This Is Where I Am (45 page)

‘Mo, we’ll be fine. You chill out in the jeep. Debs here is a journalist. She just wants to talk to some of the people about life in the camp. I know my way around, it’s cool.’

‘I have to stay with you. Lot of troubles with bandits.’

We can’t shake him. For three hours we trudge the area, no longer bothered what Mo thinks or does. But he never once looks at the photographs we distribute. I don’t think he cares; we are a duty he has to discharge. The ugly sun sucks the moisture from our skins, my swollen feet ache, my head aches. All I hear is clanging; the doleful clang that it’s all too late. What could Mo do now to stymie us? We hand out pictures, people nod and smile. See Mo, and remove themselves from our sphere. Eventually, all the photos are gone. The shelters are dwindling too. We’ve come to a clearing with a wide spreading tree in the centre; a single piece of almost-green.

‘Over there. That’s where the church was.’ Rose points to some white rubble. Rebecca would have been baptised in there, in the heat of the day with a white shawl tying her to her mum. My wee Glasgow girl.

‘And look, Debs. This is the old schoolroom.’

It’s just a mass of broken mud, the odd strip of corrugated iron. Several of the huts nearby have metal roofs, built with the spoils of war; you can see the dust-trails from school to homestead marking the spot. A part of one school wall does remain, and on it – incongruously – hangs a tatty blackboard. I stand where Abdi once stood. Smooth the surface of the blackboard he would have written on. Chalk traces of my hand make a pattern; I think of Rebecca’s finger people and Rebecca’s men on horses. I face outwards: teacher’s stance. Survey the class with my teacher’s face. The air is full of spirits.

‘Excuse!’

Mo is shouting us over. Beside him is a woman, wrapped in a plaid shawl. Her head is covered, she holds part of the scarf across her face.

‘Missus Gray. She want speak to you.’

‘Hi there.’ We pick our way across the rubble. ‘Hi,’ repeats Rose. ‘How can we help?’

The woman drops her scarf. ‘Missus Gray. I am Mariam. You help me to get passage?’

‘Mariam?’ Rose is frowning, eyes back and forth like she’s scanning, scanning. Connecting. Clicking. ‘Oh, yes. Mariam! And . . . Sarah?’

Briefly, the woman shuts her eyes.

‘Yes. Sarah.’

Mo nudges her. ‘Hurry. You want talk to Missus Gray?
Dhakhso
.’

‘Mo. Please. There’s no rush.’ Rose leads Mariam to a stump of wall. ‘Please. Sit.’ We squat beside her. ‘Yes, of course I remember you, Mariam. But I thought you’d be . . . but you didn’t get away?’

‘No’m. There was bandits come. We wait to gate to go on wagon. Then bandits came. On
farado
?’ Mariam raises her hand high.

‘Horses,’ says Rose.

‘They come, and they hit us. Bam, bam – big knives and spears. They take her, yes.’

‘Her?’ I hold up one of my photos. ‘Do you know the woman in this picture?’

‘Yes’m. I know her. Zira, yes?’

‘Yes!’

‘Zira, yes. They take her. And my firstborn.’

‘Your first – Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Is she –’

‘
Wey dhimatay
.’

It is the saddest, most graceful smile I have ever seen.
‘
She virgin, she very very good girl. So they rip her with their spears. She so much pain. I pray to God she die. Is OK. She die in my arms. Like when I birthed her.’

A tight jag of tears. Beaks pecking. My throat in bits and surges. Mariam holds my hand. I feel her, can see nothing in this bright sun.

‘Is OK. Zira, she live. We take her doctor. Proper doctor, no witchdoctor. But she run away.’

My heart is tearing, this good noble woman comforting me, but I am crying for her and I want her to know this, how selfish I am that I want her to be grateful for my grief, I want to give her something, anything to take away this pain. To die like you are birthed.

‘You know where she ran to?’ asks Rose.

‘
Tana
.’

‘Is river,’ says Mo.

‘Zira no want live no more. But is a sin. I pray, pray. Always pray.’

I remove my hand from hers.

