Dalila Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Jason Donald

  Title Page

  Dalila

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Irene Dalila Mwathi comes from Kenya with a brutally violent personal history. Once she wanted to be a journalist, now all she wants is to be safe. When she finally arrives, bewildered, in London, she is attacked by the very people paid to protect her, and she has no choice but to step out on her own into this strange new world. Through a dizzying array of interviews, lawyer’s meetings, regulations and detention centres, she realises that what she faces may be no less dangerous than the violence she has fled.

  Written with grace, humour and compassion, this timely and thought-provoking novel tackles its uncomfortable subject matter in a deeply affecting way. A book about forging dignity in a world of tragedy, and raising issues about immigration and asylum-seekers through the story of one woman’s plight, Dalila is a necessary tale of our times. It is also a work of great literary power: a slow-burning, spell-binding novel about how we treat the vulnerable and dispossessed that will leave its readers devastated.

  About the Author

  Jason Donald was born in Scotland and grew up in South Africa. He studied English Literature and Philosophy at St Andrews University and, in 2005, graduated from Glasgow University’s Creative Writing Masters Degree programme with distinction. His first novel, Choke Chain, was published by Cape in 2009.

  Also by Jason Donald

  Choke Chain

  Hundreds surge along the corridor. Parents lead their children by the hand. Couples walk side by side in silence. Some drag suitcases, others wear backpacks. She keeps pace with the rest, hugging her handbag to her chest. Her bare toes spread through the front of her shoes. As the corridor widens, the drone of suitcase wheels and the quickening clip of shoes hurry her along. She lifts her chin to peer between the bobbing heads of the crowd. Amber evening light reaches through the windows, cupping the back of each delicate skull. Collapsed human shadows scurry along the wall.

  She cannot see where they are going, cannot see another way to go.

  Ahead of her, a man carries a small child in the hook of his arm. He moves from the crowd and slips sideways through a door.

  Two doors. Toilets. Male. Female.

  She stops, looks back the way she has come, and enters the ladies’ room. It’s the cleanest room she has ever seen. Floor tiles as white as the sinks, made whiter still by overhead strip lights. There are no windows. The cubicle doors hang open. She lowers her handbag and stands still, thinking. She enters a cubicle, bolts it and presses her back against the door. For the first time in many days, she is alone. The stillness of it almost feels safe. She lays down her bag and as she bends over to remove her shoe, the toilet flushes. She jumps back, staring at the clear, swirling water. The bowl is bolted to the wall without a trunk to hold it up. It has no cistern, no chain to pull, only a single black eye on the wall behind. The water calms. But the black eye watches, unblinking. No longer is she by herself. It is here too.

  Be strong, she whispers.

  From under the inner sole of her shoe she removes a folded note. She unfolds it and gazes at the words. She has read and reread these instructions, considered each word and the implications. Closing her eyes, the memory of the words hovers in front of her, printed on her mind’s notepad. When she opens her eyes, the mental copy overlays the notes in her hands, matching it exactly.

  She tears through the note four times and lets the shredded pieces flutter into the toilet water. She waves her shoe in front of the black eye and watches it flush them away.

  At the sink, she washes her unsteady hands, splaying her fingers under the warm water. She makes a fist and splays them again. Her stomach pulls and threatens to throw up its contents, but the feeling passes. She touches water to her face, bends forward and drinks from the tap. She presses two paper towels to her face and turns around so her eyes will not be tempted by the mirror.

  Sawa, sawa, she says softly, and takes a deep breath. She tugs her cardigan and in English whispers, Okay. Okay.

  She goes out. People continue to march across the tiles. She joins them, trusting the crowd’s sense of direction, believing they must know where they are going. Soon the corridor veers left and descends underground. The flow of the bodies pitches and eddies, some opt for the staircase, most pour down the escalator. She takes the stairs, holding her handbag tight, glancing at the advertising colouring the walls. They spill into a wide hall filled with more people. The air is close, the sounds diffused, a slight tarpaulin smell rising from the carpet. It feels like the room is underground, but she can’t be sure. There are no windows to confirm her position, only fluorescent lights fitted into the low ceiling, their light dispersing all shadows and any sense of time. The only exit lies beyond a row of booths manned by security officials. Two signs hang from the ceiling.

  UK and EU Passport Only All Other Passports

  People appear to be congregating under one sign or the other. She approaches and notices blue, waist-high ribbons channelling the crowd into a long queue that snakes back on itself. Like livestock, travellers shuffle through the maze of ribbons. She joins the line for All Other Passports, and tilts her head to ease the knot from her neck. A hum of conversations hangs across the hall but no one dares raise their voice. Words are spoken in languages she doesn’t recognise but now and then she picks out some English. Many people stand in silence. No one squats on their heels. No one sits on their bags. Children stay close to their mothers. After a few minutes, the woman in front of her shuffles two steps forward. She steps forward too. The people behind her follow suit.

