Azira Samatar Guleed (Hassan) (deceased).
Why is Hassan in brackets? Were they not really married? Or maybe Somali women don’t take their husband’s name. I should know these things, I’m supposed to be his mentor. I write all four names precisely; there’s no date of birth, no last known address for either her or Abdi’s families. All I have is the name of the camp, and a rough idea of dates. Under ‘contacts’, it lists the solicitor who must have dealt with Abdi’s asylum application, me – which sends another silly ripple of pleasure through me – and not one, but two ministers – a Father and a Reverend. Abdi’s as cosmopolitan as he is smart. He’s clearly hedging his bets. All I know is that he goes to church, and Mrs Coutts goes there too. Fine. If church is a comfort to him, then good but it’s not a crutch I want to discuss. So we don’t. Such is my reductive reasoning, I’ve been limiting his horizons since we met. See Glasgow? See religion? The whole place seethes with its undercurrents. Our schools, our football teams, our whole civic life. In fact, it’s the marker of where the city began. Glasgow Cathedral should have been the very first place I took him to.
‘Goodbye, my wonderful friends!’ The untired man is blowing us kisses. Gamu leans from her little booth, laughing. Laughing and waving until he is out of sight. Would there be any point in talking to Abdi’s minister? I note down the phone number of the reverend, with the 0141 Glasgow code. The number for the priest is unrecognisable . . . ah, that’s because it’s some lengthy postcode that’s spilled across the columns . . . for . . . I scroll back. Malawi. Africa. I reread the entry, see the priest has the first initial ‘P’. Further down, it says Father Paolo Alessi. The friend called Paolo who Abdi lived with, it must be! I copy down the whole address, with its string of numbers and unfamiliar words. Surely Paolo could tell me where to start? I can put in a request to the Red Cross too. With Azira’s full name, the rough date and location, the fact it was an ambush . . . Dadaab can’t be entirely lawless. They must keep records in the camp.
A door swings in the lobby. No one comes in. Gamu is no longer laughing. In fact, she’s crying. Slow, silent crying which she hides behind her hands. There’s only me and her in the office. The whole world’s gone to lunch. I ignore my ringing phone, go over. Funny how it’s the good news that can finally knock you adrift. Grim vigour holding you together until a shaft of pure delight punctures your too-tight skin. Mrs Casci’s office remains unlocked. The silvery handle is tactile, sleek. What extra files would be stashed in there? Whole swathes of Abdi’s backstory, a phone number for the priest? It could be months before a letter gets there. Now that I’m doing this, I want to do it now. Jesus God, what if that poor woman really was left behind? If she limped and crawled to hide, or was carried away on a table-shaped horse? What if she’s still waiting for someone to come and find her? The thought shivers in a flu-ache, it impels me to rush and demand, to scour out absolute facts. If it was a raid on the camp, there’d have been bodies, officials to count the bodies, to bury them, surely? Or maybe dead refugees become carrion. An image comes of still-live bodies, and the buzzards circling and my phone continues ringing and there’s poor Gamu, crying. I scooch down to hug her.
‘Och, come on, missus. It’s all right. Just you let it out.’
She folds into me, hot hair tickling my mouth. We sway, me wobbling since I’m down on my hunkers and have terrible balance at the best of times, and – let’s face it – Gamu’s quite a big girl, so I grab the edge of her chair, which is on wheels and it shudders, which makes her laugh again, thank God.
‘Hey, it’s cool, Debs. I’m fine.’ Heel of her hand, scrubbing at her eyes. ‘Fine.’
‘You sure?’ I oof and uff myself upright: I probably have the joints of an eighty-year-old. Weight-bearing exercise! I know, I know. More calcium, too, but milk’s such an unpleasant, chalky drink.
‘Mmhm.’ Her reply is unconvincing.
‘Honestly?’
She’s a nurse. She only does this job for light relief. Who am I to counsel her?
‘Uh-huh.’ Gamu gulps. Massively. Like she’s gulping in the sea. Blinks through puffed-up eyes and gulps again. ‘Huh . . . no. Not really. No, I’m not so good today, my love.’
