‘No!’ cry the men massed around the speaker.
Your blood seems to freeze. You’ve stumbled across a meeting of al-Shabaab supporters. You hide behind a woven thorn-tree fence and try to get a better look at the speaker’s face. His voice is all too familiar.
The man has a long, gaunt face and a beard. One half of his face seems normal; his bright eye flashes and darts about the crowd. But the other half of his face is terribly disfigured. His other eye socket looks like a collapsed cave. His lips on the scarred half of his mouth are fused together in a hideous smile.
‘We have to make sacrifices for our country,’ he says. ‘As you see, I myself was injured in an attack that successfully killed a traitor Somali journalist.’
The crowd boos and hisses, and with a sickening blow, you realise who the speaker is. It’s Qasim, the man who planted the bomb that killed Rahama. You thought he had also been killed in the explosion, but it seems that, instead, half of his face was ripped off and he survived. Then you notice that his robes hang limply at his side: the explosion also took an arm.
Good, you think savagely.
You are staring at Qasim with pure hatred when he suddenly looks up from his followers. You duck further behind the thorn tree fence, but it’s too late. That one eye … that brown, fierce eye in that ravaged face … He saw you. He recognised you.
He pauses a moment in his speech before continuing. ‘The first step,’ he says clearly, and his voice carries a little further to where you are hiding, because, you can tell, he wants you to hear this, ‘is to strengthen al-Shabaab’s position in the camp by weeding out all traitors and their relatives.’
The crowd eagerly mutters approval. You start to run. Your breath and your limbs make a desperate, crashing rhythm. You tumble through the camp like a stone gathering speed downhill, shoving your way through crowds, beating the ground with your feet as if you want to kill the earth itself.
‘Whoa whoa whoa whoa!’ says Scavenger Jok, catching you by the shoulders as you charge towards home. ‘What’s the hurry, friend?’ He sees that your cheeks are streaked with tears. ‘Who’s after you?’
‘Arsenal,’ you rasp, the breath still surging in and out of you. ‘The bastard who killed my aunty. He’s here. He saw me.’
‘Okay,’ says Jok. He is immediately businesslike. ‘Let’s get Jamilah, and come and stay with me tonight.’
Jok walks briskly to your tent with you to collect Jamilah. You leave your schoolbooks and your cooking pot behind in the tent, and only take Jamilah’s blanket and the pen. Jok then guides you both back to his hut. He doesn’t pressure you to explain yourself further. He just patiently takes Jamilah’s hand in his, and answers her questions in a steady voice as you make your way to his home.
You’re more certain than ever that you can trust Jok completely, and you blurt out the rest of your story to him as you walk – what happened to Aunty Rahama, her note, the pen, losing Aadan’s phone number, why you had to flee from home, how Sampson helped you as best he could …
When you reach Jok’s hut, there is a white woman waiting outside. Her cheeks are bright pink with the heat, and she is wearing a shirt and long pants. She’s a little fat.
‘Hi!’ she says brightly in English, and she gives an awkward wave as you approach.
Your mind reels. Is she here because she’s heard you’re in danger from al-Shabaab? No, surely not.
‘Hello, I’m Mel-ah-nee,’ she says clearly and slowly. She puts her right hand out to shake Jok’s. ‘I’m from the …’ She stops when she sees that Jok has no right hand, just a stump. He offers her his left hand instead. She seems to wither on the spot.
The furious pounding in your heart from seeing Qasim slows down a bit. You almost want to chuckle.
‘Goodness me. Um, I’m sorry.’ She clears her throat. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes, and Arabic, Dinka and a little Swahili,’ says Jok politely, in English.
‘Ah,’ says Mel-ah-nee. ‘Wonderful. I wish I could speak so many languages. Well, I’m here because I believe you make these wonderful bottle-lights?’
She gestures around Jok’s neighbourhood. Nearly everyone here has one of your bottle-lights now.
‘He invented them,’ says Jok proudly, nodding to you.
You try to stand up straighter and look like an inventor, not someone who’s just had stones thrown at him by bullies and been scared half to death by al-Shabaab. This is an opportunity, you’re almost sure of it. You just have to work out how to use it.
‘That’s so impressive,’ says Melanie warmly. ‘They’re so simple and useful!’ She smiles broadly.
Melanie’s the first white person you’ve ever met, and it’s strange. You always thought these people drove around in jeeps and told refugees like you what to do. But this one seems so unsure and soft. You think she’s kind of cute, like a puppy.
‘Would you like a job for our organisation, teaching other people how to make these?’ she asks. ‘We’d like to see them used all over Dadaab.’
Jok invites her inside to look at his bottle-light and talk about how you install them. But while he’s explaining, and Adut is making tea, you interrupt.
‘My life is in danger from al-Shabaab! Terrorists,’ you add, in case she hasn’t heard of them. ‘They killed my aunty and they’re going to kill me and my sister!’
Melanie looks taken aback. ‘Well, I’ve only just arrived in Dadaab, but if you’re looking for protection, there’s a secure UNHCR compound I could take you to—’
‘Does your organisation have a computer? And a phone?’ you demand.
‘Yes, of course,’ she begins, but Jok sees where you’re heading with this plan and butts in.
‘Then please, if you want our cooperation with your project, you must help this boy