  A blue sign requests that she remove her passport from its wallet or holder to help speed up the examination of her documents. She buries her hand into her bag and finds her passport, opens it at the photograph. Her likeness stares out blankly. Her hair cropped as short as possible, only a shading across her scalp. Her full lips tucked down at the corners, the sinews flexing in her slim neck.

  She closes the passport. The queue moves on and she takes three steps forward to close the gap.

  People in the other line, the line for UK and EU Passport Only, move quickly. Each traveller holds open a maroon passport. The immigration officers glance at the identification, the person, and wave them on.

  At the front of her queue, however, a security guard directs people to the next available booth. Four immigration officers are on duty. The first is a man with two chins. Next to him is a grey man with grey hair. Then, an old man with a neat moustache. Finally, a young Indian woman. These officers study every stamp on every page of the foreign passports, questioning the people attached to the documents, scrutinising their photographs.

  The immigration officer with two chins withholds a man’s passport and sends him to the row of chairs sectioned off at the front of the queue, beside the security guard. The man seems confused for a moment, but does as he is told. He sits, places his bag on the seat next to him. He crosses his legs, adjusts his bag, uncrosses his legs. No one in the queue looks directly at him. A few minutes later an immigration officer and a security guard approach the man. They speak quietly. The man stands up and follows them. As they walk the security guard casually clasps hold of the man’s bicep and leads him through a grey unmarked door.

  Three bodies now stand between her and the front of the queue. She folds her arms over her bag, rubbing her finger over the hardened scab on her wrist, picking at the edges of it.

  At the front of the queue, she waits next to the guard and tries to calculate which officer she will get. Each one works at a different speed. The grey officer never smiles and directs his qu
estions automatically. The one with two chins is friendly and chats to each passenger, but this one has a lizard smile. She trusts him the least. The Indian woman officer is young and smart, but probably ambitious. She hopes to get the old man with the neat moustache. Perhaps the world has been easy with his heart and there is still kindness left.

  The Indian woman finishes first and the guard directs her to that booth. She walks up and stands behind the line marked on the ground.

  The officer has glossy black hair, sky-blue eyeshadow and trim, plucked eyebrows. With two fingers, she signals for the next person to step forward.

  Hi there, says the officer in a cheery English accent. Passport and landing card, please.

  She steps forward and places both documents on the counter. She stands with her feet together.

  The officer opens her passport. Just the one passport, yeah?

  Yes.

  Where are you travelling from?

  Me, I come from Kenya.

  The officer concentrates on a computer screen tucked into her booth. She looks at the landing card and types something into the computer. The officer has a metallic name badge pinned to her uniform with two words on it, Officer Nita. The pale blue of the uniform complements her eyeshadow. The neckline is open, almost casual without being feminine, while the rigid shoulder epaulettes carry authority. In the corner of this officer’s left nostril a tiny hole suggests that the young woman sometimes wears a piercing.

  How do you pronounce you surname?

  My name is Dalila Mwathi.

  It says here Irene is your first name?

  That one is also my name. Dalila is my porridge name.

  Your what?

  My porridge name. The name my mother used for me, when I was very small, when I started to eat porridge. My English name is Irene. My name is Irene Dalila Mwathi.

  Irene?

  Yes.

  Okay, Miss Mwathi, I’m going to ask you a few questions about your stay here, yeah? How long are you going to be here?

  Dalila keeps her gaze steady. Three weeks, she says. I’ve come to visit my aunt . . . my cousin.

  Which one? Your aunt or your cousin?

  She’s my cousin, I think. She is my mother’s cousin but I always call her Aunty. She has a baby. I want to visit and see the baby.

  Where does your aunt live?

  In London. I have the address here.

  Dalila digs into her bag and pulls out a handwritten letter with no envelope.

  This is her letter, says Dalila. The address is there. She invited me to stay, to see London. Big Ben. To see her children.

  Officer Nita reverse-folds the creases in the paper and reads the letter all the way through. She takes special note of the address and types it into the computer. She makes no eye contact with Dalila.

  What is your aunt’s name?

  My aunt?

  If you’ve known her all your life and you’re staying with her, you should know her name, yeah?

  Dalila dips her head. She thumbs the scab on her wrist. She is Nafula.

  Nafula? Does she have an English name too?

  Her name is Anne. She is my mother’s cousin.

  And you’re here to look after Anne’s children, yeah?

  Dalila remembers her instructions, every word vivid in her mind. She’s expecting this question and knows how to answer it. No, she says. I don’t want to work. I only come to visit. I am a tourist.

  The officer keeps her face unreadable as she flicks through every page in Dalila’s passport. She re-examines the visitor’s visa and letter of invitation. Dalila lowers her handbag, cradling it by her stomach.

  Miss Mwathi, how do you plan to support yourself during your stay? Do you have any money?

  I have money.

  How much?

  I have three hundred US dollars and, also, twenty thousand shillings.

  Kenyan shillings, yeah?

  Yes.

  How much is that in pounds?

  She hesitates. It is, maybe . . .

  Do you have access to any other funds?

  No. I will just stay with my aunt. I don’t need so much money.

