‘Of course, of course,’ Melanie says again. ‘Anything I can do to help.’
She gives you and Jok a ride in her air-conditioned car. Jamilah waits behind with Adut, despite her furious protests.
Inside her office in a brightly painted, boxy building, Melanie helps you to use the internet to find the phone number of Sampson’s shop in Eastleigh.
You press the numbers into the phone as quickly as you can, and then wait as slow seconds tick by, as the phone rings and rings.
Please answer, you think. Come on, Sampson. Please!
To continue with the story, go to scene 23.
Sampson’s warm, familiar voice on the other end of the line makes you want to cry.
‘Good news!’ he cries. ‘Your uncle Aadan in Australia replied to my email, and he wants to help you. Wait, I have his number!’
You copy it down.
‘Good luck, brave boy,’ says Sampson. You can picture him beaming. ‘Chujio hutenda mema, mabaya huliangukia. You are like a sieve: although bad things fall upon you, you can do good. And please give your darling sister a kiss from Uncle Sammy.’
Now you have Aadan’s phone number again! You’ve been waiting for this for so long – since the night you first left home, almost seven months ago. But you feel suddenly overwhelmed with nerves. Will Aadan really want to help you?
The thought of Australia has kept you going through all the bad times, and now it’s your very last escape route from al-Shabaab. If it turns out that you won’t be able to go, you might as well surrender and let the terrorists crush you.
With a shaking hand, you take a deep breath and call the number. You hear the ringtone chirruping like a distant bird calling from a foreign shore. You force yourself to breathe out. Your palms are clammy, and now your whole body is trembling.
Chirp, chirp. Chirp, chirp.
You wonder what Aadan is doing as his phone rings in his pocket or bag: driving a fancy car, or watching a movie on a big screen?
‘Yeah?’ comes a man’s voice, thickened from sleep. He’s speaking English. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ you say in Somali, and your voice echoes down the line and bounces back to you: ‘Me – me. Rahama’s nephew – phew – phew.’
‘You’re alive!’ shouts the voice, in Somali now. ‘Thank God! Where are you?’
There’s so much to say. Aadan hurls questions at you like missiles. You tell him everything, starting with what you saw on the day Rahama died.
Aadan becomes very quiet. Occasionally you hear him sniff as you tell your story, and you wonder if he’s crying.
You tell him about the pen. The note. Al-Shabaab coming to your home. Crossing the border, meeting Sampson. The bank account and having to flee for Dadaab, and how now, despite all your efforts, al-Shabaab are here too, breathing down your neck, edging ever closer …
‘I’m getting you and Jamilah out of there,’ promises Aadan. ‘Can you leave the camp? Tonight, if you can. It’s not safe to stay another day. I have a friend in Nairobi: Abshir. I’ll give you his address and send him money, and from there we’ll work out how to get you out of Africa. He can care for you in the meantime. Get to Nairobi as soon as you can. Keep the pen safe if you can, but that’s all you need to do – we’ll do more to investigate Bright Dream together when you get to Australia. When you’re safe.’
Jok is looking at you expectantly when you hang up the phone. Your hands are still shaking.
‘Well?’ he asks.
Aadan’s last words are ringing in your ears: when you get to Australia…
He said when!
‘I’m going to Australia,’ you whisper.
Jok whoops and punches the air with his one good hand. You feel a squeeze in your heart – he’s so genuinely happy for you, but you’ll be leaving him behind.
You look at the address you’ve copied down for Abshir: it’s in Eastleigh, Sampson’s suburb! Your heart lifts at the thought of seeing him again.
That night, by the light of a kerosene lamp in Jok’s hut, you, Jamilah, Jok and Adut try to work out how you and Jamilah are going to get back to Nairobi. Getting a truck-ride back in the same way you got here is out of the question – you don’t know anyone in Dadaab with enough money to buy a ride.
Maybe an aid agency could help you, but that would be a slow process, waiting for funds to trickle through and permission to be granted for you to leave the camp – and now that al-Shabaab knows you’re here, you just don’t have that kind of time.
Even now, Jok is sitting with his back pressed up against the door in case anyone tries to barge in. Everyone in the tiny hut is alert and tense. Jamilah is chewing on her thumbnail.
‘I wish we could help you,’ says Jok.
‘You’ve already helped so much,’ you say. ‘Maybe we could walk to Nairobi.’
‘Through the desert?’ cries Adut. ‘No way. If the heat doesn’t kill you, you’ll be murdered by bandits or snatched away by lions!’
‘Lions?’ gasps Jamilah.
Adut nods. ‘It happens to many of the children who walk out of Sudan,’ she says gravely.
‘But most of the people who live in Dadaab walked here,’ you say, thinking of the thousands of famine victims pouring over the border from Somalia, Sudan, Ethiopia or even further. ‘And we need to get out of here as soon as possible. Tonight, even.’
‘But for every one of those who survived the walk here,’ frets Adut, ‘another lies dead in the desert.’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘Stay awhile longer, hide with us, and we’ll do what we can to raise the money for your truck-fare.’
You look Jamilah squarely in the face. Whatever you decide to do now, the risk will be just as great – if not greater – for her. She needs to have a say.
