Dalila Read online

  But as soon as he approaches the guards hold him back. Shouting breaks out. Threats and orders fill the room.

  Dalila turns her head so as not to attract attention. She breathes in and feels the wavering in her throat.

  Under the threat of arrest the father sits down and stays quiet. The immigration officers leave and a short while later another immigration officer enters the room. He walks up to Dalila and says, Irene Delilah Mathi?

  He looks a lot like the other white officers. Bald head, overfed. She thinks she has never seen this man before, but she can’t be sure.

  Are you Irene Delilah Mathi? he asks.

  Yes.

  Follow me please. We’re going to go downstairs to search your bags, okay?

  Dalila stands up and follows him.

  Downstairs, her suitcase rests, unopened, on a long metallic table. A black man in uniform waits with his hand on her bag.

  I am a customs officer, says the man, and I am going to search your bag at the request of the immigration officer.

  Dalila nods. Only on TV has she heard a black man speak with an English accent. It confuses her and she is not sure if she trusts him more or less. He unzips her suitcase and opens it. It isn’t full and the contents lie loose and dishevelled from the journey.

  Where have you come from? he asks.

  Me, I come from Kenya.

  Did you pack this bag yourself?

  Yes.

  The customs officer takes out a pair of old running shoes and puts them to one side.

  Are you carrying any drugs or guns or animals?

  No.

  He takes out her favourite pair of grey jeans, and feels through the pockets. He takes out the pair of shorts she bought a year ago at the Sunday market and the white blouse she wants to wear for job interviews. He piles them next to the running shoes. The immigration officer peers at the items but doesn’t interfere.

  Did you leave your bag unattended at any time?

  No.

  The customs officer unpacks the orange jersey her mother knitted for her two years ago and the blue long-sleeved T-shirt she wears to keep her warm in the winter. He takes out her Hello Kitty toiletry bag, which she has had since she was fourteen. He goes through her make-up, opens and sniffs her Nivea skin cream, examines her Close-Up red gel toothpaste. He sifts through her socks and underwear. He unfolds her cotton nightshirt with the dancing pandas, no longer white but dyed a very pale blue from being in the same wash as her uncle’s jeans. He performs each task with a studied professionalism. When the bag is empty the customs officer sweeps his palm along the inside, feeling for items sewn into the lining. Satisfied with the suitcase, his eyes flicker over her face and rest on the handbag she is clutching to her chest.

  Your handbag, please, he says, holding out his hand.

  She gives him her bag and folds her arms across the empty space around her chest. Each hand clutches an elbow.

  The customs officer unzips her bag and takes out a packet of tissues, a nail file, her glittery-blue plastic purse. He fingers through 500 Kenyan shillings and some change, pulls out her Kenyan ID card and studies her photo on the left and fingerprint on the right.

  Irene Dalila Mwathi, he reads out loud.

  Yes, says Dalila.

  Her student ID card bears the same name. He finds a folded brown envelope, opens it. This unsettles Dalila, she doesn’t allow anyone to touch this, and both officers notice her reaching for the envelope and then withdrawing her hand.

  Cautiously, the customs officer pulls out a photograph. It’s the one of her family standing in front of their old house in Nakuru. Her uncle, father and mother stand shoulder to shoulder at the front door. Dalila is standing next to her mother, holding her brother’s hand. Her uncle’s three boys sit on the front step. Everyone is dressed in Sunday clothes and all are serious except her uncle, who, as always, is smiling.

  The next photo is of her father when he was young. He is holding up her brother, both are laughing. She always feels this photo makes the gap between her father’s front teeth appear larger than she remembers.

  The third one is her favourite. It was taken by her father. Her mother is standing by the cook fire behind the house, wearing her green-and-blue shawl. Dalila is only thirteen, squatting by the fire stirring sukuma wiki. A faint aroma of fried onions with steaming kale comes to her. It does every time she looks at this photo.

  The customs officer lays the photographs aside and takes out an in-flight magazine from her bag. The title reads, Think you know London? Think again!

