There are doughy thuds and scraping sounds from above, and the lime lady’s quiet sobs, as Zayd is thrown to the ground, tied up and dragged away. Then, suddenly, there’s a shout – Zayd’s voice.
‘Cross the river on the banner of the eagle!’ he yells with all his strength. Then an engine roars into life, and he is gone.
YOU LIE AWAKE that night thinking about those words. What did he mean? Was it a clue? How will you find out what Zayd meant? How must the lime lady feel tonight, all alone in the ruin, without her son?
You and Aunty Rahama didn’t tell Jamilah what happened, because you don’t want to scare her. But in the darkness, Rahama’s hand finds yours, and you know she is lying awake thinking of it all too.
‘We promised the lime lady we’d investigate Zayd’s story,’ you whisper. ‘But how can we even hope to make a difference? He’s probably already…’
You can’t bring yourself to say the word ‘dead’.
‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m making a difference,’ Rahama murmurs. ‘On the dark days, I think, What’s the point? I’m risking my life trying to bring justice to a country hell-bent on war and revenge. Will anyone even care?’
She sighs.
‘We’ve lost so many freedoms in this country. Our family was taken away from us – and our country’s riches, and our peaceful society. We were left with so little, but we still have our words. The voices of Somali people have survived colonisation, dictatorships, twenty years of civil war, and a fundamentalist takeover. Whatever other freedoms they may have stolen from us, I will not let them take my voice. Never. The truth can kill Arsenal faster than any bullet.’
‘But what do you think Cross the river on the banner of the eagle means?’ you ask.
‘I don’t know,’ confesses Rahama. ‘But you and I are going to find out.’
THAT MONDAY, RAHAMA insists that you and Jamilah go to school. You want to go to work with her and help, but you know that no amount of begging will change her mind.
Your school only reopened a couple of weeks ago, after the most recent fighting died down. You’ve been working hard to try to catch up on your missed education. At least Aunty Rahama, being well educated, has been able to keep teaching you and Jamilah to read and write in Somali and Arabic anytime the school’s closed down. She’s also taught you all the English she knows, since so many journalists around the world use it.
After school, you’re walking home with Jamilah along a busy street when suddenly Rahama appears from behind a shop and drags you down an alley. She wraps her arms around you and draws you both in close. She’s sweaty and breathless.
‘Things have changed,’ Rahama whispers urgently. ‘Arsenal are onto me – they know about my interview with Zayd, and they know that I know about Bright Dream. Don’t panic, though,’ she whispers to you, as you feel horror rise inside you. ‘They don’t know you were there, my darling. There’s no reason for them to come after you. All right?’
You nod mutely, squeezing Jamilah to your side. You feel her shoulders trembling.
‘I need you to do something,’ Aunty Rahama goes on, looking you square in the eye. ‘If I don’t come home tonight…’
For just a moment, her face wavers, as though it’s about to collapse. Are those tears in her eyes? Then she draws herself up and leans in again. Her voice is choked and fierce with love.
‘If I don’t come home tonight, your first job is to look after Jamilah. That’s more important than anything else. Your second job is to take our story to a safe place.’
She pushes an object into your hands. It is a pen made of solid gold, shining in the sunlight. The writing tip is sharp as a sword, and at the other end a single ruby twinkles like a pomegranate seed.
‘What’s this?’ Jamilah whispers in awe.
Rahama unscrews the pen and shows you a secret memory stick hidden inside.
‘Wow!’ you gasp.
She quickly screws the pen closed again. ‘It’s the recording of the interview we did with Zayd. It’s the only other copy in existence, besides my file. There’s a note under my pillow that will explain everything. But I don’t want you to worry, okay? Sometimes you’ve got to do things that …’ She sighs. ‘Tough things. But they’re for the best. I hope you’ll understand why, one day. Just remember, I’ll always be with you both. Never lose hope.’
‘Rahama, wait!’ you cry. She’s turned around and is walking away from you, fast.
Jamilah is clinging to you, tearful. ‘Where’s Aunty Rahama going?’ she asks. ‘What was she talking about?’
You think fast. Rahama’s in danger. You have to follow her – but you can’t bring Jamilah.
Your friend Mahadi walks by, and you grab his arm.
‘Mahadi! Can you do something for me? I’ve got to … run an errand for my aunty. Can you take Jamilah home safely?’
Jamilah starts crying loudly. ‘No! No!’ she shouts.
Mahadi looks worried. ‘Is everything okay?’
You don’t have time to explain, and you can’t risk sharing Rahama’s secret with your friend. ‘It’s fine,’ you lie. You turn to Jamilah. Her hijab has slipped back off her hair, so you tug it back up, wipe her tears and squeeze her shoulders. ‘I’ll come back,’ you promise her. ‘Just go home with Mahadi and wait. I promise I’ll come back.’
As you slip the pen into your pocket and turn to sprint after Rahama, you hope desperately that it’s a promise you will be able to keep.
YOU RUN HARDER and longer than you ever have before, following glimpses of Rahama’s red hijab as she crosses busy roads, weaves between shops, and hurries down long streets and around corners.
You’re just in time to