‘What’s up?’
She heaves up her giant handbag. Its patent leather gleams. Everything about Gamu is large and bright. Rummages until she finds a brown envelope, torn at the top. ‘Will you read my letter?’ she asks. Same simple phrase we hear a dozen times a day.
It’s from the UK Border Agency.
. . . must advise you that we have been appraised of investigations currently underway in relation to your claims in respect of Working Tax Credits . . .
I read the paragraph again. ‘Is this a joke?’ The letter flails as I gesticulate, prodding and pinching air. ‘They’re saying you’re a benefits cheat? But that’s ridiculous. I’ve seen you – you never even put in your travel claims for coming here. I’ll write to them –’
Gamu licks the corner of her lips. ‘I did it all right, you know? I phoned the helpline before I put in my form. Then, one year later, they phone me back – say I shouldn’t be getting this. I even give them the name of the lady I spoke to. Date, time – I write it all down, but they don’t care.’
‘Bullshit. We’ll fight this. No way are you getting labelled a fraudster. I mean, will they want you to pay them back? How much are we talking?’
She makes a weary half-shrug. ‘Don’ matter. Read the rest.’
. . . came here under the Fresh Talent Initiative, a scheme which has now expired. Consequently, you were informed that your visa would require to be renewed. I am writing now to inform you that your renewal application has been refused . . .
The slick text crawls across the page. The page is shaking, the shaking is me.
‘Refused? They’re chucking you out because of a mix up over tax credits? No way. No bloody way. Have you appealed?’
‘I only got the letter this morning.’
‘Who’s your lawyer?’ Automatically, I reach over her, for her phone.
‘I can’t . . . Not now, babes, OK? I . . . I thought if I kept busy . . . this doesn’t feel so real, you know? I just need to go someplace, be a little calm. You be OK if I go . . . ?’
‘Sure, sure.’ I help her to her feet. Pass her her gleaming bag, which matches her always-smart shoes. Gamu’s hand clenches the strap, her expression clenches too. Desperation flames like a candle. Is bitten back. And there’s me, mouth on hinges, standing like a chookie. Watching this splendid woman sail out into Glasgow’s streets.
19. October
Scottish Parliament
‘There shall be a Scottish Parliament.’
These words, inscribed on the Mace of the Scottish Parliament, form the opening of the Scotland Act, which led to the establishment of the first Scottish Parliament since 1707, and the creation of the stunning new Parliament building at the foot of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.
A sovereign nation in its own right, Scotland has never been conquered. In 1603, the Scottish and the English crowns united when James VI of Scotland succeeded Elizabeth to the English throne. Each country retained its own Parliament, Church, laws and coinage until 1707, when concerns about unified succession and a disastrous Scottish economic slump led to the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament and political union with Westminster. For the next 300 years, however, the desire for a return to Scottish self-government waxed and waned, culminating in 1997 in a national referendum – which produced a clear majority in favour of Scottish devolution.
The Scottish Parliament reconvened in July 1999, and, four years later, took its seat in the curvaceous building designed by Spanish architect Enric Miralles. Sitting in front of Salisbury Crags, the complex structure is formed from a mixture of steel, oak and granite, and has been hailed as one of the most innovative designs in Britain today.
Open to visitors six days a week, and home to the country’s 129 MSPs, admission to the Scottish Parliament is free.
&n
bsp; *
From the outside, it is fair to say the Scottish Parliament looks like a concrete block of flats. To which – in a misguided attempt to ‘add interest’ – some bright spark has appliquéd giant cow-hides, then glued on some garden canes.
Step through the low dull portal, however, and it is magical.
It is your country, your hope and your pride, all bound in sinuous pale oak and shafts of light, in echoing floors and ancient walls and modern vaults that are the fabric of cathedrals. Stairs and spirits rise as you ascend through metallic, marbled layerings. And the art – the spirited art that is the very pores of this place, breathing from walls and doorways in the carving, the paintings, the sculpted joys. Etched words on glass and stone speak of better nations and women’s dreams, the Declaration of Arbroath is eloquently honest, and it hurts your chest. Glass-eyed girders blink above us in the Garden Lobby, which is where we’re to be received, where the harled frontage of Queensberry House, forever walled within the parliament, is the old encompassed by the new.
