Dalila Page 6

  A what business? interrupts the younger officer.

  Matatus. They are like taxi vans, explains Dalila. My father was clever and the business grew very strong. Later they began driving tourists all over the country, to Nairobi, Mombasa, Thika, Malindi. Even, they would take people across the border to Uganda. When the business became too big, it was decided my father would stay in Nakuru and my uncle would move to Nairobi and manage all the vans from there. When my brother was eighteen he went to study business management at college in Nairobi. Two years later, I also went to Nairobi to study journalism. I want to be a news reporter on the TV or the radio. If I can stay in this country I will go to college and study very hard. I am a good student. I will even work to pay for my education.

  The older officer raises his eyebrows. You won’t study here and you won’t work here. Is that understood?

  Dalila doesn’t understand. She looks at the young officer for confirmation.

  While your asylum case is being considered it is a criminal offence for you to work or go into higher education, he confirms. If you do, you’ll be arrested, detained and deported.

  The younger officer lifts his pen as if to write and then asks, Is that why you came here? To get a job?

  No, sir, I came for my safety.

  Why are you not safe in Kenya?

  Because of my uncle.

  Tell us about him.

  Her mind is still trying to process why she isn’t allowed to study but she pushes these thoughts aside and tries to focus on her story.

  After the elections, there were too many protests in Kenya, she says.

  Was your family political? asks the younger officer, but the older one silences him with a hand on the shoulder.

  Dalila continues. My family was not political, but protesters were blaming the Kikuyu people. Many Kikuyu were being killed. My brother went to Nakuru to make sure our parents were safe. When he was there robbers came to the house at night, they told my family to leave. My brother refused and they started fighting and the gang killed my whole family. My brother. My father. My mother. They murdered everyone in my house.

  Dalila goes silent. She feels her father standing in the room behind her, senses his reassurance. She takes a deep breath and continues.

  After the funeral, my uncle took over my father’s side of the business. He took me to his house in Nairobi. He said I couldn’t go to college because it wasn’t safe. I was not allowed to leave the house. Every day I had to clean the house, cook food. I slept on the floor. He kept me as a slave. I stayed in the same house for ten months. It was like a prison. One day I refused to work. He became very angry, saying very bad things to me and then . . . he beat me with a belt. He whipped me.

  Dalila stops again. Listening to her own voice, it was developing a tone she was hoping to avoid. The younger officer looks up from his note-taking and asks, Do you have any evidence of this abuse?

  She tugs the neckline of her dress down across her shoulder. The scar on her collarbone is raised, still pink in parts.

  What else did he do to you?

  Her story only leads to dark places. Places she has never talked about. Places she doesn’t want to describe. The inner part of her forces at the seams of her outer part. The thought of him coming towards her, placing his hand on her, causes her mind to drift, hovering again, watching the scene from the ceiling. Dalila blinks hard. She rubs a hand across her face trying to pull herself back, to be here, now, in this interview, to face these questions.

  How did you get here? asks the older officer.

  A friend . . . helped me, she says. He arranged for my documents and the flight.

  Tell us about this friend.

  Charles Okema. That one is a matatu driver for my uncle.

  And how did you meet him?

  Always, people were coming in and out of my uncle’s house. You must know, in Nairobi the matatu businesses are like gangsters, believe me. They fight for territory, they pay the police, there is too much corruption. My uncle’s business is now very big, his matatus go to everywhere. He has lots of . . . advisors. Lots of security. Charles was an advisor to my uncle and he came to the house every day. He saw me there. One day, my Uncle Kennedy took a boy, only fourteen years old, into the house. He said this boy had betrayed him. My uncle was so very angry. He beat the boy with his fists and when the child fell down my uncle kicked him. The boy cried for mercy, he called out the name of his mother, but my uncle only kicked and kicked until the boy died. Charles was there. Even me, I saw this.

