Dalila Read online

  I have paracetamol in my bag.

  Any other pills on your person?

  No.

  Okay. Place this sticker on your chest, it’s the number for your belongings. You can go through now.

  The female guard points towards a metal detector at the entrance to another room. Dalila walks up to the metal detector and waits for yet another guard to wave her through.

  He motions with his hand.

  She steps through the false doorway, aware of it invisibly searching every inch of her body for a hint of non-compliance. The machine lets out a long high-pitched alarm. The guard approaches and points for her to go back through the detector. Once on the other side he tells her to take off her boots.

  She does.

  Any rings, jewellery or watches? he asks.

  Dalila holds up her hands to show she has none.

  He waves her through and this time the machine stays silent.

  The guard with the loose face approaches and reaches for her neck. Dalila steps back, breath trapped in her throat.

  It’s alright, love, says the guard, I’m just going to check your coat.

  He fingers the collar and feels for items in her pockets. He stands close enough for her to smell the coffee on his breath. Memories of hands, male hands, reaching for her neck flash across her mind and she turns her head and swallows hard, forcing the memories back down. When the guard moves across and examines her shoes she exhales slowly, opening and closing her fists. He peels back the tongue of each boot and peeks inside. He lifts the inner sole and checks for hidden objects then hands them back to her. Dalila notices her hands are shaking and she loses balance slightly trying to slip on her shoes.

  She is led to another desk. There, her name, number and arrival time are marked down and she is given a ticket with a number on it. She is told to wait till they call this number.

  The waiting room is full of people. Nearly every seat is taken. Many languages fill the air and the windows are steamed up from the inside. Children sit on their mothers’ laps or on the floor and some busy themselves by folding paper toys. Men stand here and there, allowing the rest of their family to sit together.

  To her left are two doors. The first is marked TOILET, the second PRAYER ROOM. A glowing drinks and snacks machine stands in the corner.

  A number is digitally lit up and announced with a bleep. Everyone falls silent and dips their heads, checking their tickets. A woman stands up, raises her baby onto her hip, and shuffles down a short corridor off the main waiting room. People continue speaking as before, in small huddles, nodding and biting their lips. Some sit hunched forward, squeezing their knuckles, others appear drowsy and half asleep. A mother clutches her child, moving the little one from one knee to the other to gain a firmer grip as the child wriggles. Dalila stands, unsure of her next move.

  My sister, please, says an old man. He motions for her to take the empty seat next to him.

  Thank you. I am okay, says Dalila.

  Standing is good, says the old man. Because, me, I don’t believe you can walk in those shoes.

  Dalila looks at her feet. Without laces, the tongue on each basketball boot flops forward.

  Grey hairs pepper the old man’s goatee beard. Something about his blue tie and stained shirt collar reminds Dalila of her maths teacher in high school.

  If you choose to stand, says the man, looking up at Dalila, maybe you will stand a very long time. You could grow very tired, become weak and fall down. Because I am the only one to be seen talking to you, the others will assume you are my responsibility and I am too old to carry you out of here. So, out of concern for my weak limbs, please take a seat.

  The old man fails to suppress his playful grin. He nods at the chair next to him.

  Dalila sits with her knees pressed together, her hands on her lap.

  I am Daniel, he says.

  My name is Dalila, she says.

  Nice to meet you, he says as he shakes her hand. Where are you from, sister?

  Kenya.

  Ah, Kenya is a marvellous country, says Daniel, switching into Kiswahili. He leans a bit closer. I lived in Nairobi for many years, I had a business there. Every time I go back I am always surprised by its microclimate. While the rest of Africa swelters, Nairobi nestles in a basin of cool. I’m sure you’ve noticed this. But for my old bones, it’s almost too cold.

  Dalila can tell by his accent he wasn’t born in Kenya, but hearing the homeliness of her mother tongue feels like stepping into sunshine. She watches his mouth as he strums through the language. The African musicality of his vowels, the pop and roll of his syllables.

