Dalila Page 9

  At ITV News, she hesitates. This station can afford a male and female anchor and the frosted-glass desk they sit behind is quite sophisticated. The words MIGRANT CRISIS scroll across the bottom of the screen. A waxy-skinned politician is being interviewed in the studio. The government won’t support planned search and rescue operations in the Mediterranean, says the politician, because it will only create an unintended ‘pull factor’. It’ll simply encourage more migrants to attempt the dangerous sea crossing and thereby lead to yet more tragic and unnecessary deaths. We have to focus our efforts on rooting out the people-smugglers who wilfully put lives at risk by packing migrants into unseaworthy boats.

  The male anchor addresses the other guest in the studio by asking, Do you agree with this strategy?

  No. Absolutely not, replies the guest. The British government seems oblivious to the fact that the world is in the grip of the greatest refugee crisis since the Second World War. People fleeing atrocities will not stop coming if we stop throwing them life rings. You know, boarding a rickety boat in Libya is still a seemingly rational decision if you’re running for your life and your country is in flames. The only outcome of withdrawing help will be to witness more—

  Dalila taps the mute button on the remote and the room is instantly calmer. She rubs her toes and tucks them in tighter under her thighs. The images continue to flip and flicker on the screen in front of her. Compared to Kenyan news studios, the ITV studio seems overly bright and vibrant, as if it doubles for a children’s show in the mornings. Behind the anchors is a glass wall, separating them from the actual newsroom, a room full of desks and computer screens belonging to the actual reporters who are gathering the news. One of these reporters stands and moves across the office to a colleague’s desk. Dalila leans forward, but then catches herself trying to look past the anchor to get a better view of the reporter in the background. The reporter wears a shirt, hair primly tucked behind her ears, and is obviously comfortable in this high-tech environment. What must that be like? To be immersed in information? To be connected to all the great cities of the world, and their neat newsrooms? To live every day in a dust-free world of sheen and lustre, where you can get up from your desk whenever you want, without getting into trouble, and casually walk over to a male co-worker and simply ask him a question?

  The news show ends and she switches over to the BBC. Here the news anchor is an older black woman who is reporting on cricket. Dalila taps the mute button and the woman’s crisp British accent fills the room. There are few things stranger, yet oddly charming, than when she hears a black person speak in this accent. It’s so old-fashioned. Not xaxa. She wonders where this anchor is from. She has a Kenyan look about her, but she could be from Ghana or somewhere. The anchor has excellent hair. Probably a weave of fine-quality Indian hair, but as the camera sweeps closer for a segment change, it appears to be the anchor’s own hair. The roots are too thin near the hairline at her forehead. This is, in fact, perfect hair. Glossy, obsidian folds resting lightly on her shoulders. Relaxed and straightened over many years. And that accent. It’s flawless, like an actual English person.

  They switch to a different studio and announce the news headlines for BBC Scotland. The backdrop to this studio is a still of the bridge and Science Centre she has just visited. As if they are reporting from the rooftop of the actual building she was standing in front of less than an hour ago.

  Dalila jumps up and goes to the balcony window. A light fog has settled on the river. The outlines of the tower and the BBC building have dissolved and lost their definition. Still, it’s thrilling to think that what’s happening on the TV right now is happening in a studio right over there, just a few minutes down the road from where she now lives. She bounces back to the living room and perches on the sofa. Many of the reporters are women, even the ones covering politics and sports, and, as she watches, it is as if something starts to make sense, as if deeper, hidden reasons are allowing themselves to be partially exposed. Perhaps it isn’t a complete accident that she finds herself here, in this particular place. If she thinks about all the hard work she has done and then considers that she is now living down the road from the BBC studios, the actual British Broadcasting Corporation, well, it’s more than a coincidence. She could finish her studies here while she gets her papers in order and then she’ll start applying for jobs. She’d apply to the BBC and the Scottish one. The STV? She might not even have to complete her studies. If she got some nice, professional clothes, she could even go to the reception and enquire about jobs. She could go in every week or every single morning, it wouldn’t be a problem since both newsrooms are just down the road. It would show her persistence, her ambition, her dedication to pursuing her profession. If she goes in enough times they might take notice and give her a job, even a low-level job so she could work her way up. In her spare time, right now, while she waits on the Home Office arranging her papers, she could brush up on her skills. Maybe write some articles or even interview people about something.

