You feel something digging into your thigh through your pocket. It’s the golden pen. You’d forgotten you had it. It’s the very thing that al-Shabaab is trying to kill Rahama for, and it’s in your pocket.
Just then, you hear a boom. The van is still close enough that it seems to bounce as the blast wave hits. The air fills with screams, and with the grinding, crunching sound of a building collapsing.
Rahama.
The driver revs the van harder. There is a riot of honking, and panicked faces flash past the windows.
Hate bubbles up in you like vomit. ‘You scum!’ you scream. ‘You bastards! I’ll kill you!’
One of your captors turns around, tips down his sunglasses, looks at you and snorts.
The other one, driving the van, chuckles. ‘The little cockroach is angry,’ he mocks.
‘Because we killed his Aunty Cockroach,’ teases the man with the sunglasses in a singsong voice.
‘I think there’s a baby sister cockroach, too … isn’t there? The small ones are easy to squash,’ muses the driver.
You thrash and fight like a fish on a hook. You scream until your throat feels rough and dry, even though Sunglasses presses a gun to your head and tells you to shut up. You use every swear word you know.
Your limbs are burning, your muscles tearing from straining so hard against the ropes. The anger burning you up is stronger than the sun. You can feel it curling your insides like they’re paper on a fire. When the van eventually stops, you are ready to attack the first person who comes near you.
You hope that, if today is your day to die, it will happen quickly.
Instead, when the van door rolls open, a white-bearded man leans over you in gentle concern.
‘Oh, dear, look at this poor boy. You’ve been too rough with him,’ he chides as the two kidnappers slope off.
Through the van door, you see that you’re in an unfamiliar suburb of Mogadishu, on a quiet, dusty street. The kidnappers disappear inside a white house with its windows boarded over.
White Beard sets a can of lemon soda on the floor of the van, just near your head. You can see the dew beading on the shiny can. In spite of yourself, your mouth waters.
‘I do apologise,’ White Beard says, and he carefully cuts your ropes. His voice is mellow and sincere. ‘I explained that you are not our enemy, but it seems they overdid it. Are you all right?’
He helps you to sit, and raises the soda to your lips. It is sweet, bubbly heaven in your mouth. He uses the sleeve of his white cotton shirt to wipe your brow.
‘Please come inside.’
The driver of the van bows to White Beard as he shepherds you inside. Your mind reels.
White Beard seems to be the leader of this terrorist cell, so he must have planned the bomb that killed Aunty Rahama – yet he seems so kind and steady, like the grandpa you never knew. Is he softening you up for torture? Or is this situation somehow not what you think it is?
White Beard shows you into a room. There is a single bare mattress on the floor, a fluorescent light bulb and no windows. The walls are apple-green. One wall has a black-and-gold-framed hanging of Arabic calligraphy. Your Arabic isn’t as fluent as your Somali, and the calligraphy is ornate, but you can make it out: ‘There is no power and no strength except with Allah.’
‘You killed Aunty Rahama,’ you croak. You mean it to sound like an accusation, but it comes out like a bleat, a question.
Power and strength with Allah, you remind yourself. Toughen up and stay smart!
But hot tears spring to your eyes as White Beard sits beside you on the mattress and puts his arm around your shoulders.
‘Poor boy, I know the grief must be terrible for you at this moment,’ he murmurs. ‘But in time, we hope that you will come to understand that Allah has a greater purpose for you – that He can give you light and guidance when you follow His path.’
‘I know what Allah’s path for me is,’ you say, strength returning to your voice. ‘It’s to become a journalist like my aunty, and to—’
You stop short. You almost said to investigate Bright Dream, but of course you don’t want to give away that you know anything about that.
‘To help Somalia be free,’ you finish uncertainly.
‘You will only know true freedom when you learn to obey Allah’s law,’ murmurs White Beard.
‘What law is that?’ you challenge him. ‘Because my aunty taught me the Qur’an inside out, and there isn’t anything there about killing people just because they’re saying something you don’t like.’
White Beard ignores your rising temper. ‘We want you to undertake our training and join al-Shabaab,’ he says. ‘For one so young, you have great courage and intelligence. We believe you have access to sources and information that will be of use to us.’
You feel Rahama’s golden pen pressing into your leg. Surely this is the information they’re looking for. They’d love to know about this copy of Rahama’s interview with Zayd, and the information you have about Bright Dream – even though that isn’t much yet. And if they think they can talk you into joining them, they will use you as a soldier in their war. You have to get out of here.
You must choose your next words carefully. You have something that you know they want very much. Perhaps you could use the pen as a bargaining chip – tell them you will give it to them if they’ll set you free.
Or perhaps you should keep it hidden, pretend to play along with their plans to undertake training, and look for a way to escape later.
To offer the pen in exchange for your freedom, go to scene 6.
To wait and look for a way to escape, go to scene 5.
I can’t