  The next day Charles spoke quietly to me. He said he knew about my family. He said the gang who killed my family, they were not political, they worked for my uncle. He said if I have money he will help me escape. I wanted to go, so I took money from my uncle’s room and gave it to Charles. I was very scared, but after fifteen days Charles told me everything was in order. The next morning, very early, he took me from the house and brought me to the airport. He gave me all the papers and explained exactly what I must do. And so I came here.

  The older officer runs his hand across his cheek. His eyes stay fixed on Dalila and in the silence she hears the prickle of his stubble against his dry fingers. He leans across and whispers something to his colleague. Then he says to Dalila, We’ve checked your data, and we see you came here on a tourist visa.

  Yes, sir.

  Where did this . . . Charles Okema get the visa and the plane ticket?

  From Eddie.

  Eddie who?

  I don’t know, sir. Me, I only know the name Eddie.

  It’s an offence to lie to us, Miss Matty, you know that, don’t you? It won’t help your case either if you are seen to be lying. Is that clear?

  Now both men look at her, waiting.

  Dalila lowers her head. I only know the name Eddie, she answers. I never met with him. I never spoke to him. Charles only—

  Speak up please, says the older officer. I can’t hear you.

  Dalila swallows, sits up straighter. Charles only said the name Eddie. That is the truth.

  Why didn’t you claim asylum at the airport?

  I was following my instructions.

  What do you mean?

  In the airport Charles gave me my passport with a tourist visa, a plane ticket, a letter and US dollars. Also, he gave me instructions. He said I must memorise them, do exactly what they say. After, I will meet people at the airport, friends of Eddie, these people will help me. They will show me where to get asylum.

  Did you meet with these people?

  Yes, they took my money and the man, he tried to hurt me, so I ran away. I couldn’t be safe there.

  She pauses, feeling her composure about to break. As she raises a trembling hand to her eyes, a powerful sadness descends. She tries to feel if her father is here with her, but he is not.

  Please, she says, please help me. I have no people. I have no place to sleep. I have no money. I only want to be safe.

  She reaches into her handbag for a tissue. The two officers watch her blow her nose and they wait till she has composed herself.

  Where do these people live? The people you met at the airport, asks the older officer.

  She recites the address she has memorised and the younger officer writes it down.

  What are their names?

  Anne Nafula Abasi and Markus, says Dalila, sniffing and wiping a finger across her eye.

  The older officer leans in and whispers to the younger one. He glances at the notes and then checks his watch. Okay, I think we have enough here, he says, standing up and stretching. I reckon it’s lunchtime.

  The younger officer nods and stands up. As he gathers the papers he says to Dalila, You’ll be provided with temporary accommodation for the next few days and meet with your case worker who will manage your case. The Home Office may need to disperse you to a more suitable city elsewhere in the UK. If this happens you’ll probably be assigned a different case worker. You understand?

  Dalila blows her nose and nods.

/>   Thank you, Miss Matty.

  A week later, Dalila is sitting on the front step of the hostel, where the Home Office has housed her. Tucked against the wrought-iron railings, she wraps her arms around her knees. Five pigeons peck at sodden crumbs on the concrete. There is one with a diseased foot. It’s the most aggressive, hobbling on a red stump, chasing after specks, sometimes mistaking chewing gum for food. They remind her of the pigeons in Nairobi.

  Pigeons – same.

  Her nose is wet and has been running for days. Her lips, dry. As she inhales through her mouth, the morning air tastes clean as toothpaste.

  Down on the pavement, two Syrian teenagers share a smoke. While one boy narrows his eyes and touches the filter to his lips, the other poses, like a TV policeman, smoothing back the hair above his ears. They glance up the street, and back over their shoulders. They tap their toes against the red postbox, too aware of themselves to ever stop moving.

  Boys acting brave – same.

  Red postboxes – different.

  The boys are brothers. They arrived the day before yesterday. She has never heard them speak English and never seen them apart. Last night, she eased out of her bunk and tiptoed to the bathroom. At the far end of the hall something moved and she froze. The youngest brother was slumped against the wall, sobbing. The older one was trying to pull the limp boy to his feet. The sobbing was so deep, so forsaken, she felt her own tears threatening to surface. She slinked back to bed and stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the other women turn in their dreams.

