This Is Where I Am

by Karen Campbell

  When the border at Liboi was open, us refugees were safer. That was how Mrs Mursai’s uncle arrived here. The Liboi transit centre was where most Somalis first sought refuge in Kenya. From there, the UN would transport us to camps. But when Kenya closed the border, the transit centre closed too. Without it, the only way across was by smugglers. That is how we arrived, that is how I had only two carved bracelets remaining. Thousands of us, creeping and crawling and seeping into Kenya, and the police take advantage of this. If we are clandestine, we have no rights, and we are rich-pickings for extortion and demands.

  Until then, we had been lucky.

  ‘Have they . . . did they hurt you?’ I could not say it, the thought of another man. Hurting her flesh. She was shaking me, sobbing into my face.

  ‘We need to go, we need to go. I got away – he only hit me. Oh, Abdi, when is the man coming with the medicine? If we hide, we won’t get the medicine.’

  Mrs Mursai came dashing in then, shooing her brood like chickens. ‘Aie! What did you do? I hear the police are after you, girl.’

  ‘Did they chase you here?’ I shouted.

  ‘I think so. I ran and I ran but I could hear their boots behind me. Abdi, look at my girl! Did she take her water?’

  ‘Hey, Abdi, man. Don’t be stupid!’ yelled Mrs Mursai. ‘You’ll get killed and your wife will end up a dhilo!’

  But I couldn’t hear them. I was pushing past, driving myself and my fury out. On and on I ran, searching for policemen in the filthy ribbons of streets. Any policeman would do. At last, I found one. A smug leather-skinned beast who walked with a swagger. He was in front of me, lagging behind his two colleagues. I fancied he was out of breath with the thrill of chasing my wife, and I launched myself at his back, dragging him to the ground. Wild bug-eyes and his forehead laced with ritual scars. They heal them open with ash. Twice I managed to hit him before the others descended. And then . . .

  I will not revisit this. I am alive.

  I am not in Kenya.

  I am in the office of the homelessness lady, and, as I wait to be evicted, I repeat this incantation. I am not in Kenya. I am not in Kenya. Part of me is. Kenya is very far way, but it inhabits me, always. My blood is in its soil and its soil is in my blood. Buried in the soles of my feet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says the lady for a fourth time. ‘Rest assured Mr Hassan’s case will be monitored very carefully from now on.’ And then she addresses me directly. ‘You can expect to hear from us within the next three weeks, sir.’

  ‘She called me sir!’ I say to Debs, when we get outside.

  ‘I know she did.’ Debs knocks her elbow into mine. ‘Dream Team, eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  A lurch of discomfort over me, like when the sea swells inside your belly. Is she telling me this is not real? I thought I had understood enough; that I was to be given priority consideration. I check my notepad again before putting it away. Yes. That is what the lady had said.

  ‘You’n’me,’ says Debs. ‘I do the talking, you take the notes –’

  My notepad is nearly empty. ‘Oh, not so many, I’m afraid. I couldn’t follow all that you were saying.’

  ‘Was that me screeching again?’

  ‘A little bit.’

  ‘Still, you managed to get your oar in a few times. You must have got the gist of it, eh?’

  ‘Gist’ and ‘oar’. Neither of these words make sense, but her intonation is approving, she nods to include me in the sweep of her words, then says well done. My contribution has been approved. Yes, it is true, I could speak more freely with Debs at my side. Without her, I doubt I would have requested a letter of confirmation, or ask that they tell me an actual date when I will next hear from them. There was a confidence in having Debs there. When you are hunting and there are two of you, or fishing with your friend, and the weight of the planning and the circling, the hauling and the trapping is shared, you become bolder in your attack. You can measure your performance by your companion’s actions. Judging, observing. Sharing the lead. The thing I like most is that you do not feel alone. When we are alone, we lie small and quiet to hide our weaknesses. I don’t like who I am then.

  ‘Would you like a lift, Abdi?’

  We are walking on the ground, on the street. Ah, I see – she means to be a passenger in her car. Debs has bought herself a vehicle, bright blue and squat. The woman who is scared of driving has decided she will drive again. I am very pleased for her.

  ‘Yes thank you, I would.’

