Jamilah’s eyes meet yours, and you suddenly realise how much she’s growing to look like Aunty Rahama. ‘We’re strong enough to do it,’ she says. ‘I’d rather face the desert than al-Shabaab.’
I love her so much, you think. But there’s nothing I can do now that won’t put her life in danger.
Adut sobs quietly in the background and Jok rubs his brow. ‘It’s your choice, kid,’ he says.
If you leave Dadaab tonight on foot, go to scene 24.
If you wait in Dadaab to try to raise money for a truck-ride to Nairobi, go to scene 25.
‘We have to go tonight,’ you say, standing up.
You need to get walking now, in the dark, to cover as much distance as you can before stopping to rest in the heat of the day.
On top of that, refugees aren’t allowed to leave Dadaab without permission, so you’ll need to sneak away under cover of darkness. And it’s best to be well away from here before al-Shabaab even gets a whisper of your plans.
Now Jok is crying, as well as Adut. They embrace you and Jamilah in turn.
You and Jamilah arrange a blanket over her shoulders, and a bag on your back holding the little food Jok has and as much water as you can carry.
You slip through the dark camp, heading for the outskirts where the shelters give way to the desert. You’ll cut around from there in an arc to reach the dusty main road to Nairobi.
At night you can stay close to the road, but in the daytime you don’t want to be found by robbers, terrorists, or the Kenyan police, so you’ll have to hide in the desert to rest, or walk well away from the road.
‘So long, Dadaab,’ Jamilah whispers with conviction.
You remember when you arrived, nearly seven months ago, and thought it looked, from the distance, like a little toy town made from mud. Now you know that it is bigger, more awful, and yet more wonderful, than any other place you’ve known. As you walk towards the outskirts of the camp, you promise yourself to return one day, not to seek help but to give it, in some way.
You are so lost in thought that you don’t realise there is someone following you through the camp. Jamilah notices, though. She tugs your hand.
‘There’s a man! Behind that tent!’
You turn in time to see a black shape slip behind a shelter made of branches and a ragged tarpaulin. You stop a moment and stay very still, your senses quivering. It must be al-Shabaab. Then you hear the click of a gun being loaded.
You grab Jamilah tightly and duck behind a thorn-tree fence. On your hands and knees, you creep forward until you can see around the corner.
The man has stepped out from behind the shelter. His face is covered by a scarf, and he holds a long black gun. He is looking the other way – he’s not sure where you’ve gone.
‘Stay there,’ you hiss to Jamilah, and you charge at the man. Your bare feet are so light and fast on the sandy ground that he sees you only a moment before you crash into him. He loses his balance and, grabbing you with one hand, pulls you both to the ground.
You are above him, and you make a desperate grab for his gun, but he is too fast and throws you onto your back. You can see him reaching for his weapon.
Suddenly, faster than a cat, Jamilah leaps out from behind the concrete wall, sprints towards you, lets out a bloodcurdling battle cry, and kicks the side of the man’s face with all her strength. Blood drips out of his gaping mouth, and he looks at her in astonishment.
You make use of his momentary distraction to grab his gun. He is swiping at Jamilah, but she dodges him nimbly. You manage to wrestle the gun away from him, and you point it at him.
The man rises to his feet, but Jamilah shouts, ‘Get back down! Or my brother shoots.’
Looking warily from Jamilah to you, the al-Shabaab militant drops to his knees.
‘Now leave us alone – forever,’ says Jamilah fiercely.
You are still pointing the gun at the man. It’s heavy, an AK-47, more than half Jamilah’s height. You’ve never fired a gun before, but you will if you have to, you’re certain of that now.
You back away. He stays where he is, kneeling in the dirt. When you are far enough away, you sling the gun over your bag and across your back by its strap. Then, taking Jamilah’s hand, you jog the rest of the way out of Dadaab and into the desert, until the distant shelters are only just visible in the moonlight. By keeping the camp within view and to your left, you can make your way around to the main road.
You set a strong pace, feeling jumpy but good. Rahama’s golden pen bounces lightly in your pocket. ‘You’re a warrior, you know that?’ you say to Jamilah. ‘Like the Queen of Sheba!’
‘I want to be like Aunty Rahama,’ says Jamilah earnestly.
You look across at her in the moonlight. She looks older: she holds her mouth seriously and her shoulders square. When did she grow up? All this time, she’s been an adored but helpless kid to you, but now you are walking into the desert as equals. You could have died back there without her help.
‘Me too,’ you say. ‘Aunty Rahama was my hero.’
You half expect Jamilah to start crying – after all, you feel a lump in your own throat – but she marches forward.
You reach the main road: two deep tyre tracks of sand, heading roughly west. Dawn breaks behind you, making your shadows long and thin on the road ahead. The sand still feels cold around the edges of your thongs.
You walk on for a couple more hours, until the sun is well