  Officer Nita nibbles the inside of her lip as she studies the computer screen. Okay, Miss Mwathi, I have some inquiries to make. She points at the row of chairs. Just take a seat over there for me. You’ll be here, with us, until I finish conducting those inquiries, yeah?

  The officer’s face closes over. Their discussion has ended.

  Dalila looks over at the row of chairs. She turns back to collect her passport and documents but Officer Nita has taken them. For a moment, Dalila is trapped, unwilling to walk away from her passport yet uncertain about disobeying the authorities. She feels the people in the queue watching her and trying not to watch her. She lifts her chin, walks to the chairs and sits down, steadying her gaze straight ahead. The next passenger is directed to a booth, his papers are stamped and he is let through.

  Dalila watches families pass easily through immigration. Single people are scrutinised more thoroughly, especially the men, their papers studied, questions asked, but they are all allowed to pass. So many different cultures step up to the booths, each person with a unique face. Each set of shoes different from the rest. An announcement is made, but the accent is so strange to her ears she struggles to rearrange the syllables into coherent sentences. The security guard’s uniform is different from what she has seen in Kenya. The synthetic smell in this hall is different. The lighting is also somehow different. The stickers on suitcases are different. The flat-screen TVs hanging from the ceilings are different. Air vents are different. The number of white people is expected, yet unsettling and confusingly different from what she imagined. The hairstyles, different. The tattoos, different. Her eyes skip from one new image to another, trying to absorb all the differences of every new thing. She wants to look at everything, to turn around in her seat and examine every person, every surface, every item of clothing, but she doesn’t want to be seen to be looking. Still, her eyes dart from one strange thing to the next. In this underground, windowless hall it is only her and a thousand different things and it is warm and getting warmer and she feels like she’s been running, or should be.

  Dalila glances down at the slimy texture on her fingers. It’s blood and she realises she has been picking the scab on her wrist. She licks it off and watches a tiny bulb of red grow back. This she knows. Blood is not different. She sucks her thumb clean and presses down on the scab. Blood is always the same.

  After ten minutes an immigration officer approaches her, a man she has never seen before. He says, Miss Irene Matty?

  She nods.

  If you’d like to grab your bits and pieces and follow me please, he says, indicating with his outstretched arm the general direction they will be going.

  Dalila follows him behind the booths and through the same grey door the other man was taken. They enter what appears to be a stockroom. Metal shelves cover two walls. On them are boxes and small suitcases, items of clothing, toys, laptops and electronic components. There are two desks with computers and a two-way mirror that looks out across the passengers arriving at border control. The officer leads Dalila straight through into a waiting lounge with the same blue carpet as the hall and similar airport chairs to the one she has just been sitting on.

  If you’d like to wait here we’ll be with you in just a minute, he says, holding an open palm towards the room.

  Four men are waiting in the room, all of them African. Two Somalis sit up straight discussing in whispers, the third hunches over his briefcase studying papers and the fourth reclines so far back in his chair he is almost lying down. Dalila sits near the coffee machine, as far from the men as possible. The machine stinks of burnt milk and a light blinks near the coin slot. From the corner of the ceiling, a camera films her and she guesses people are watching from behind the mirror on the wall. Dalila fiddles with the rough scab on her wrist, peeling back a corner till it bleeds and then rubbing saliva on her wris
t to stem the bleeding. The scab is black and surrounded by frail pink skin showing the original size of the wound. A wound from Kenya, now carried across the world. She runs her finger over the dried blood, trying to remember how it happened but she can’t.

  And then she can.

  The memory of being thrown forwards across the room. The image of her arm stretched out in front of her, hitting the door frame a moment before her head did, her hand hooking on the door lock as she crumpled to the floor. The memory sits clear, but not the context. It simply happened and the flesh hardened trying to heal itself.

  Officer Nita enters the room followed by a family and two security guards. Dalila recognises the family from the plane. The mother is crying and making a show of it. Her three children huddle close, the youngest clinging to her skirt. The father keeps shrugging off the security guards’ hands.

  Why you don’t believe me? shouts the father.

  Okay, Benton, says the Indian officer.

  Why you don’t believe me?

  Okay, Benton, listen.

  Don’t put your hands on me! Why you don’t believe me?

  The father is a big man, his eyes wide with anger, but Officer Nita isn’t intimidated.

  Okay, Benton. Benton! I need you to look at me, she says. I am going to get my superior so we can sort this out, yeah? Now, take a seat.

  The two security guards step closer and the family claim a row of seats. Except the father, who paces like a caged leopard in front of the mirror.

  Very soon, Officer Nita returns with another immigration officer, an older, heavy set man with very short hair. He has a relaxed, unfussy mood about him but his eyes are hard. Officer Nita talks respectfully to him and Dalila assumes this man must be her superior. Dalila studies his face, trying to memorise his features, but all these people look the same, pale and plump, especially the men.

  The father of the family also recognises the authority of this new immigration officer. He heads straight for him saying, Sir, sir, these people don’t believe me. Every time they say all this bad things about my family.