  We go first to buy the wellington boots for Rebecca. Debs insists on paying. And so, when we arrive at the apartment block, I feel I should ask her in. To see Rebecca, of course, who waits for me in Mrs Coutts’s flat, but also to repay Debs’s kindness. I have cost her a bus fare and a pair of shiny pink boots. At least I can make her coffee.

  ‘Would you like to come inside?’

  Debs shuffles in her seat, the moment’s hesitation before she speaks is damning and I retreat and bluster to make the awkwardness not there.

  ‘You do not need to –’ My hands lie upturned on my lap. The gleam of our joint victory goes dull. Stupid refugee. Who would step inside here unless they had to? The building next to ours is fenced round with wire, and bears a sign saying: Condemned. Under this, someone has scribbled Fucking right.

  ‘I’d love to. But . . .’ Debs’s nose wrinkles, her mouth goes square like the hole in a pillar box. ‘I’m not being funny, Abdi, but would the car be all right here?’

  We are parked beside a grubby van and a car which has no wheels. Broken glass abounds, but it is from bottles, not cars. The lightness in me returns. I too would protect such a bright blue, happy car. In the window Debs has hung a sunflower, which emits the same astringent smell the little tree did in our hire car. Her hire car.

  ‘Here is fine. For now. Later, children drink here and they smash and spit, but now is fine. I think.’

  ‘Great. I mean, I would like to see your house.’

  ‘Is not my house, Debs. Is where they put me.’

  ‘No, of course. But I’d love to see Rebecca again. Is she–?’

  ‘Yes. She is here. With Mrs Coutts.’

  ‘Ah-ha. The hat lady.’ As she speaks, she blushes and we both remember the feral children from before. I could have stopped them, I could have done what Dexy did for me. Easily. They were pallid youths who have no conception of what a human will do to survive. I hope Debs knows it was strength that held me in. Not fear.

  She is still a little dubious as we lock the car. When she thinks I’m not looking, she pats its roof.

  ‘From my window, you will see your car. We can watch it, just in case.’

  ‘How far up are you?’

  ‘Eight floors.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  We step over a discarded nappy and four squashed beer cans on the step. Inside the foyer, more words have been painted over the words that were painted out yesterday. ‘I’m sorry. Is not very clean.’ Pressing the button, expecting the interminable wait, and instead – magic happens! The lift doors open. This is a rare good omen. Two good things in one day. I have been heard, and my elevator is waiting . . . three, if you count Debs coming in. Four if you count her driving me to my door. My cup is overflowing.

  ‘At least the lift is working.’

  Neither of us mention the smell. Cramping in, trying not to touch the wall or the foetid air. We each pick a spot to stare at as we bump and drone our way up. I don’t think I would have asked Debs here before today. This tower is nothing to me: I can invite her because I know I’m leaving. It’s official. To be here was never my choice; it is a receiving centre, like the camp, and I have intimated my desire to leave and the lady has said it will happen. I am choosing, it is not being done to me (although it is, of course). And when I have a house I can get a job in a school that is closest and Rebecca will come with me. She will be fine if I’m there. Somewhere, a new home waits for me and my little girl.

  If we do move far away, I
will be sorry to leave Mrs Coutts, but I’ll see her still at my church. We can travel. The city is not so wide – even after my Loch Lomond journey with Debs, when we travelled through its varied vastness, even then, I could see its limits too. Glasgow is a finite place, unlike Dadaab. And the homelessness lady said they would aim to keep us on the same side of the Clyde at least. We will walk or find a train. My church is a root I don’t wish to sever. I sense Debs does not like to talk about religion. I’m being very unChristian, I think, because I should ask her. I should be sharing God with everyone. It’s one thing to profess your faith with friends, another to justify it to a brittle woman who has already drunk from the well of the spirit, swilled it fully in her mouth – and spat it out. At least, that’s what she makes me think she’s done, with the little bitter comments and tosses of her head. She did that postbox face at the Dali when I talked of prayer. A true Christian would not care, they would testify and spread the good news, swirling all the doubters high with exultation. My faith is a new one, and should be all the more exuberant for it, but we are shy with one another still. It is quiet, it calls up my mother’s arms and my wife’s breast and my baby’s scented head. It is my refuge and I its refugee.