  The oldest Syrian boy drops the cigarette and twists it underfoot as the brothers go inside. Dalila curls and splays her cold toes inside her shoes, watching one pigeon toddle over and taste the cigarette butt.

  She gets up and goes inside. A young man with a flipchart is leading a drop-in English class in the common room, so she wanders through to the canteen. Children’s toys are scattered across the floor. Little boys and girls dash open-armed around the room. The dining tables have been arranged into a U-shape and volunteers are ripping open black plastic bags of donated clothes and dumping the contents on the tables. A few hostel residents are helping sort the items, but many are snatching the expensive-looking clothes. Coats and jackets are the most popular items. Baby clothes are in high demand, too. As Dalila picks through the clothes the faint smell of pencil-sharpenings comes off the fabrics. She finds a pair of jeans and some underwear still in their plastic packaging. She holds up a T-shirt with a swirling blue pattern.

  Hiya, says a young volunteer. A loose woollen beanie rests on the back of her head as strands of black hair shape her plump face.

  Hello, Dalila says to the young woman.

  Just a second, says the girl, turning her back on Dalila. She steps behind a large gas heater and slowly wheels it closer. The heater has a glowing orange filament, but the moment the girl turns a dial on the top, blue flames ignite the second filament.

  That’s a bit better, don’t you think? says the girl. She turns to Dalila and asks, Sorry, love, what’s your name again?

  Dalila, says Dalila.

  Dalia?

  Dalila.

  Da-li-la?

  Irene is my English name.

  Irene. That’s a lovely name. I’m Lyndsay. Are you looking for anything particular?

  Maybe shoes, Dalila says, if you have.

  Aye, we’ve got a few boxes over here. Lyndsay leans across the table and looks at Dalila’s socks protruding through the open front of her plastic sandal. What size are you? says Lyndsay.

  Six?

  Right, well, you can look though those boxes over there. C’mon, I’ll show you.

  Some ladies’ boots are stacked two by two, next to the boxes, the boot uppers flopping to the side like ox ears. Lyndsay bends over a box, peering into each shoe searching for the right size. Dalila squats and looks at the pile of straps and buckles and laces. She runs her hands across running shoes, pumps, slippers and sandals.

  A boy riding a plastic tractor bumps into the box of shoes. She recognises the boy. It is Farnaz’s son. She has been sitting with them at suppertime for the past few nights.

  Salaam, little man, says Dalila, smiling at the child. She touches him on the cheek and he smiles back.

  Farnaz comes over and says hello. She scoots her son off to play with the others and picks up a pair of black boots. Oh, these are very nice, she says. Irene, you need shoes?

  Dalila nods.

  Okay, I help you, says Farnaz, starting to rake through a box.

  After a moment, Farnaz says, Today, I signed for Birmingham. Lots of Iranian people live there. Many people say Birmingham is the more beautiful city in whole of UK.

  You will be happy there. I am sure, says Dalila.

  Insha’Allah, says Farnaz.

  Over the past week, Dalila has pieced together the system for managing the flow of people through this hostel. The Home Office are moving asylum seekers out of London, to Manchester, to Birmingham, to Newcastle, to Glasgow or Liverpool. The name of each city is on the cork noticeboard. If your name is listed under a city, that’s where you are going. If not, you have to wait in the hostel till they find a place for you. Tomorrow is posting day and the tension in the hostel has been building.

  Residents can request to be sent somewhere, but Dalila hasn’t even heard of some of the cities on the list. She suspects most people in the hostel know very little about these cities. No one really knows how big they are, or how far they are from London. In the absence of facts, gossip serves as information. Most claim that Manchester is the best place to go, since everyone has heard of Manchester United, so it follows that the city must be as exciting and prosperous as its famous football team. To a lesser extent, the same logic applies to Liverpool. Birmingham is also popular because many have relatives there.

