This Is Where I Am

by Karen Campbell

Kenya. There is no give in this land, none at all. But it’s true. I am here. On the edge of the weary desert. Pink-baked earth radiates vapours of heat and returns it to the sun: it is endless planes of thin and flat, surprised by spikes of green. Imagine sand dunes ironed smooth; it’s that kind of scrubby hard grass, poking through sand. We’re at the end of the short rainy season, which, one week ago, would have seen these pitted roads flood with mud and water. But the rains came early this year, and the thirsty soil has drunk it all down, flashing her thanks with these grasses, those bushes. That stunted bright tree. Flaming low and wide, clustered with scarlet on its highest spines, it’s the flagrant red of rowan berries; the trees we Scots plant to keep away the witches.

  ‘What is that?’ I ask my driver, pointing.

  ‘Acacia.’

  Acacia Avenue. Epitome of Middle England. Wasn’t that where Mr Benn lived?

  ‘Christ!’

  A crack of mortar fire, I cringe and duck. Realise our axle has just negotiated a large pothole. Resume my seat. No. Bananaman. It was definitely Bananaman.

  Everything is gone.

  I knew exactly what had gone, seeing as Rebecca’s baptismal certificate and Abdi’s marriage blessing are currently in a folder inside my travel case, which sits on my juddering knee. Rose said to bring anything I could that would substantiate a connection.

  Even if we did find Azira, they won’t just let us walk out. You’d be surprised what folk conjure up to try to get resettled.

  No, I wouldn’t actually. There’s a man with one foot who hirples into the Refugee Council every other week. Rumour is he cut it off himself.

  In the rush of his distress, Abdi had forgotten we’d fallen out. We were shriven by the urgency of the situation. I suppose I should be grateful, you could even say I’d engineered it, but it made me feel sick. All that fretting when he needs to be well. I hadn’t thought he’d notice. Then you think, that rucksack is virtually an extra limb. Of course he’ll bloody notice. I told him not to worry, that I would sort it when I got back.

  Will I see you before you go?

  When will you return?

  Where and why and I trailed my answers, vague. Pointedly did not go to see him. Missed Rebecca like I am missing cool Glaswegian drizzle. Why am I consumed with such a weight of betrayal? This is a GOOD THING I am doing. It’s for him, for them. And did I let him think Dexy might have stolen his papers? Did I make appropriate tutting noises and was I economical with the truth? What am I meant to do? Raise his hopes then rip what’s left of him to shredded meat? Because this is never going to happen. In my graceless world, God doesn’t answer prayer.

  The scarlet tree burns hugely, tiredness weeping from my skin. Up at dawn to catch the shuttle, nine hours of no-sleep on a plane from London, two hundred and fifty miles from Nairobi to Dadaab. I was supposed to hitch a lift on the UNHCR flight, but it was full. Aid workers get priority, as they should.

  If you read the press information we sent you, madam, you’ll see there is no guarantee that journalists will get on these flights (oh yes, I’m a freelance writer, doing a piece for the Oxfam in-house journal. Rose says three thousand words should do it. And I don’t think she was joking).

  The flights leave twice a week from Nairobi to Dadaab, and if you draw a blank, the only other option is going by road. That too is dictated by timing: from Garissa, you need a security escort and they leave at 2pm on Sunday. Full stop. But we made it – just. Me and the Norwegian documentary team who’ve adopted me. (I think they know that I’m a fraud. They live perpetually with their mobiles at their ears; mine lies at the bottom of my bag, most likely switched off.) Listen to me – all casual about armed escorts and rough terrain. The rumbling tyres mark the truthful rhythm of my heart: scared-excited; scared-excited; scared-excited. Need a wee. And utterly, thinned-out knackered. No air-conditioning in the 4×4, so the humid air simply pours round us like languid soup. Sound carries for miles. Long-boned cows clack skinny haunches as a herdsman flicks his stick and it is all sharp, immediate. Incredible.

  I lick the dust from my mouth. If I arrive today, I can stay till Wednesday, when the return convoy leaves. Only gives me two full days, but Rose has been at Dadaab since Thursday. One of her friends on the water project works with a refugee who says his father was a great elder. Now he is the keeper of our truth. He keeps records of atrocities. Hundreds and hundreds of incidents, stored in his head. Communication with Rose has been fragmented, but she was trying to meet with this man either yesterday or today. I turn my phone on, in case there’s messages. Nothing. Settle down. Press my spine and squeeze my thighs. Do not need a wee do not need a wee. The cows meander, dull hooves dropping. I follow their progress, if you could call it that. Feel my head dropping and enjoy the dullness. Travelling is a hiatus; for now I’m in others’ hands and I need not do or be anything other than tired.

