The last time you saw these words was with Sampson, just before you hacked al-Shabaab’s bank account. So many things have happened since then. Your hands shake as you type in the seven letters: f … r … e … e … d … o … m …
There’s a moment’s pause as the computer thinks, then … it opens like a flower.
My darlings,
This is the hardest letter I’ve ever written. I have started it in fifty different ways, and deleted them all. But it all comes down to this…
Al-Shabaab are coming for me. They know about the interview with Zayd, and the investigation into Bright Dream. This afternoon, they plan to detonate a bomb at the broadcasting building.
I want al-Shabaab to believe that this bomb kills me. I want the world to think I’m dead – yes, even you, my darlings. I’m going to try to save all our lives, by pretending to lose my own.
I know their plans, because Zayd wasn’t killed by al-Shabaab: he escaped from them when the car they were in crashed. Worrying that he’d put our lives at risk by telling us about Bright Dream, he contacted someone who owed him a favour who was still inside al-Shabaab. He confirmed that a spy in the broadcasting company had warned them about me.
It’s over for me here now. For so long as al-Shabaab believes I’m alive, they’ll come after me. And if they find out about you two children they will use you as bait – kidnap you, torture you, threaten to kill you – because they would see you are my weak point. The only way I can protect you is by making them think I am gone, once and for all, so they will give up.
So, I’ve made a plan. I will go to work at the scheduled time for the broadcast this afternoon. I will place my red hijab by a window, where everyone can see it to believe I’m in the building, so al-Shabaab will feel sure they’ve killed me. None of my colleagues will be there; I’ve sent them all a fake invitation to a meeting across town.
I will sneak out the back door, and make my way to the Ethiopian border, where Zayd will be waiting for me. Whatever it takes, we’ll find our way to safety. Aadan and I have promised each other that we’ll make a home together with you two kids, a wonderful new home in Australia. It’s a promise I plan to keep.
I know it will probably take you a while after I give you the pen to find my note, contact Aadan, work out the password and open this file. I know that keeping the full story from you for this long is going to cause you pain, and I’m sorry. It’s the only way I can ensure I have time to get well out of Somalia without you trying to follow me, risking al-Shabaab learning of and following you.
It’s okay if you’re angry, confused or upset with me when you read this. One day, we’ll be together again, and I can answer your questions, and maybe you’ll forgive me for leaving you this way. I don’t know how far away that day will be – I only pray that it comes soon. I love you more than words can say.
Now, I must go and find you, and give you this pen. The biggest journey of my life begins then. Whatever comes next is Allah’s will.
Never stop fighting for freedom.
I love you so much.
Aunty Rahama
You sit, staring at the computer. You want to whoop with joy that Rahama didn’t die in the bomb blast, but you are paralysed with confusion. You read the letter for a second, and then a third time, struggling to make sense of the storm of questions whirling in your brain.
So Jamilah was right, she did see Aunty Rahama being rescued in Italy… but why are she and Zayd there, and not in Australia? And why has no one heard from them since?
Your thoughts are interrupted by a commotion taking place outside. Rising from the computer, you go to the door and see Maryam coming down the hill, struggling to run, holding her belly, looking around wildly. People are staring. She sees you and shouts, and the panic in her voice makes your insides freeze for one terrible moment. Then you run to her.
‘Your sister!’ she pants when you reach her. ‘She, she …’ Maryam is gasping for breath and can’t find the right English word. ‘Not dead. But not wake up! Please come now!’
You sprint up the hill, leaving the woman behind, your limbs on fire. Jamilah!
You gasp a prayer in time with your pumping limbs: Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.
When you reach her, Jamilah is conscious again. One of the Iranian men is helping her to sit up on the bed and sip some water. Her face is dangerously ashen and there are red flecks around her lips where she has been coughing more blood. She looks at you and manages a trembly smile.
‘She’s very sick,’ says the Iranian man, who you guess is Maryam’s husband, Majid. ‘Like my nephew, who had tuberculosis. Does she have it?’
At that moment, Maryam enters, breathing hard. Majid rises quickly to shepherd her out of the room.
‘My wife shouldn’t be near you – it is too dangerous,’ he calls back over his shoulder. ‘But I will return to help.’
Is it tuberculosis? you wonder, gripped with anxiety. People can die of that.
You kneel in front of Jamilah, a lump in your throat.
‘You have to survive this, chickpea,’ you tell her, using Aunty Rahama’s old nickname for her. ‘Because you were right – you did see Aunty Rahama. I just read a letter she wrote on the day the bomb went off, and she knew it was coming! She made it, she’s alive… so you’ve got to make it too, okay?’ Hot tears begin to spill down