  Dalila’s hand finds a gold basketball shoe. The laces are knotted to its partner. She untangles them from other shoes in the box and holds them up. Her brother would have loved these. He was obsessed with Nike. She remembers him drawing the swoosh on a pair of white canvas shoes when he was still a small boy. When he was thirteen years old he saved up enough to buy a second-hand pair from the market. He scrubbed them with a toothbrush and kept them in a plastic shopping bag next to his bed. There was such pride in his stride when he wore them. That’s what she remembers most, his smile as he laced them up, how he was when he wore them.

  Dalila places the sole of her foot against the sole of the basketball shoe.

  I think this one is good for you, says Farnaz, holding up a pair of black high-heeled boots. What size you want?

  Six.

  Ah, this is too small. I will find another. Farnaz turns to Lyndsay. Six, she says, do you have size six?

  Lyndsay drags over another box and starts pulling out shoes.

  Farnaz turns back to Dalila. Did you decide where you go, Irene?

  No.

  Why? You must sign your name for a city.

  I don’t mind where I go, says Dalila. God will decide.

  If you don’t choose, they put your name for Glasgow, pleads Farnaz. Glasgow is very bad, very dirty.

  Dalila has overheard the rumours about Glasgow, and they weren’t good. People said it is far, far to the north, in another country. It is always cold, covered in snow, very windy. Some people believe they don’t even speak English in Glasgow and the locals are nasty, racist. They stab asylum seekers. Once you go there you are forgotten about. No one in the hostel wants Glasgow. Last week a woman’s name was posted under Glasgow, and she burst into tears. People on that list try to swap. They plead to be sent to another city. Some refuse to get on the bus. Others hide and sleep in the park overnight hoping that next week they might be assigned to a different city.

  Och, Glasgow’s not so bad, says Lyndsay. I was born there.

  Farnaz looks sideways at Lyndsay.

  You don’t believe me? says Lyndsay. I’ll show you.

  As Lyndsay walks off towards the canteen kitchen, Far
naz says to Dalila, Please, you sign for Birmingham. You come with me.

  Lyndsay returns with a calendar. She flips through to February and shows them the picture. See? she says. That’s Glasgow.

  Under a blue sky, by a blue river, rest metallic, futuristic-looking buildings.

  So, that’s the IMAX Cinema and the Science Centre, says Lyndsay, pointing at the picture. And that one’s the BBC headquarters.

  BBC TV? asks Dalila.

  Aye, it’s BBC Scotland and next to it’s the STV headquarters. It’s a whole media hub right by the river.

  With journalists? says Dalila.

  Of course, they broadcast the news from that very building.

  Farnaz studies the picture and shakes her head. I think it’s so cold there, she says. She turns, picks up a pair of black boots and gives them to Dalila. These ones are better for you. Take them. Try them. They are better.

  Dalila looks at the gold Nikes in her hands. Me, I like these ones, she says.

  But it’s not for women, says Farnaz.

  Dalila slips her feet into the basketball shoes. The shape of someone else’s feet rest under her own, and the gold shines clean. Dalila looks up at the two women and grins.

  *

  The next morning, the lists are posted. Everyone crams around the noticeboard. Farnaz gets Birmingham with two other women from Dalila’s dorm. A Congolese woman picks up her little boy and begins crying. It is Glasgow for her. The Syrian brothers are going to Manchester. They hug each other and shake hands with a few men. She overhears them mention Beckham and Rooney.

  The gathering begins to break up. A few men go outside to smoke. Some hold conversations in the common room. Most of the women head back to their rooms to pack.

  Dalila steps closer to the board and scans the lists for her name. She sees what she expects to see. Her name is top of the list, under Glasgow.

  Three of them take the minibus north at 11:30 a.m., the Congolese woman with her infant son and Dalila. Two other people on the list didn’t show up. They were not to be found in the hostel, their bags were not on their bunks.