Dalila Page 5

  Dalila nods.

  And did you travel all that way on your own?

  Yes, says Dalila. She sniffs and says, I came alone on the plane. An agent arranged for me to meet his people at the airport. I didn’t know them. They got money to help me stay in this country. But when I went with them, they . . . this man . . .

  The raw thing inside her pushes up again, stronger than before. The tears flow and she finds herself unable to speak.

  It’s alright, love, says Judith. And this happened yesterday, did it?

  He was going to hurt me, whispers Dalila. I ran away. She digs into her handbag and finds the packet of tissues. She blows her nose and apologises to Judith.

  Not at all, says Judith. You’ve had a rough time of it. You sure you don’t want some tea?

  Dalila shakes her head.

  A silence opens up between them. Judith lifts her mug of tea and sips from it. Then she says, I have always found that it’s good to have a plan and get on with it, especially when times are tough. So, what do you want to do, Irene?

  Me, I want to be a journalist, replies Dalila. A news reporter, like the women on NTV Kenya. That is my dream.

  Judith puts down her mug and grins. Well, yes, why not? she says. You’re well spoken. You’d make a fine reporter, you would.

  I studied in college for only one year, says Dalila, but I didn’t finish. One day I will complete my studies.

  Good for you, Irene. You’ve got ambition, I can see that. But the point I was trying to make is, what are your plans right now?

  Oh, says Dalila, as a surge of embarrassment hits her.

  You see, our congregation only runs a night shelter during the week, Judith continues, so you can’t stay here indefinitely. But we try to help people as best we can. Now, you said some people were supposed to help you claim asylum, is that right?

  Yes, says Dalila.

  Do you want to claim asylum?

  Yes, I need this, says Dalila. If I go back to Kenya, my uncle, he will find me.

  Well, if you’re going to claim, you’ll need to go to Croydon. That’s the first step. Everyone has to go to Croydon, says Judith. It’s in south London, not far from here. I’ll make some calls once breakfast has been served. We’ll make an appointment and get everything in order.

  Thank you, says Dalila.

  The warthog man enters the canteen and nods hello. He switches on the urn and starts preparing for breakfast.

  Judith struggles to her feet and says to Dalila, Come on, I’ll show you where the showers are.

  *

  Mid-morning, Judith takes Dalila into the cramped church office. She fingers through a pile of leaflets for asylum seekers and calls the Asylum Screening Unit in Croydon. It’s a complicated process. After three attempts, Judith gets through and says she has a young lady wanting to claim asylum and recites some of Dalila’s basic information. She gives them the office phone number and within half an hour the unit calls back asking more questions. Does Miss Mwathi need an interpreter? Judith says she does not, but she insists that a female case worker interviews Dalila. This is noted and the questions continue. How did she enter the country? What was her point of entry? Does she have tuberculosis? Does she have any children or dependants? Does she have scabies? Later, they call back again, repeating similar questions before confirming the time and date for the interview the following day. They inform her that Miss Mwathi will need four passport photos, uncut, with her full name and date of birth written on the back of each one and she will be expected to bring her passport and all other forms of identification including any documents and supporting evidence to back up her story.

  When you get there, Judith tells Dalila, you just tell them your story. Tell it like a journalist, she says, smiling at Dalila, make sure you get all the details in.

  The details. Dalila lowers her head and thumbs the scab on her wrist.

  I know it might be hard but they can only help you if you trust them.

  In her stomach, Dalila feels the story she needs to tell. It’s a story she has only lived, she has never told it and she worries if she will be able to find the words.

  Judith reaches over and takes Dalila’s hand. Would you like me to pray with you? she asks.

  Um, yes.