  He looks at her.

  Dalila lowers her head.

  In her handbag he also finds a bread roll sealed in plastic and a tub of fruit salad from the in-flight meal.

  Heat blooms into her face. Taking the magazine was bad, but stolen bread holds a deeper shame. She wants to explain, to invent an excuse, but the customs officer silently packs everything back into her handbag.

  The immigration officer leads her back upstairs and along a narrow corridor with a series of yellow doors and glass-fronted interview rooms. The number for each cubicle is on the glass. Each room is identical. White walls, white desk and four grey chairs.

  She is shown into a cubicle and told to wait. She sits and the officer leaves, locking her in the room. A little camera films her from above the door. On the glass is a small laminated poster stating, Please do not lean on the red strip as it sets off an alarm. It is only then that she notices the red rubber strip, like a bus bell, running the length of the wall. She rocks in her chair but catches herself doing this and forces herself to stop.

  Stay calm, she thinks. Stay calm and remember your answers.

  She closes her eyes and visualises her list of instructions but before she can really think about it Officer Nita enters the room. She starts her questions before she has even sat down.

  Is this your first time abroad?

  Yes.

  I thought so because this passport is very new. When did you get it?

  Dalila mentally checks her list of instructions but this question has no answer.

  Me, I . . . I got it two weeks ago, she says. Before I came on the plane the passport was ready.

  That was lucky, wasn’t it?

  What?

  The officer sits down and opens the folder. You were very lucky your passport arrived just before your flight, she says, or you wouldn’t have come on this holiday.

  Dalila tries not to frown. Yes. I was lucky, she replies.

  When is your date of birth?

  On the twentieth of December nineteen ninety-four, says Dalila.

  So you’re twenty-one years old, yeah?

  No, only twenty. I am twenty-one in December.

  The immigration officer makes eye contact for the first time and Dalila looks down at her hands.

  How long is your holiday?

  Three weeks, says Dalila.

  That’s a long time for a holiday, isn’t it?

  Yes.

  And you have a return ticket?

  Yes, says Dalila, searching through her handbag and producing the ticket.

  Officer Nita examines the ticket and checks it against her passport.

  So, how many days are you staying for?

  For twenty days.

  Huh. Officer Nita raises her finger and touches the tiny hole in her nostril as she thinks. Twenty. Twenty. Twenty, she says.

  Sorry?

  It’s just funny, yeah, she says. You’re born on the twentieth, you’re twenty years old and you’re staying for twenty days. Don’t you think that’s funny?

  I don’t know.

  What don’t you know?

  Dalila looks into her interrogator’s eyes and says, I am twenty years old and I will visit the UK for twenty days.

  Your English is very good.

  In Kenya, we speak English.

  How did you get the time off work?

  I am a student. I want to study journalism.

  So how did you afford to come he
re?

  My uncle paid for me.

  Your uncle?

  Yes, my parents, they . . . they died. Last year. Now I live with my father’s brother. He said before I start my studies I should visit England. So, now I come to see my aunt.

  But she’s not really your aunt, is she? You said she’s more like your cousin, your mother’s cousin?

  Yes, replies Dalila. This is my only family. Only these ones are left.

  Let’s see the money you have.

  Dalila produces a polythene sleeve with the US dollars and Kenyan shillings and lays it on the table.

  Do you think that’s enough money for a holiday in the UK?

  Dalila glances at the pile of notes and then at the immigration officer.

  I suppose you can earn some more while you’re here, yeah?

  This is a trap and Dalila’s instructions have prepared her for it. No, she replies, I don’t come here to work. Only to see my family.

  Who are not really your family, says Officer Nita.

  They are my family, my mother’s family.

  Do you have an address and contact details for the family you’re staying with?

  Yes, Dalila answers, and hands over a note with the address and mobile phone number.

  Your aunt’s coming to collect you at the airport, yeah?

  Yes.

  The officer pouts and taps her pen against her palm as she studies the paperwork.

