The soldier next to Hassan growls and rolls his eyes, but Hassan leans forward to talk to you.
‘We’re all from Bright Dream,’ he mutters, so low that only you can hear him above the roar of the engine. ‘Al-Shabaab runs it. Our families died in the war, and the orphanage claimed us, then trained us to be soldiers. It’s more like a farm than an orphanage – where boys are raised to die in their war.’
You wonder what kind of mission has brought them into Kenya, but you don’t dare ask. You think of Bright Dream’s bank account, the figures in their millions spooling down Sampson’s computer screen – all supposedly spent on boys like Hassan. You wonder if it’s gun money, money stolen by al-Shabaab … or if it’s been donated by unwitting foreign donors, hoping to help the poor.
Either way, it’s the perfect plan for al-Shabaab, you think. An organisation like theirs would take a lot of money to run, and a lot of soldiers to fight for them. Bright Dream can provide both, without arousing suspicion.
You realise suddenly that exposing Bright Dream isn’t just about taking al-Shabaab down – it’s also the only way to save countless boys like Hassan from their fate.
The ute jerks to a halt and you are nearly thrown to the floor. You sit back up, alarmed. You are still in the middle of the desert. The driver gets out and stamps around to the back where you all sit. His mirrored sunglasses give nothing away.
‘What are you talking to the boy about?’ he barks at Hassan.
He must have been watching Hassan talk to you in the rear-view mirror. Hassan straightens up guiltily. You realise that this man has the same job Zayd once did – training boys, sending them to fight, then killing them if they were of no more use.
You think fast. ‘We’re from the same clan, sir. He was asking if I knew his deceased family at all, sir.’
‘Nobody talks to the boy! Or his sister!’ shouts the man in a fury, ignoring the fact that Jamilah is still unconscious. ‘The next person who talks will be shot!’
Some of the boy-soldiers give Hassan accusing glares, as if to say thanks a lot.
The driver gets back into the cabin and starts driving again. Hassan shrugs and purses his lips. For the rest of the trip, he obeys the order not to speak. He shakes his head when you look at him expectantly – it’s clear you can’t ask him any more questions. But he still helps Jamilah to take mouthfuls of water.
You are leaving the desert now and coming into farmland. Brightly dressed women walk here and there with bundles on their heads, and you see a boy with a stick herding cattle, while younger children play hopscotch in the dirt. You can smell cow dung and cooking fires getting ready for lunch.
You lift Jamilah’s head for another sip of water and she stirs. Then her eyelids flutter. Your heart leaps, and you beg Allah for her to open her eyes. She does. Her brown eyes lock onto yours and crinkle as she smiles.
Relief floods through you like a king tide. You squeeze her bony shoulders.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! you want to shout to the world. For Hassan and his water; for Allah’s mercy. You can’t stop the tears coming to your eyes. She sits up and you wrap her in a hug that you never want to end.
Jamilah looks around then, at the truck and the soldiers, and you see her eyes widen in fear. She has no idea where you are or who these people are.
You hug her again and whisper into her ear: ‘It’s okay. But shhh!’
A tired, relieved smile washes over Jamilah’s face. Then she nestles her head against your chest and sleeps peacefully all the way to Nairobi.
WHEN YOU REACH the outskirts of Nairobi, you crawl to the front of the ute tray and rap on the driver’s window.
‘Eastleigh?’ you shout, and you see him nod.
After driving through the city for a while longer, he stops the truck and shouts: ‘This is Eastleigh,’ from inside the cabin.
You give Hassan a tiny smile in farewell – it’s all you dare to do. You hope he understands how grateful you are for his kindness. You try not to imagine what his future will hold.
You are in a busy street, lined with shops and restaurants. The smell of meaty stew makes your mouth water. The apartment belonging to Aadan’s old friend Abshir, who is taking you in, is somewhere around here. You’ve memorised the address – but you wait until the ute has long driven away before you ask a shopkeeper for directions. You don’t want the ute-driver knowing where you’re heading, or remembering you for anything other than giving him your gun in exchange for a ride.
Equipped with directions, you and Jamilah stagger through the tall columns of apartment blocks, Jamilah’s arm slung over your shoulders for support.
People stare at you curiously. Some of them look afraid. You look down at your body – it’s like a piece of rusty wire dressed in rags. But you battle onwards. Every step you take, you think, We did it. We made it out of the desert, alive. You’re proud of your wire-and-rags body. Next stop: Australia.
You find Abshir’s apartment block. With your final burst of strength, you and Jamilah manage to climb seven flights of stairs and rap on the wire security door of his apartment.
A young guy with a white shirt and masses of curly hair opens the door, and before you even introduce yourself, he drops to his knees so he’s eye-to-eye with Jamilah.
‘Whoa!’ he exclaims. ‘Are you Aadan’s niece and nephew?’
You nod, and he embraces you both so tightly you nearly lose your balance.
‘Oh, you beautiful kids, what on earth happened to you? Aadan called me, you didn’t show up for a week, then he says he thinks you tried