  Judith takes hold of Dalila’s other hand and bows her head. Dear Lord Jesus, I bring to You this beautiful young woman and I pray You’ll guide her through these difficult days. In Your infinite wisdom You have brought her to this place. Let her feel Your love and guidance, Lord. May she know, that no matter how hard life gets, You hold her in the palm of Your hand as one of Your dearest children. May she understand that all things happen according to Your divine plan. May she embrace the hope You promised in Your Word, that all things work together for the good for those that love Him. I pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen.

  Amen, echoes Dalila.

  When Melissa arrives, she gives her an easy smile and Dalila can’t help but smile too. The two of them go to a photo booth at the Post Office where Melissa pays for passport photos. Dalila sits upright on the stool and pulls across the little blue curtain. On the digital screen in front of her is an image of her face. Her lip is still swollen from Markus’s headbutt. The image is her, but reversed, not the person she is used to seeing in the mirror. The woman on the screen looks startled and thin.

  By the time the photographs have developed, Dalila is shivering again.

  Oh, you’re frozen, aren’t you? says Melissa.

  Back at the shelter, Melissa rakes through the clothing cupboards as Dalila stands back and watches.

  This one’s nice, says Melissa, holding up a coat. Try it on and see what you think.

  As Dalila puts it on, Melissa holds open the cupboard door so Dalila can see herself in the mirror. Dalila loves the colour, a vibrant banana-leaf green, but it smells of old perfume. It sits far too wide around the waist. She looks lost in it.

  Here, try this, says Melissa, holding up a black puffer jacket. These are really cosy. It’s not really a raincoat but it’ll keep you pretty dry.

  Dalila slips her arms into puffy sleeves. The coat fits neatly down to her waist and from there widens and hangs like a large bell around her knees.

  That’s good on you. It’s a good fit, says Melissa. Here, zip it right up. See? That’ll keep your neck warm against the wind.

  Dalila looks at herself in the mirror. It’s too puffy. The ribbed quilting makes her look like a grub. And black is a colour of sadness.

  How does that feel? asks Melissa.

  She focuses on the feeling. The fabric feels like a sleeping bag tucked around her neck and her hands, deep inside the pockets, are already tingling as they thaw. Is this the kind of clothing she will need in this place? If this English woman likes it, maybe this is what people wear here.

  It feels good, says Dalila.

  Melissa digs through a cardboard box and pulls out a pair of black woollen gloves and a black beanie with a small Thinsulate label on the front. You’ll need these too, says Melissa.

  Dalila slides her fingers into the gloves and puts on the hat, pulling it down to her eyebrows. It’s snug and warm against her ears. She looks like a boy, one of those young men who grill corn cobs on the street. But she’s warm. It’s the most comfortable she has felt since arriving.

  Both of them stand back and regard her image in the mirror.

  We don’t have any women’s shoes at the moment, says Melissa, but we have some thick hiking socks that will be better than nothing.

  Unzipping the jacket, Dalila says, I have no money for these things.

  Oh no, not at all, Melissa says, you keep it. All these items are donated to the church. It’s the goodwill of others that keeps us going.

  Dalila nods and looks at herself in the mirror again. She turns and picks up the red anorak she had been wearing and gives it to Melissa.

  I want to give this to the shelter, says Dalila, for helping me.

  Thank you, says Melissa.

&n
bsp; The next morning, Melissa and Dalila step off the bus in Croydon. A cardboard coffee cup tumbles in the wind. Dalila tugs her woollen hat down over her ears and squints up at the surrounding architecture. Melissa unfolds an information leaflet and holds it open towards Dalila.

  The Asylum Screening Unit looks like this, says Melissa, pointing to a photograph. It should be around here somewhere. It’s called Lunar House.

  Dalila scans the horizon. The tallest nearby structure is a monument to concrete and blue-mirrored glass. The dust-free newness of it is almost beautiful. It is what she imagines a government building in the UK would look like, the neat lines, the air of importance.

  Maybe it could be that one, she says.

  Melissa peers at the building and glances down at the photograph. That looks about right, she says. Are you ready to go?

  Me, I am ready.