  Okay, Miss Mwathi, she says, I’m going to have to make some calls to follow up on our discussion here. In the meantime you’ll have to—

  The door swings open and an immigration officer leans in through the doorway. He has a mug of tea in one hand, a chocolate bar in the other, and a wide grin on his face.

  Nita, he says, we got a shit storm in the holding pen. One of yours.

  What?

  That family you brought in about an hour ago? One of the little nippers pissed his pants and the father has started throwing stuff. It’s all kicking off.

  Shit, says Officer Nita. So you came to get me instead of helping out?

  The man at the door dunks the chocolate bar into his tea. Sorry, love, he chuckles, I’m on my break.

  Officer Nita grabs the paperwork on the desk and pushes past him.

  The door slams shut.

  Dalila sits in the silence.

  Her fingers find the scab on her wrist. The interrogation that just took place plays over and over in her mind. She stuck to the story, answered the questions just as she had practised. Mostly. She had been told the story was good enough to get her through, but doubt picks at her.

  The door opens again and another immigration officer stands in front of her. This one is young with a crooked mouth.

  Miss, um . . . He looks up her name on the list he is carrying and reads it as if it is three separate names. Irene. Dalila. Mwathi.

  Yes.

  Right, well, I need you to come with me.

  She is taken back to the holding pen, with her suitcase. The two Somalis are still there. Everyone else is gone. Dalila sits on the same seat as before. As soon as she sits an officer comes and takes the Somalis away.

  Dalila waits alone. Another windowless room full of different things and she feels her eyes dart around as the anxiety starts to grow in her chest.

  Blood is the same, she whispers to herself, glancing at her scab. But it’s not enough to calm her this time.

  Next to her, the drinks machine hums like a fridge. It is sponsored by Coke.

  Coca-Cola, she whispers. Coke is the same.

  Fanta – same.

  Schweppes – same.

  Sprite – same.

  But the coin slot is different. To keep her mind occupied, she plays the game again.

  Security camera – same.

  Carpet pattern – different.

  Fire sprinklers – different.

  Recycling logo – different.

  Dalila plays the game in her mind over and over, focusing on each item in the room. Every different thing is acknowledged, but each object that is the same holds a hint of home.

  Her stomach growls but she dares not eat the bread in her bag. She is sure she is waiting for Officer Nita. When, after an hour and a half, Officer Nita does open the door, she is holding Dalila’s passport and papers.

  I’ve been in touch with your aunt, yeah, and she’s waiting for you at arrivals.

  Dalila doesn’t know how to respond.

  So, if you grab your bags, I’ll take you to her.

  Officer Nita leads, Dalila follows, cradling her handbag with one arm and hauling her suitcase in the other. They pass a shuttered coffee franchise. The departure lounges are empty, silent. Fluorescent light whitens the air yet along the windows night presses against the panes.

  At a door, Officer Nita yawns as she swipes a card through a slot. They move through, into a larger, busier space, with travellers pushing trolleys full of luggage. Two people stare open-mouthed at the arrivals board. Over by the pillar, a teenage boy sits on the ground pulling clothes and books out of his rucksack. Dalila’s eyes catch a sign for CHECK IN and a sign saying TAXIS and, further on, the word EXIT above automatic doors, and beyond that, movement, cars and the open night air.

  Near the exit, Dalila spots a group of Africans. Three of them. A large woman in a green woollen hat, with a small child wriggling on her lap. A man, too young to be the woman’s husband, but perhaps too old to be her son, sits hunched forward, staring into his phone. Dalila recognises none of them, but she wonders if these could be the people she is supposed to meet. The woman looks up and sees Dalila. She glances around the airport and nudges the man next to her. He looks up. The woman lifts the child off her knee and stands. She throws her arms wide and trots towards Dalila.

  Irene, my beautiful girl, she calls out in English. Oh child, you have grown so much!