‘She killed herself?
Wey dhimatay?
’

‘Yes’m.
Wey dhimatay
.’

It is definite. It is definite and defined and a dam comes down, you hold it in place, all the tension and tides, roaring in your ears. Sharp points of your knees in your chin. Your arms bind your legs to your breasts. You wonder how small you could make yourself. People talk above you, but you have your roaring. No tears any more, just the roaring.

‘Debs.
Debs
. Mariam’s asking if you’ve got kids.’

I hold my index finger up. ‘One.’ Rock my arms in a cradle. ‘One son. But he died.
Dhimatay
.’

Mariam holds my face. ‘They safe now.’

Everything silent, because there is nothing to say. I let Mariam nurse my face, sit in fawn dust. Fawn and yellow, pink and gold, it covers my arms. Rests on my eyelashes.

‘Debs. C’mon, Debs. Time to go.’ The back of Rose’s trousers bloom with dust. Wings of dust are spreading across our cheekbones.

Mariam nods. Urging me. ‘They safe’m.’

We rise to go. Except I am left behind. I want to be, want to give her something. I want to
say
, not with words. Smooth blue of the sky, clear tears, my ring. My sapphire ring is in my hand, in Mariam’s hand. She is wide-eyed horrified.

‘No’m!
Maya, maya
.’ Appealing to Rose, to surly sweating Mo.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Please take it.’

And then I rise to go.

All sorts of problems I’ve caused. Mo had to take Mariam to a man called Khadra.
He’s like a pawnbroker
, Rose tells me. Then to the bank.
You realise she’ll be a target for thieves? If Mo says anything to anybody
–

I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . .

After half an hour, Mo returns to where we’re waiting in the jeep. He has locked us in, and left us his radio. Some months ago, two female aid workers were abducted by Al-Shabaab. They’ve still not been found. He adjusts his trousers. Replaces his gun in its holster.

‘Christ, Mo. What happened?’

A grunt, but no answer.

‘Mo. Is Mariam OK?’

‘Yes. See?’

From the doorway of the bank, Mariam waves at us. Her smile splitting the sky with its brightness.

‘Did she get a good price?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mo,’ says Rose. ‘You won’t say anything about this, will you?’

Meaty hands grip the steering wheel. The engine screams, and we are off, bumping over the grit and ruts. He takes us straight back here, to the compound. Furious with us, I think.

‘Tomorrow you go home, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘Mo, thank you for . . .’ I give him thirty dollars. Wordlessly, he pockets it. Drives off.

‘Honestly,’ says Rose. ‘Huffy bugger.
I take no leave of you, nor send any
– what is it again?’

‘Don’t,’ I say. I go to my room, get into my nightshirt. Everything’s packed for the morning. I have a passport; I can leave this place.

Later on, Rose taps my door.

‘Debs? You want some dinner?’

‘No.’

‘How about a drink? We’ve a couple of
very
crappy bars. The Grease Pit’s my personal favourite.’

‘No. Ta.’

There is a long slow pause in which I hope she’s gone away.

‘Debs?’

‘What?’

‘I’m really sorry. But we always knew this was a long shot. That she’d still be alive, I mean.’

‘I know.’

Morning comes. Not soon enough. I think I slept a wee bit, but it’s hard to tell. I get up, brush my teeth, wash my face. I long for a bath, a big deep bubble bath where I can sink right under, feel the bubbles burst on my eyes. In water, no one can hear you scream. Enough. I just want my bubbles. Want to go home. Before we get the plane, Rose says we’ve to go to the police station. She reported the transport agents to the UN last night.

But I’m going for the two-pronged approach
.

I don’t want Mariam getting involved
.

Don’t worry. Once they check the manifests, see the discrepancies between who left and who arrived, they won’t need to speak to Mariam
.

Our driver – who is not Mo – takes us to the police compound. What an ugly place. Surrounded by a high wall, surmounted by barbed wire, the only break in the dirty bulk of it is a blue door, which opens after an age of Rose thumping. The door’s actually a gate, we drive through the thick brick wall, into a dusty courtyard. Various outbuildings align themselves round a central office. There are bars on all the windows. By the far wall, a stooped figure holds a long stick. It’s a hoe, they are hoeing at the straggle of plants that have been carefully embedded in two straight lines.