  I much prefer Lamu, continues Daniel. What a gorgeous little town. An African jewel. Have you been to Lamu?

  Dalila replies in her first language. I once went to Mombasa. I saw the ocean, but, unfortunately, I’ve never been to Lamu.

  That’s good, says Daniel. The less people go there, the longer it will retain its charm.

  Dalila nods politely, not sure if he is joking or not. She looks at the ticket in her hand then at the clock. What happens next? she asks.

  Daniel leans back and crosses one knee over the other. Well, I suppose, you and I will talk about our lives and get to know each other and then, if we have common interests, we might become friends.

  Dalila looks at him. This time she smiles. I mean, what happens when they call my name? What should I do?

  Ah. You should do as they say. He uncrosses his legs and leans forward. Luckily, the Home Office has made this easier for us by removing any recourse to free will. Daniel pauses for a response, his eyes glinting.

  She smiles again, bigger this time.

  Your number will be announced and you’ll be told which booth to report to, he says. Then simply do as you’re told.

  Dalila nods, interlacing her fingers and squeezing them.

  There is no need to worry, sister. You will get used to all of this.

  Another number beeps onto the screen and everyone in the room dips their heads and checks their tickets.

  Bingo, says Daniel, waving his ticket at Dalila. He stands up, buttons his jacket, walks over and sits in the first booth.

  The minutes pass. Dalila notices that all the chairs have been welded together. She reads a Home Office poster showing a handsome, smiling couple from the Middle East who claim to be delighted at accepting an offer by the UK to return them to their community.

  She reaches into her pocket and retrieves a wad of toilet paper, blows her nose and returns the wad to her pocket. Someone else in the room is sniffing. It is a pregnant woman in a grey hijab who is rocking back and forth. Tears wet her cheeks. She sniffs and touches the back of her wrist to her nose. No one goes to her.

  The guard at the door looks at the pregnant woman and looks away. The woman continues to cry. It’s not physical pain but a deeper brokenness. When those tears come they cannot be denied. Men lower their heads. Some strengthen themselves by staring out of the window. An older lady in a black hijab comes over and sits next to the pregnant woman. Without saying a word, she places her hand on the young woman’s arm. They sit together as the woman softly sobs.

  Two more numbers bleep across the screen. Dalila stiffens as she realises her number has been called. She stands up and shuffles in her flapping shoes to booth number four.

  Behind the glass sits a big bald man with an enormous head.

  When she sits down his mouth pulls at the corners as if to smile.

  ARC please, he says.

  Excuse me? says Dalila.

  Give me your ARC.

  My ARC card?

  The man nudges up the bridge of his glasses. It’s called an Application Registration Card, he says. If you call it an ARC card, you are in fact repeating the word card unnecessarily, aren’t you?

  Dalila keeps silent and hands over the card. She gives him the letter too. He slots the card into the machine and stares at the screen in front of him. His eyes flit from her face to the screen, verifying her photo
graph. He has almost no eyebrows and, in the light of the computer screen, his skin has a tinge of green, like a casaba melon.

  Name? he says.

  Irene Dalila Mwathi.

  Address?

  Flat seventeen two Iona Court, Glasgow.

  Is this the first time you’ve reported?

  Yes.

  He types something on the keypad.

  Place your right index finger on the scanner.

  Dalila hesitates, confused.

  The official sighs. He holds up his right index finger. Put finger . . . on red light, he says, pointing at the scanner in front of her.

  Dalila places her finger on the warm glass surface.

  He types more information into the computer, takes out her card and holds it up. You . . . take card to Post Office . . . Post Office give you money. Understand?

  Dalila frowns.

  The card is pushed back under the glass to her.

  Now you . . . wait there, he says, pointing to a single chair in the corridor behind her.

  He sits back, folds his arms and retracts his chin. After a few seconds of staring at each other, Dalila concludes their exchange must be over. She stands up, goes to the chair and sits.

  Twenty minutes later, a woman in a white blouse walks up to her. Are you Mercy Kiguru?