  She wraps her arms around Dalila, pressing her cheek against Dalila’s face. The woman holds tight, chuckling and swaying. Dalila’s arm and handbag are wedged into the middle of this awkward embrace but she allows it to happen, knowing this is the final stage of her instructions, these must be the contacts she is supposed to meet. But underneath this knowledge, down at her core, panic flutters. She doesn’t know these people, doesn’t know what they expect from her, doesn’t know how she should act.

  We are so happy to see you, says the big woman, finally letting go of Dalila’s neck. God bless you, madam, she says to Officer Nita, grabbing her hand and shaking it. Thank you. You are a very, very good and nice person.

  That’s alright, says Officer Nita, pulling back her hand. I just have a few questions.

  But you are good. I can see your heart, persists the big woman. God bless you, madam. I have not seen my niece for many years. Thank you. You make everyone in my family so, so happy.

  And your name is? Officer Nita asks.

  Me? My name is Anne Nafula Abasi. She takes out a British driving licence and shows it to Officer Nita. Just now, you phoned me and we spoke together.

  Anne is wheezy with excitement. She adjusts her green hat and takes the child’s hand. This is my daughter, Helene, she explains to Dalila. To the child she says, This is your Aunty Irene. Say hello.

  The child glances wide-eyed at Dalila before tucking her chin to her collarbone. Dalila braces her handbag, blinking at the child. To her mind Anne is too old to be this child’s mother, but it’s obvious Anne is in charge. She is big, confident, a true Mama.

  Smiling, Anne switches to Kiswahili and says to Dalila, At least try to smile, girl. Do your part, so we can leave.

  A knot of panic tightens in Dalila, she tries not to look at Officer Nita. The pressure to run or cry threatens to burst out if she doesn’t make her body do something. She lets go of her suitcase, bends over and smiles at the child. But the little girl doesn’t move.

  Don’t be so scared, laughs Anne, urging the child forward. This one, she is too shy, but soon you will be friends. Now, Irene, say hello to your cousin Markus.r />
  The man steps forward. He is short, thick around the neck and waist. A round shaven head. Dalila judges him to be in his late twenties. He slips his phone into his back pocket and reaches both arms towards her.

  Cousin, he says, you have grown beautiful.

  She lets this man embrace her and kiss her cheek. Nice to see you, too, cousin, she says.

  Officer Nita’s phone chimes. She reads the message and rolls her eyes. Right, she says, handing the driving licence back to Anne. I have to get back to work.

  God bless you, madam, says Anne. You are a good person. God bless you.

  Officer Nita curls the corner of her mouth and waves once as she backs away. Goodnight, everyone, she says. And Irene, in three weeks’ time, make sure you’re on that flight, yeah?

  Dalila nods and turns to face the people she has been left with. Anne is smiling and waving at Officer Nita as she walks away, but Markus is staring straight at Dalila.

  Thank you, says Dalila in Kiswahili. I didn’t know if anyone would be here to meet me. Thank you so much. I was told someone would be here but I was worried you wouldn’t wait and I’d be—

  Markus, take the girl’s suitcase, interrupts Anne. You, girl, she says to Dalila, it will look better if you take the child’s hand. Anne adjusts her green hat and says, Let’s go.

  Dalila shuts her open mouth. She takes the toddler’s hand and the four of them walk to the exit. A first set of glass doors open automatically, ushering their group into a glass enclosure, a neutral space the size of the home Dalila grew up in. A second set of doors slide apart and the brisk, damp London air rushes at her, cool as petrol on her skin.

  Anne leads them between parked taxis and across the road. They round the border of a floodlit car park till they come to a series of bus shelters. Markus places his hands on his knees and sits at the far end of the bench. He takes out his phone as if he is completely alone and begins thumbing the screen. Anne traces her finger along the posted timetable before sitting down on the bench. She lifts the child onto her knee and motions for Dalila to join them.

  Are you really Mama Anne? Dalila asks in English.

  We don’t talk here, says the woman. Sit.

  Markus glances sideways at Dalila and says, You have the money?