  I confuse Debs by stopping at the seventh floor.

  ‘Is it stuck?’

  ‘Mrs Coutts lives here.’

  ‘Ah. Will I wait outside?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  I chap the door. I don’t think Mrs Coutts was ever a teacher, but she sees my education as a priority. We don’t knock on doors, son, we chap them. God bless Mrs Coutts. I will never fit snugly here, but she insists on trying. Just as she insisted that the knitted sweater which goes with my hat will ‘loosen up’ with wear. The sleeves reach my elbows.

  ‘Mrs Coutts, how are you?’

  I give her my finest smile, but I know it won’t come close to dazzling her. What she is instantly interested in is Debs. Although the chain remains on her door, restricting her vision to a two-inch slash, she homes in on this stranger.

  ‘Who’s this then, Abdi?’

  Debs steps forwards. She is very smart today, with her hair pulled back and a swinging, sea-coloured coat. ‘Hello, Mrs Coutts. I’m Deborah.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The door closes, then opens fully. ‘Sarah, did you say?’

  ‘Deborah.’

  ‘Aye, just as well. Never liked that name. Ma mother-in-law was a Sarah, and she was a right old besom.’

  I see my daughter running into the hall. Imagine her shouting Daddy! But I content myself with her joyful skip. ‘Hello, mucky pup! Have you been a good girl?’

  ‘Och aye. She’s been nae bother at all, have you, Rebecca?’

  Rebecca shakes her head, then hugs Mrs Coutts’s knees.

  ‘Oh here, you’ll have me over on ma bahookie, lass!’ But you can tell she’s delighted.

  ‘Mind and take that cake for your daddy, hen.’

  ‘A cake?’

  ‘Aye. We made you a cake, didn’t we?’ She shuffles into her kitchen, returns with a lopsided loaf. It is greyish-pale, and sagging on to the plate. ‘There you are, son. You and your lady friend can have that wi a nice cup of tea. Just mind and gie the plate back once you’re done.’

  We walk up the single flight of stairs to my flat. I notice Deborah reaches for Rebecca’s hand. It’s an unconscious touch, she doesn’t look as she does it. Neither does Rebecca, whose own small fist slips happily into place. The germ of a wonderful idea grows in me. I unlock the four separate bolts on my front door and we step inside. Debs stands in my hallway and takes off her coat. She hesitates before removing it fully. What does she see, that we are inured to? Dull yellow walls I presume were once white, the paper curling top and bottom. The fact we have no carpet in the hallway – but there are mats I made from offcuts the Somali Centre was throwing out. The cold, unloving air which meets us? This is not a home.

  ‘Would you like some tea? Or coffee? I have African coffee, if you like.’

  ‘Tea would be great, thanks. Milk, no sugar.’

  Debs sits on my couch, pulls the carrier bag on to her knee. ‘Now, Miss Rebecca. Your daddy tells me you’re going fishing. So I’ve got a wee present for you. Have you ever heard of welly boots . . . ?’

  I leave them to make the tea. On the stained fawn worktop, Mrs Coutts’s cake glares reproachfully. This worktop is a healthier colour than the cake. I give it a little poke. Very eggy in the centre. I’m no baker, but even I can see it’s not been cooked for very long. I decide to ignore it and hope it goes away. Get out mugs, check we have some milk left. Kettle on, teabags in the pot. In a pot, son, a pot. Dinny just dunk the bag in the cup.

  Schlump. Schlump. The noise of a hog slurping mud heralds the arrival of my daughter and her wellies. In the centre of our tiny kitchen, she twirls then stomps.

  ‘Wow! Those are lovely. Did you thank Debs for your present?’

  Rebecca nods. Points at the cake.

  ‘Oh no, baby. I don’t think the cake is ready.’

  Nods more vigorously, then grabs the plate from the counter.

  ‘Rebecca. I really don’t think you will like it.’

  Giggling, she runs off.

  ‘Don’t you run when you’re carrying a plate!’