  Dalila glances both ways to see who this woman is talking to, but since no one else is nearby she decides to answer. No, she says.

  No?

  It is not I.

  The woman fingers through the files cradled in her arm. How about . . . let’s see here . . . Irene Dalila Matty? Is that you?

  Me, I am Irene, nods Dalila.

  Right then, come with me.

  She follows the woman into a small office. There is a desk with a computer on it, filing cabinets and boxes on the floor. The bin next to the desk is overflowing with scrunched papers and cardboard coffee cups. Even though the room is stuffy the window is firmly shut. The woman sits behind the desk and Dalila takes the single plastic chair facing the desk.

  Right, says the woman as she places the files to one side and opens the one with Dalila’s name on it.

  It says here that you speak English, is that correct?

  Yes.

  Good, then we can get through this quickly. I’m Ms Colgan and I’ve been assigned to be your case owner. This means I am responsible for controlling the progression of your case.

  It is nice to meet you, Mrs Coligan, says Dalila.

  It’s Ms Colgan.

  Dalila fights a flush of embarrassment as she tries to re-pronounce the name. Miz Col-gin, it is a pleasure to meet you.

  They shake hands and the sensation of this woman’s cold dry skin lingers on Dalila’s fingers.

  I understand that you went through Screening in Croydon almost two weeks ago and you’ve been transferred to Glasgow.

  Yes.

  Ms Colgan smiles, places her elbows on the desk and leans into them. First things first, she says. In the letter we sent you are the dates and times when you’re required to report. Do you have the letter with you?

  Me, I have it here.

  Good, so you’ll know you have to report here twice a week on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. If you fail to meet these reporting restrictions, even one time, then your case may be jeopardised. Do you understand?

  Dalila nods.

  And while your case is being considered it is illegal for you to work in this country. I want you to know that we take this very seriously. It’s a crime to work in the UK without your Leave to Remain. If you’re caught you’ll be arrested and detained. Is that clear?

  Dalila lowers her head. Yes, Miz Col-gin.

  Soon you’ll receive a Statement of Evidence Form through the post, says Ms Colgan. It’s like an application form. You’ve to put in all the details of your case. Don’t leave anything out. Explain exactly what happened to you and why you need to be in the UK to stay safe. Write every single detail down. Just tell the truth and you should be alright.

  Dalila’s stomach knots as she considers the truth, the details. These are not things she has been able to talk about and certainly not anything she ever imagined writing down. But in Ms Colgan’s smile, in her eyes, are hints of kindness or, more accurately, there is an openness to her, a calmness. Perhaps, as they get to know each other, Dalila wonders if she might be able to talk to this woman.

  You don’t need to be concerned, continues Ms Colgan, I’ll be conducting your asylum interview and working with your legal representation. Do you have a lawyer?

  No, says Dalila, reaching up and holding the back of her neck. I don’t have money for a lawyer.

  You shouldn’t need one. You and I will be in close contact throughout the process, but you are entitled to hire legal help if you wish.

  Once you’ve had time to fill in your Statement of Evidence Form, I’ll set a date for your asylum interview. You will bring this form and all the supporting evidence and documents to the interview. I’ll conduct the interview myself and I’ll be joined by two of my colleagues as witnesses. We’ll discuss your situation in detail and then I’ll decide how to proceed from there. Does that all make sense? Do you have any questions?

  Dalila looks at Ms Colgan’s blouse. It is white satin with a shallow V-neck and no shoulder pads. Do you work for the Home Office? asks Dalila.

  Ha! Ms Colgan leans back in her chair, chuckling. Yes, I do. I actually do, someone has to, right? Now, you’ll need one of these, she says, sliding a booklet across the table to Dalila. It’s got all the information we’ve just discussed and here is my card with my number should you need to call me. Okay?

  Thank you, says Dalila.

  Don’t worry about anything, says Ms Colgan. Just report on time, fill in the application papers and I’ll see you at the interview.