  As they walk towards it, the building appears to grow taller and more imposing. Dalila clenches her fists inside her pockets. As she breathes out slowly, Melissa looks at her and links Dalila’s arm around her own. Nothing is said, but in Dalila’s heart a hope begins to grow. If she gives herself openly and truthfully to this place, if they mark down her name and take her fingerprints and listen to her story, if they record it all into their computers then, in a way, she will be woven into its importance. And if her new papers come from here, with official approval, who can argue with that? What is safer than that?

  Outside the entrance to Lunar House stands a queue of at least twenty people. Dalila and Melissa wait with them. At the door, a security guard in an armoured vest ushers people in one at a time. His eyes examine every face in the queue and when they land on Dalila she lowers her head. She can’t help herself. Her little cloud of hope evaporates. What if she can’t tell her story? What if she opens her mouth but the words don’t come? And if the words do come, will they be big enough to hold all that has happened to her?

  Hey, says Melissa, squeezing her arm. It’s okay. There’s nothing to be worried about. You just talk to them and they will help. Okay?

  Dalila nods.

  You know I’m not allowed in there, but trust me, you’ll be safe. It’s going to be okay.

  Dalila nods again, trying to believe what Melissa believes.

  When they reach the front of the queue, Melissa hugs Dalila. You have my number, right? Yes. So, just call me after your interview and we’ll chat. Okay? You’re going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.

  The guard steps aside and lets Dalila through. Inside, security is like an airport. She places her puffer coat, hat, handbag and shoes into a tray on a conveyor belt which rolls through an X-ray scanner, while she steps through a metal detector. Security guards go through everyone’s possessions, picking out manicure sets, knitting needles, aerosol cans, perfume bottles and liquids. The liquids are treated with particular suspicion. Those individuals who have items confiscated are moved to one side and given a ticket so they can collect their belongings when they leave, the rest scramble to rethread their belts and help their children put on their shoes. Dalila pushes through the crowd and grabs her handbag and coat.

  There are window booths, like at a bank. She steps up to the first available one and says, Good morning, madam. My name is Irene Dalila Mwathi. Me, I have come to claim asylum.

  Do you have your appointment letter? asks the officer.

  Yes.

  Well, I don’t see your name.

  Dalila presents the appointment letter that was emailed to the shelter. She also gives the officer the self-completion form which she had filled out in her neatest handwriting. She hands over her Kenyan ID card, her passport photographs, her passport.

  The officer types some details into the computer on her desk and asks, Where are you staying?

  I don’t have nowhere.

  So, you need accommodation?

  Yes.

  The officer does more typing.

  Is my appointment okay? asks Dalila. My name is in the computer?

  The officer issues Dalila with a ticket, saying, Take a seat and wait for your number to be called.

  Although the waiting area is large, it’s full of people, the air as close as breath on her face. Three different babies are wailing. One mother paces the aisle bouncing her inconsolable child on her hip. Another mother tries to bottle-feed her crying infant with one hand and keep her toddler close with the other. Her husband pays no attention.

  Dalila sits down on the end of a row of metal seats.

  Many people disappear into their phones, playing, texting, talking, with no regard for the signs on the wall instructing them to Turn Your Mobile Phones Off! Toes twitch. People sigh. Children refuse to sit still.

  She stands up, takes off her coat and sits back down, folding it over her lap. Her hiking socks have begun to slip off and are flopping through the toe-gap of her shoes. Checking to see if anyone is watching, she leans forward and places her handbag at her feet then quickly tugs her socks tight. She sits up straight and adjusts her sunflower dress across her knees.

  For over an hour, she waits, watching the second hand of the clock sweep around. She wonders where she will sleep tonight. Melissa assured her that the Home Office would provide a place, but where? The leaflets mentioned she may be detained but Judith and Melissa both said that women seeking asylum are mostly placed in a hostel in the city.

  Mostly.