There shall be a Scottish Parliament.
It all hurts your chest. This place, the fact of it, the procession of marching people – twenty of you, because that’s all they would allow – bearing petitions to your king. Or to your MSP at least: a very nice chap who will make ‘the most earnest protestations’, but immigration is not a devolved matter, but what else can we do? Poor Geordie never got this chance. We’re damned if Gamu will go quietly.
At the far end of our crocodile, Abdi gives me a cheerful wave. Our group has been crafted to be ‘representative’. It’s a mix of old and young, of refugees, asylum seekers, volunteers and – in our biggest coup yet – a well-known Scottish soap actress whose mum was nursed by Gamu. How lucky is that? (Not for the old lady, unfortunately, who has since passed.) Gamu stands centre stage, in her uniform. She’d wanted to wear a voluptuous red coat – it is fire, my love, it will give me courage. But Caro Winter and I overruled her. Entirely due to the presence of Ms Soap, the television news is here. You can’t blame them – they only have sporadic interest and slots for these stories: if it is a clutch of wonderful angry Glasgow teenagers, or a doe-eyed child whose mummy left her abusive husband and is no longer his dependant and so is no longer entitled to stay. These things get folk angry. Gamu is a healthy working woman, with no dependants and an uncompromising frown. Ergo:
There shall be a Scottish soapstar.
Gamu’s MSP is a nationalist, which means he can be as direct and vital as he likes in his derision of the Home Office, of UK immigration policy, in his defence of Scotland’s undeniable need and inalienable right to ‘choose and welcome her own citizens’.
‘Gamu is a woman who has done nothing but good since we invited her to our shores nearly a decade ago. She contributes hugely to the fabric of her community – through her nursing, her volunteer work, her neighbourliness. It’s a testament to this neighbourliness that the petition I’m receiving today has over 3,000 signatures –’
That petition is the fruit of four weekends in a row standing in various shopping centres. Abdi and I took St Enoch’s, unPC Len and his girlfriend did Buchanan Galleries and a couple of Caro’s mates drove out to The Fort and Silverburn respectively. Each weekend, we rotated location, figuring some people might sign twice if they thought it was a different petition. Gamu’s next-door neighbour organised a local ceilidh to raise funds, and I encouraged Abdi to go.
‘Och, you’ve not lived till you’ve done the Gay Gordons.’
‘It sounds painful.’
‘It is.’
I stayed home to babysit, but not before I’d taught him how to ‘hee-uuch’ (an essential sound-effect for any eightsome reel). As regards the actual dancing, Abdi was on his own. Ceilidhs are great fun, don’t get me wrong. I love the way your feet know the airs and dances, some folk-memory revived and reinforced by all those hours in the school gym. But Mrs Coutts’s hip was playing her up and Rebecca was going to stay at mine. Len and his girlfriend would drive Abdi over. We all had dinner here first.
‘Just don’t eat too much before you go. In case all the birling makes you puke.’
‘Remind me again why is it that you’re not coming to this cultural delight?’
‘Oh, I’ve done a fair bit of Stripping the Willow in my time, don’t you worry. And you’ve not, plus you need a babysitter and Gamu needs your support. So there.’
I picked up a tea towel and said they’d better head: Rebecca and I were going to make scones. I’m sorry I missed Abdi’s face as he saw the kilts, that I never heard Gamu shriek as she was swung in a figure of eight. By all accounts, it was a brilliant night – they raised a wad of cash, and got three hundred signatures right there in the hall and the pub next door. But I’m not sorry for avoiding the drink and loudness, the arms linked to spinning bodies that would bump and hold me. I didn’t want to be held. Abdi told me to imagine Callum at his finest, and it hurt so much; all that unseen weight demanding to be made visible. Each tiny seed flying into the air was all the years I’ve still to live without him. All the possibilities, and the decisions I must make. My unreadiness to make them.