  And then, after working at the BBC for a year or two, things will have probably calmed down back home. It’ll be safe to go back. As soon as she lands in Nairobi she could go straight to NTV and apply for a post there. She could even apply by email before she goes. With her experience of working in the UK, at the BBC, they’d be certain to accept her application.

  She gets up, runs to her bedroom, opens the wardrobe door and lifts her chin at the reflection in the mirror.

  This is Dalila Mwathi reporting to you live from the studios at NTV Kenya.

  It doesn’t sound quite right. She shouldn’t use her porridge name. She starts over, trying to mimic a British accent.

  Irene Mwathi reporting live from . . .

  Her British accent is terrible. She tries again, in her own voice. I am Irene Mwathi and you have been watching NTV.

  Unhooking a clothes hanger, she holds it in front of her chin like a microphone, straightens her shoulders and continues.

  Yes, I am out here in the small hamlet town of Njoro, where disturbing reports are coming in of continued violence . . .

  Do they still use microphones? Wouldn’t it be a lapel mic? And her hair is so short. She can’t be a reporter looking like this. She takes her black jersey and slips the neckline over her forehead, allowing the material to hang down over her shoulders like hair. Turning her face this way and that, she studies her profile in the mirror, and tucks a sleeve behind her neck. She stares straight ahead, imagining the local people standing back, giving her room. All eyes on her. The cameraman holding up three fingers, now two, now one.

  I can report that the situation here is becoming increasingly volatile, she starts. There is a growing concern from the locals who feel trapped by the sporadic violence, which, over the past months, has haunted their village. But the government appears to be unable to . . .

  The jersey isn’t right. It looks more like a hijab than a wig. As she adjusts it, her scar becomes visible, that ugly grey welt from her collarbone to her jugular. She tugs up the neckline of her blouse, but it’s still visible, and it’s all she can look at. It’s all anyone would ever look at. How can she read the news like this? How can she even speak to people?

  It’s all ridiculous. She’s ridiculous. Talking to herself in the mirror with a stupid jersey on her head. She peels it off and sits down on her bed.

  She should do something. Just sitting around this empty flat is pointless. She should at least look busy because Ma’aza might be back at any time. She gathers her few items of clothes and, unsure how to use the washing machine, she kneels at the bath and hand-washes them, wrings them out and goes to the kitchen. She opens the door to the balcony. Holding on to the door frame, she steps only one foot out and drags the clothes horse closer, all the while keeping her other foot safely inside the kitchen. Pegging her clothes up, she focuses purely on the task in front of her, refusing, even for a second, to glance through the railings at the abyss below.

  Back inside the kitchen, she shuts
the door and stares out. Fog hangs heavier across the city as the afternoon darkens into evening.

  It is a struggle to remember what, exactly, she was expecting on her walk this morning. The architecture was beautiful, maybe inspiring. The people outside, the journalists, if they were journalists, were smartly dressed but it is hard to picture them now. She mostly remembers them smoking. Facing each other as they joked and giggled. Every now and then one of them would stretch an arm out behind them and tap their cigarettes. As the ash released, before it even hit the ground, the wind would carry it off.

  Early the next morning, Ma’aza knocks on Dalila’s door and opens it without waiting for an answer. Dalila pulls back the duvet and blinks at her.

  Come, says Ma’aza, we must go.

  Where?

  To Festival Court. Come. Wake up.

  Dalila lies back down, covers her eyes with her elbow. Today I can’t. Me, I feel sick.

  This is for you, says Ma’aza, laying a letter on Dalila’s bed.