  The man sitting in front of her wears a brown suit jacket, similar to the one her father used to wear. She remembers him wearing it the day she started her degree. He put on his Sunday suit and drove her to college, stopped right in front of the gates. She was so excited to get started she immediately got out and shut the door. As she waved, her father beckoned her back. He rolled down the window, then went silent and seemed to have nothing to say.

  What is it, Father?

  Your mother told me to say she is very proud of you. I mean, your mother and I, we both want to say this. You are a good daughter.

  She remembers the look that passed between them and she wonders if he can see her now, in this building, with her ridiculous socks.

  A baby’s crying becomes open-throat howling. The mother stands up holding the child to her shoulder, trying to gently bounce it into silence, but the crying continues, on and on across the waiting room.

  At 11:21 a.m., her number is called.

  She is escorted to a room where she is asked to confirm her name and date of birth and nationality. She is told to place the fingers of her right hand on a scanner and then her thumb. She obediently repeats the process with her left hand. She is told to look directly into the camera. There is an urge to smile but the atmosphere is too official so she mirrors the mood of the officers. Her escort takes her to an enclosed interview room and Dalila is left by herself to wait. She tucks her handbag and coat under her chair, sits with her knees together, straightens the neckline of her dress. She is expecting a female officer, because Judith specifically asked for one to be present at the interview.

  Two white men in uniform enter the room. The younger one asks, Are you Irene Matty?

  Dalila stands up and says, Yes, sir, I am Irene Mwathi.

  She shakes their hands. The officers sit down. Both of them are plump and short-haired. The younger one has the tail of a tattoo curling out from under his shirtsleeve. The older one yawns and glances at his watch. They have a file with her ID, passport photos and letter. The younger one starts the procedure by confirming her age, date of birth, nationality and marital status.

  He then starts explaining how the interview will proceed. There is something about his face, an expression he maintains in the cross section between his nose and eyebrows, which feels unfamiliar to her. As he talks, he straightens the papers into a neat pile, lightly touching the corners to ensure the papers are precisely aligned.

  Do you understand everything I have explained to you, Miss Matty?

  Yes, sir, I understand. Are you going to interview me?

  The interview has
already started.

  Oh, yes, she says. But I . . . On the telephone I was informed there would be a woman.

  The older officer leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Our female officers are busy at the moment, he says. If you want, you can come back another day. It’s no skin off our nose.

  Dalila looks at his nose. No, she says. We can talk now.

  The older one leans forward. Right, so let’s get on with it. What are you doing in England?

  Dalila fully understands the older one’s expression and struggles to make eye contact with him.

  I came to be safe, she says.

  To be safe, right. From what?

  It is not safe for me in my country. I cannot go back.

  He points down at the tabletop and touches the tip of his index finger to the wood. We’ll decide if you can go back.

  Yes, sir, she says, startled by his manner.

  The younger officer glances sideways at his colleague. He turns back to his papers and asks, Why aren’t you safe?

  My uncle is very dangerous. If he finds me, he will kill me.

  Your uncle?

  Yes, sir.

  And what is his name?

  He is called Kennedy Kimotho Mwathi.

  As the younger officer writes this down, the older one leans back and says, Look, why don’t you just tell us the whole story, from the beginning?

  Dalila closes her eyes. She tries to see what happened to her as one thing, tries to feel where the beginning might be. Faces appear to her and then disappear. She feels herself sinking and in that sensation exists the urge to exhale and allow herself to be pulled under.

  Sometime before lunch would be good, says the older officer.

  The younger one clears his throat and says, Just take your time, Miss Matty.

  Dalila digs out a packet of tissues in her handbag and blows her nose. She tries to see her story as a journalist would see it, with details, and as she does this the shape of it comes to her.

  My family, they come from Nakuru, she starts. My mother, father and brother, we are Kikuyu. All the Kikuyu people are businessmen. Even my father, he had a small matatu business together with his brother Kennedy, my uncle.