Avoiding the ceilidh was a decision. Rebecca and I made luscious scones and did our reading practice – she’s skipped two levels already. When she went to bed, I resumed my search. Every day since I’d written to Father Paolo, I’d anticipated the postman (I think he thought I was stalking him, this disturbing, dressing-gowned creature behind the door). All he brought was the usual round of bills and circulars. Nothing from Paolo – and I’d put my home address, home phone number, email, Refugee Council address and phone number on the letter, so he was spoilt for choice. I’d had a brief reply from the Red Cross, but it was just an acknowledgement of my enquiry. Most nights I’d be on the computer, visiting sites and chatrooms, posting requests for refugees who’d been in Dadaab to get in touch, seeking charities that might carry out searches. That night – with Abdi jigging at the ceilidh, with Rebecca sleeping and the smell of scones in my kitchen – I went as usual to the internet. Opened up my emails expecting the usual dross, and there it was! A message from Father Paolo. He apologised for the delay, apologised all the more for his not-knowing.
I cannot believe that Azira might be dead. We all believed the transition had gone smoothly. I am sickened to learn this is not so. I have written to our charity partners to find out what they know, and why I was not told. In the meantime, I suggest you try to contact a Ms Rose Gray. She no longer works for the charity in question, but was their Kenyan co-ordinator at the time. As she has moved on, I no longer have her contact details. I have asked for them to be provided to me, but perhaps you might also search yourself? I believe she is originally from Donegal in Ireland. The facilities I have in Malawi are somewhat basic & we often lose internet connection – hence my late reply. In the meantime, can you please tell Abdi that I pray for him and his beloved Rebecca, and that I commend both them and Azira to the mercy and grace of Our Lord. I will write as soon as I have news. With God’s blessings on you all.
Fr Paolo Alessi
Rose Gray. Right there, I searched online for the Irish phone book. As if. Like we have a ‘Scottish’ phone book. Then I looked up Donegal. Did you know there was a Donegal in Pennsylvania? My only option was to work through a different city a night. If any similar names came up (and there were five in Dublin, three in Belfast and a Dympna-Rose Gray in Derry), I’d phone them. And I did. And, each time, I drew a blank. I even got my nieces trying Facebook and Twitter. It would help if I’d known what charity she’d worked for, but Father Paolo hadn’t said.
And then he contacted me again. Last night, as I was checking emails with one hand and painting my Parliament banner with the other, I got another email. Still no details for Rose, but the soul had gone to the bother of finding someone who would scan and upload a photo of Azira. I read his email before I opened the attachment.
I have sent this picture to Light of the World, who have still to reply, but I th
ought also that it may be of help to you. I suspect Abdi will not have such images. This was taken at my house, at Christmas when Rebecca would have been three, I believe – although Abdi is very vague with ages – it is a Somali trait! Please tell him how much he is in my prayers.
I couldn’t, of course. Why were you speaking with Father Paolo, Debs? Oh, no reason. Just because I think your wife could still be alive, and you left her there.
I clicked on the attachment, and there she was.
Azira.
Black Rebecca-eyes, deep in their sockets. A heart-shaped face, skin sleek across her cheekbones, which were sickle-sharp; holding the light in perfect crescents. The flash had caught the starkness of her teeth, her long forehead, her coffee-cream neck. She was wrapped in some kind of checked plaid. I thought she’d wear a headscarf, but her straight hair hung in a middle parting, uncovered and made into tiny strands. One tendril flicked across her face as if she’d just that minute turned her head, was on the brink of . . .
From the flickering screen, Azira regarded me, her mouth a half-arch. I couldn’t tell if her lips were painted; they seemed too stained to be real. It had to be make-up. To be that bare-faced stunning would be unfair. I touched my fingers to the screen. Whispered, ‘Hi.’
You know when you’re wee and bursting to tell a secret; when it’s so imperative to relieve the pressure? And the other urge that accompanies your need for revelation: that, although you know you’re doing the right thing, you need another to confirm it? Or not.
This Is Where I Am Page 28