  As I finish stirring the tea, I hear first one ‘Yeugh!’ then another, coming from the living room. The second ‘yeugh’ is an exact replica of the first sound, but faint as it flows in fluid light from unused lips, and the blood in my fingertips goes soft and hard.

  Spoon slipping from me. Clinking silver on the floor.

  I cannot move, am holding in wisps of a delicate fear. Debs arrives into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, I don’t think we’ll be eating that.’ She slides the cake directly in the bin. Now I have no words. I clear my throat.

  ‘Did Rebecca just say “yeugh”?’ It comes in the faintest whisper.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Is that a word?’

  ‘I guess so. Oh! Abdi!’ Debs grips me by the shoulders. ‘You mean that’s her speaking?’

  I feel sick. ‘I don’t know. But she has never said . . . I don’t know, Debs. What should I do?’

  ‘Do nothing,’ she says. Decisive.

  ‘But I need to –’

  ‘No.’ We are both whispering. ‘Don’t make a fuss in case you scare her. Just be very normal, and if she says anything else – you respond, OK? Calmly and casually as if it was no big deal.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Hope like dripping water; I want to dig it all out, make it pour and pour so that it never stops. I want my daughter’s chatter to fill this house and fill my head, my thirsty, thirsty heart.

  ‘I think so,’ she says slowly. ‘Look, let’s just play it by ear for now, OK? Take our time and see if she comes out with anything else. If needs be, we can still take her to that child psychologist –’

  ‘I want you to teach her!’ It is out, blurted and crass, with none of the careful arguments I was planning. ‘Please. You made this happen, she trusts you. And you are a teacher and she should be at school, you are right, I know that, but I cannot pay you . . .’

  I lose momentum; in any case, it is all said. Debs keeps her face sincere; it is calm, but slightly pained as if I have asked for some of her spare blood when all I asked for are the wasted skills she chooses not to use.

  ‘I want to be her friend, Abdi, not her teacher. School will give her so much more than I can offer.’

  ‘But she can’t go to school like this. Who would play with her or try to speak to her, a child who does not speak? Debs – our skin is black, our hair is like Brillo pads –’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We smell of goat, apparently, and young boys strike me randomly for sport. I need to make this life better for Rebecca.’ A glaze of tears obscures my vision and I blink and I blink and I blink.

  ‘What age is Rebecca really?’ she asks.

  I shrug. ‘I thi
nk five years. Four and then a half? She was born in Dadaab, in the camp. But we do not mark our birthdates like you do – or the years. This hat I get from Mrs Coutts is the first birthday present I have ever.’

  Debs presses my hand and then releases me. ‘Let’s just take this one day at a time, Abdi. Have you got some eggs?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said to Rebecca I’m going to make her pancakes. But I need eggs and flour and milk.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Try that cupboard for the flour.’

  There is some, from the time we made dumplings. I watch Debs move around my kitchen, finding bowls and spoons. My worktop becomes busy and the sickness in me grows.

  ‘Go, sit with her,’ Debs says. ‘Talk about the wellies, talk about fishing.’ She shoos me out like a chicken. ‘On you go.’

  Rebecca is sitting in front of the television, pink wellies drumming on the sofa-edge. Around her, the air is crystal. I’m afraid of my own daughter. I sit beside her.

  ‘What are you watching, mucky pup?’

  She doesn’t answer, but blends into the side of me. Cheekbone to rib. We watch the coloured animations leap and flicker on the screen. Do you think, if you don’t speak? One of Rebecca’s arms creeps slowly round my middle. Of course you do, we live always in our own head, it is the one sphere where we present ourselves fully and entirely: no false fronts, no delineated areas. And we can make it into a comfortable, drifting mush. Rebecca is wrapped inside soft silence. Who am I to rip this away? Do I know those actual things I think before I have to say them? Can I define my experiences beyond a fleeting sensation? As soon as I use words, I give my fears substance and diminish my joy. And the vast scope of my imagination can no longer conceal my revulsions.

  This is what my daughter will not do.

  Rebecca sighs and snuggles deeper. I smell the coconut shampoo in her hair. I hear Debs singing, smell the pancakes as they cook. It is a sweet warmth of eggs baked with flour, of milk lapping in a bowl and the steady pound of women grinding flour.