  As Dalila props herself up with her elbow, the pressure in her sinuses shifts and the room itself seems to lean and then rights itself. The envelope is addressed to her but it has already been opened.

  Ma’aza shrugs. I look inside for you, she says.

  Dalila removes the single sheet of paper. The Home Office stamp decorates the top-left corner and there’s a scanned photo of her face on the right. The letter is titled, Immigration Act 1971 – Notification of Temporary Admission to a Person who is liable to be Detained.

  Paragraph A is titled, Liability to Detention.

  Paragraph A reads, You are a person who is liable to be detained.

  That is all it says. That is the entire paragraph.

  Dalila sniffs hard and looks up at Ma’aza. They will put me in jail?

  No. This is not the letter for detention. It is the letter for reporting, says Ma’aza. She points to paragraph B. Look there. It says you take this letter to Festival Court and report to the Home Office. Your appointment is today. Nine o’clock.

  Today? says Dalila, sitting up in bed.

  You want safety or you want to sleep? asks Ma’aza.

  Dalila rubs a finger along her eyelid and digs out a fleck of sleep gunk from the corner of her eye.

  If you don’t go, shrugs Ma’aza, you get in trouble. They reject your case.

  She yanks the duvet off the bed. Come. Get ready. Wash your face, and bring your ARC card. I will show you where to go. Ma’aza marches off, leaving the bedroom door open.

  Twenty minutes later, Dalila is dressed and ready. She swallows the two cold and flu tablets Ma’aza hands her and washes them down with her last sip of tea. Stuffing a wad of toilet roll into her pocket, she follows Ma’aza out of their building and across the sodden lawn.

  The day is wet, yet rainless.

  They pass an empty bus shelter and Ma’aza says, When you take the bus, you wait here. Okay?

  Dalila nods. She glances back up the road from where buses might approach. Not a car passes. Not a cyclist. Not a single human being walks the street. No people anywhere. The silence is almost total. No children walk to school. No hawkers sell their wares. No matatu drivers call out. No donkeys drag carts. No one sells roasted corn. No dogs skulk by. No marabous watch from the trees.

  Street life – different.

  Where are the people? she asks, zipping up her puffer. Even yesterday, I didn’t see many people in the streets.

  Eh? They are in there, Ma’aza points. They stay in the houses.

  Do they come out?

  They like to stay inside.

  Dalila quickens her pace to keep up. It gives me fear, this place, she says. It is like the film where there is a great virus. Everyone is dead and there are no more people, the streets are empty, the cars they have stopped, and everywhere is silent. Everyone is dead. Do you know this film?

  Ma’aza rolls her eyes. I only like comedy.

  It is very frightening, continues Dalila. The infected ones have become monsters and they eat the healthy ones.

  Where do you see these films?

  It was a DVD. I watched it with my brother in . . . I saw it a long time ago.

  Ma’aza glances at Dalila, but doesn’t slow her pace. She walks on, every step with purpose. After a minute Ma’aza says, Look there.

  An old woman hobbles towards them. Wearing a blue plastic hood tied tightly under her chin, she cradles a toaster in one arm. The toaster cable slips loose and the plug rattles along the ground. The lady stoops down, wraps the cable around her arm and carries on. As she approaches, Dalila tries to acknowledge her, since she is an elder, but the old woman never lifts her eyes. They move past each other in silence. Ma’aza lifts her chin as if she sees something interesting in the distance. Dalila peeks back, watching the old woman shuffle onwards.

  You see, says Ma’aza, there are people.

  They walk for two more blocks, taking almost the same route as Dalila walked yesterday with Mrs Gilroy.

  Ma’aza points down a road to a set of three identical buildings. You must go there.

  You are not coming with me? asks Dalila.

  No. I report tomorrow. Now I must go to see . . . some people. You take this, says Ma’aza, handing Dalila an umbrella.

  Will I see you later? says Dalila.

  Ma’aza pouts and shrugs and strides off back the way they came.