  Dalila exits the gates of Festival Court and crouches down to thread the laces through her golden basketball boots.

  Jambo? Dalila hears someone say as they approach. Habari gani?

  She looks up and sees the old man she met earlier in the waiting room. Mzuri, sana, says Dalila.

  We meet again. It is me, Daniel, he says in Kiswahili.

  Yes, I remember, says Dalila, standing up to shake his hand.

  I am going to the library, says Daniel. Do you know where it is?

  No, I’m not sure of anything.

  It’s just along the road, not far. I go there most days. I read the internet. If you don’t mind walking slowly with a tiresome old man like me, then I will show you the way.

  In one corner of the library two children sit on a beanbag and point at pictures in a book. On the other side of the hall, five old men sit in armchairs reading newspapers. There are shelves of CDs and DVDs. In the centre of the hall is a display of books with bright blue covers. The sign invites people to Beat the Winter Blues with a Book!

  Daniel introduces Dalila to the librarian behind the counter and mentions that Dalila would like to join the library. After filling in some paperwork, they reserve an hour to browse the internet.

  Upstairs, on the mezzanine level, is a suite of computer terminals with a few people sitting in front of the screens. One of them is a man Daniel recognises. The men shake hands and whisper their hellos. Dalila sits at the computer allocated to her.

  She logs on with the pass code she was given and as soon as she is online the timer at the bottom of the screen starts to count down. She has fifty-nine minutes left.

  Her fingers hover over the keys. The address bar on the search engine is as blank as her mind.

  When was the last time she sat in front of a computer like this? Where was she? It must have been in the computer lab on campus, more than a year ago. No, it was actually in the internet cafe in the mall. Just after her brother went up north to check on their parents, she remembers going in there quickly to check if he had sent any news.

  Her fingers type one word. Facebook.

  She enters her email address and password. Her fingers recall the r
hythm of typing these words faster than her mind can remember them. She has 478 notifications and 119 personal messages. She clicks on her home page. It is still that profile picture of her posing in the wig and red shirt that she thought made her look so professional. She can hardly see herself under all that eye make-up. That person doesn’t feel like her any more, or rather she doesn’t feel like that. A silly college girl trying to look grown up. It’s an embarrassing photograph, but she is compelled to look, to see who she was.

  Her timeline is full of new posts. She quickly scrolls down and then back up, reading random messages from her friends and classmates.

  Sarah Wa Mum ur bro was the best. RIP.

  Anthony Gamboa xaxa D. I heard about your fam. So sorry. May God be with you this trying times.

  G. Talai So sorry 4 ur loss dada.

  Beautiful Muragu People saying these crazy things about U Irene. Whats up?

  R U OK?

  Judy Mwenda pole for your loss. Call me

  Eunice Ndirangu I’m really worried. Is how? Not seen u for months! Where ru???? Some people saying ur with yur uncle or something. Plz Plz Plz ☎ me. email. Anything.

  Caleb Wairimu RIP Dalila Mwathi, you were always so sweet.

  Judy Mwenda She not dead!!

  Caleb Wairimu What? Sorry. I heard about the riots, about her family.

  Muthoni Muragu Has anyone heard from Dalila #whereisdalila

  JC Kinuthia No

  Njeeh Kimenju She’s not @ colle, not in class. Not seen her for ages.

  Moses Kaire She’s with her uncle.

  Faith Ndungu I heard she moved to Thika.

  N. Mutiso Missing you everyday girlfriend. Hope you’re ok wherever you are.

  Sam Mbuvi Condolences. May you RIP. You were a beautiful girl, a delight.

  Kenny Kibue We mourn our friend.

  Muthoni Muragu Dalila, If U read this call me!!! I know UR there. #whereisdalila

  Esther Njanja You and your brother touched many lives in this college. May you both rest with God.

  Muthoni Muragu Siz, just p.m. me or something. Friends milele!! #whereisdalila

  The posts roll on and on. Dalila sets the cursor on her status update and, not quite sure what to say, she excitedly starts typing.