I never told you how I lost this hand,’ says Jok, nodding to his stump. ‘You already know that the Janjaweed torched our village. After we escaped, and Adut and I were on the run, I was caught stealing grain from their soldiers’ supplies for us to survive. This was my punishment. They could have killed me, but they left me alive as an example to others.’
You shudder, and lay a hand on Jok’s arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say.
It’s not fair, you think. Why do innocent people have to suffer so much, while the bad guys get away with it?
You know that some preachers promise fair rewards and punishments will be dished out in the afterlife, but that’s little comfort right now.
THE NEXT MORNING, you wake to a pale dawn light radiating from the bottle-lamp in Jok’s ceiling. You wake Jamilah, wash, and both perform morning prayers. Prayer is your one daily constant: a link to home and Allah. Adut kneels beside you and murmurs her own prayers in her native Dinka language.
‘Don’t go out today,’ says Jok. ‘Stay hidden here. The UNHCR has a locked compound on the other side of Dadaab where they can accommodate people whose lives are being threatened. I’m going to go there, and see if they can help us.’
Around noon, you hear a distant boom and crunch. The last time you heard a bomb go off was when Aunty Rahama was killed – it’s not a sound you forget easily. Your stomach curdles. Jamilah clutches Adut’s hand.
People scream and cars honk. You pray Jok was nowhere near it. To your relief, he runs in the door soon after.
‘Al-Shabaab planted a bomb in the road,’ he pants. ‘A UNHCR car drove over it, and some foreign-aid workers were killed. People are saying they’re trying to scare off all the aid workers – that maybe they’ll kidnap and execute some of them too, until they all leave and the camp can’t function. Then they’ll round up Somali boys to use as soldiers back in your country, and kill anyone who objects. We have to get you out of here. Forget the UNHCR – I have a plan.’
You and Jok pool your savings and, leaving Jamilah and Adut at home, run to the edge of Bosnia, where you know there’s a small shop at which you can pay to use the internet and phone.
By the blue light of the screen of a beat-up laptop, you find the phone number of Sampson’s shop in Eastleigh. The grizzled, stinky proprietor of the shop hands over his phone, and you call Sampson’s number.
Please pick up, you think. Please, please, please.
To continue with the story, go to scene 23.
You slip a hand inside your pocket and your fingers find a couple of coins. As you hoped, as soon as you throw them onto the ground the four guys dive for them, giving you enough time to jump aside and sprint away.
You’re so angry that they’ve cost you a little of your money, but hopefully you’ll still have enough for your phone calls.
They’re not worth fighting, you think. When they’re adults, they’ll still be here, and I’ll be long gone. You hope that, in the not-too-distant future, you’ll be in Australia, maybe studying journalism.
Will Somalia ever be peaceful enough to go home to? you wonder. Will I make it back there one day, when I’m an old man with a beard and grown-up children… and if I do, will it still feel like home?
The thought of never being able to go back to your beautiful, troubled city by the ocean makes your heart ache.
You’re lost in these thoughts until a man’s voice, chanting passionately, breaks through them. There’s something familiar about the voice. You’re not sure yet where it’s coming from. You listen more closely.
‘The white imperialists took over our country,’ intones the voice, ‘but did the Somali people submit?’
‘No!’ comes a chorused response.
‘Then the civil war tried to divide us along tribal lines, but did the Somali people submit?’
‘No!’ comes the chant again. It’s getting louder.
You round a corner and see them: a small knot of twenty or so men, clustered around a man standing on a wooden box.
‘And here we are, pushed out of our own country by foreign troops who refuse to