‘You wait here, Debs, right?’

I concur. All the fight in me is spent. Our driver gets out to have a cigarette.

‘You want?’

‘No. Thanks.’

The heat of this place slides in like a drug. Thick, cloying. The vehicle we’re in’s a posh one, has air-conditioning, but the engine’s off and I’m sweltering. I get out too, just to stretch my legs. The hoeing figure straightens up. Wipes her – I think it’s a her – hand across her brow.

‘Missus Deb. You OK?’

‘Mo.’

From the verandah of an outhouse, our erstwhile guide is frowning at me.

‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine. Just a bit hot.’

‘Huh.’ He lights up a cigarette. I notice our driver begins to walk away. Poor Mo. He smokes in silence, blowing blue puffs, breathing heavily. Our driver’s moving closer to the police station. Looking at his watch, rubbing his head. He’s got a point: Rose is taking ages, and we need to be at the airstrip now. Eventually, when there is only a stub of cigarette left, Mo clears his throat. ‘You no worry ’bout that Mariam, no? I tell Khadra if she be robbed, I will come for him, OK? Take his business, take his wives –’

‘Oh, Mo. Thank you.’

I can hear our driver shouting. ‘Missus, we need to go. You miss-a plane.’

‘I’m coming, Omar, I’m coming.’ Rose appears at the doorway of the police station, screeching a final riposte at whatever poor soul is quivering inside. ‘But I mean it. I will be on your back like a fucking black widow spider, every day, every week, no matter where in the world I am, until you can tell me that you have investigated, prosecuted, and flung those bastards in your shittiest jail. You understand me?’

Mo grins at me. ‘We got new-made corporal. Stupid boy. He will hate your Missus Rose.’

‘Missus, please!’ begs our driver. ‘We got go.’

Mo opens the door of the jeep for me. ‘Goodbye, Missus Deb.’

‘Goodbye, Mo.’

The others bundle themselves in. Rose has barely shut the door before Omar slams the glass partition that separates us from him, and shunts the vehicle forward.

‘Ooh!’ says Rose. ‘Temper, temper.’

I see Mo signal that he’ll get the gate. He lumbers towards it, Omar revving his impatience. As our engine roars, the hoeing woman turns to look. She wears a black shroud around her hair and body. A tiny strand of hair flicks free and there is a terrible wistfulness in this, the soft wild hair that is not hidden.

The gate shuts. Just a window and a wall.

We move off. Tyres on unyielding earth. My loose head lolling, thump then shiver on seatback then glass, over and over. Judders in my chin, through my teeth. From the rear window I watch Dadaab retreat, shrinking its people and its lumps and rags and coils until it is a shimmering mirage. We trundle at all the speed this rattling heap can garner. My eyes unfocus. Absently survey the pink-yellow dust as the wistfulness in me grows. It sharpens as Dadaab recedes. Has piercing teeth.

Omar crashes open the partition.

‘You going miss-a plane, missus.’

I notice there’s a young girl swishing twigs, a flock of ruminating goats who claim the road as their own.

‘No we’re not.’ Rose lowers her gold-rimmed sunglasses. ‘Because you are such an excellent driver, Omar. You don’t think we use you for your sunny disposition, do you?’

‘I tell you. You miss. There no no more this week.’

‘Well, we don’t miss then, because I have to be in Mumbai in three days.
Unaelewa
?’

Omar slams the glass shut. Shrieks the horn; the girl jumps but does not falter. He opens the window to shout. She swishes her stick more brusquely. At us, her animals? We rev and screech, bullying our way through. The girl turns her head to frown. And it bites. A heart-shaped face, skin sleek across her cheekbones. She wears a bright gold shift not a black shroud that hangs around her hair and body but a tiny strand of hair flicks free because she has just that minute turned her head, is on the brink of . . .