  As Dalila arrives for her appointment the downpour starts. She pops open the umbrella, taking refuge beneath it. Water pours off the polyester canopy while she stands on the pavement and studies the buildings across the street.

  An eight-foot-high iron fence surrounds the complex. Next to the main gate is a small Portakabin. At the gate, a sign.

  HOME OFFICE

  UK Border Agency

  FESTIVAL COURT 1

  Reporting Centre

  Five young trees, brittle and leafless, endure behind the fence. Security cameras, disguised as lamps, scrutinise every corner of the empty forecourt. Three buildings share an identical utilitarian design, grey bricks then tan bricks with grey windows on the second floor under aluminium roofing. Each building has a specific name. FESTIVAL COURT 1. FESTIVAL COURT 2. FESTIVAL COURT 3.

  She considers these words, lets their meanings take shape in her mind.

  Festival. Court.

  An Asian couple enter the gates. They approach the middle building, moving cautiously, their eyes lowered, their posture stooped.

  What might happen when she enters? Will they detain her? Will they give her money? Will they send her away if she doesn’t have the right paperwork?

  On the ground, around her wet basketball shoes, are hundreds of discarded cigarette butts scattered across the pavement, sodden and swollen, like fat maggots. The understanding comes that she is not the only person to have stood on this corner, facing these buildings, searching for courage.

  Clinging to the stem of her umbrella with both hands, she crosses the street. The guard in the Portakabin opens the door and calls to her.

  You here to report?

  Dalila doesn’t approach him. She answers, Yes.

  Got ID?

  She holds up the letter close to her chest, keeping it safe from water damage.

  Where’s your ARC card?

  Fumbling through her purse, she takes out the card and holds it up.

  The guard stuffs his hands into the pockets of his neon yellow jacket. Building two, he says.

  As she approaches the middle building a different security guard holds the door open and asks to see her papers. She shows him the letter and her ARC card. He reads them and examines the photograph, making sure it matches her face. Satisfied, he steps aside and lets her in. She shakes out her umbrella and enters.

  Two people sit behind a reception desk, one male, one female, both in uniform. They stare at her but make no welcome. Hoping to figure out what she is expected to do next, Dalila walks up to them and says, Good morning.

  Identification, says the female guard.
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br />   Dalila hands her the letter and her ARC card.

  Name?

  Dalila . . . Irene Dalila Mwathi.

  Is this the first time you’ve reported?

  Yes.

  The man behind the counter leans back and yawns deeply. As he closes his mouth, his eyes settle on Dalila’s face. An urgent need to swallow pushes under her tongue but she holds it.

  I need your handbag, keys, mobile, belt and shoelaces, says the woman.

  The expression on both faces behind the counter is exactly the same, and Dalila can’t tell if it’s disdain or simply boredom.

  Dalila clears the phlegm from her throat. You want my bag?

  You can’t take that stuff inside with you, says the female guard. That’s the rule. You have to hand in your handbag, your keys, your phone and any other photographic devices or metal objects. You’re also required to hand over your belt and shoelaces . . . for your own protection. These items will be returned to you when you leave.

  Dalila places her key into her handbag, zips it closed and hands it over. Straight away, the female guard unzips the bag and fingers through the contents. She removes certain items and places them in a clear plastic bag.

  Dalila crouches and begins unfastening her shoelaces. She can’t imagine why she’s expected to do this. Her headache slides to the front of her face. She reaches into her pocket for the wad of toilet paper and then blows her nose. A guard’s feet approach from behind. She looks up at him. The guard’s loose pink face is impassive as he gazes down at her. She undoes both sets of laces and hands them to the people behind the desk.

  I’ll need your belt and the umbrella too.

  Dalila unbuckles the belt and pulls it through. She picks up the umbrella and places it on the counter. The female guard puts the umbrella behind the desk and the rest of Dalila’s belongings into the plastic bag.

  Any other sharp objects? Pens?

  No.

  Are you carrying any pills or other medication?