  I pass half an hour in monotonous dozing before I notice that the Norwegians are zipping and unzipping bags, that paperwork and visas are being produced because, from out of vast and vacant land, a city is rising.

  A hellish one at that.

  Humid blurring acre on acre of humped tents and wire; scarf over nose to expel the smells, the vilest smells how could you? How could people live –

  Through here. Bundled, chickenwire and wooden latch, swing shut, inside. There’s been rumours of unrest. Bandits very bad says the man who gives out towels. His downcast eyes are sorrowful, ashamed at the welcome he provides. No Rose when I reach the UNHCR guesthouse. The man tells me she and I are in adjoining rooms, so I figure she’ll chap the door when she gets in. That a wee lie-down won’t hurt. I think I kick off my boots, I do go to the plumbed-in loo, and am surprised at sitting, was all set to squat. Take my shaky legs back to the shaky bed and lower and lay and . . .

  Wake to shouts and motors running. A beating heat. Someone coughing through the wall, my throat cracking. Eyelids held with lead-lined weights. Fumbling fingers, a rough, rough wall. I feel myself awake, come up slowly to avoid the bends. The mosquito net pats me like a friendly spectre. I shake my head. Press the heels of my hands into my sinuses – an old trick; it kind of ‘pops’ your eyes open. Shake again and smack my lips, the sticky skin adhering. Peeling apart. Remember I am here. Against every vow I ever made, I’ve come back to Africa. Thousands of miles away on this very continent, a wizened bitch who is still alive will be sipping G&T. No matter what the time is. The cough comes again. I respond in kind; a little expectorating code.

  ‘Deborah?’ A voice drifts through plaster. ‘That you wake?’

  I let out a pathetic: ‘Rose?’

  Within a second, she’s knocking at my door. I’m expecting a khaki missionary, open up to a vision in pastel pinks and blues.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Deborah! Well, hello there! You made it!’ A paper folder under her arm; she transfers it to one hand, enfolds me in a perfumed hug, the folder brushing the back of my head. I’ve not showered for . . .

  ‘God. What time is it?’

  ‘Nine am their time. And it’s Thursday, in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘Oh shit! Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Och, no sweat. Here, d’you want a wee coffee? I’ve a travel kettle in my room.’

  ‘I would die for a coffee.’

  ‘There’s a cafeteria if you’re hungry?’

  My head thinks hmm, but my stomach says no. Gurgles it quite urgently, in fact. ‘No, ta. Eh – I just need to nip to the loo . . .’

  A knowing grin. Her teeth are perfect white; it’s a lovely smile, framed by pale-yellow hair made paler by the dust which lies on everything. ‘I’ll sort you a coffee then. Black, no sugar, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Back in a minute.’ She lays her folder on my bed. ‘Drink plenty water too – did you bring some bottles?’

  I nod and scuttle off. Five minutes later, with my face and underarms washed too, I feel almost human. A shower would have been good, but my en suite doesn�
��t run to that. Rose is waiting with my coffee.

  ‘Oh, cheers.’

  As she leans forward to pass me the mug, the neckline of her shirt gaps and I see spidery scar lines running up her breastbone.

  ‘Sip it slowly.’

  I do. Rose has an air of calm implacability about her: she smiles with a firm assurance, moves efficiently. Kind of woman you would cleave to in a crisis. But she has said nothing yet about her news.

  ‘So. Azira? Where do we start?’

  ‘Would you not like some breakfast first?’

  ‘Not really. We don’t have a lot of time. Did you manage to speak to that keeper guy?’

  ‘Ah.’ Rose reaches for her folder. Her very blue eyes flick to her feet. She’s wearing gold pumps.

  ‘Not so good, I’m afraid. I think his powers may have peaked some time ago. Yes, yes, very bad bandits. All the time, there are many killings. Very bad bandits, all the time. Which could indeed be your “men on horses”. In Dadaab, though, they use the term “bandits” to describe pretty much any bunch of wandering heidbangers. They can thieve, rape, rustle with apparent impunity. You’ve got your fundamentalists too, of course, and there’s also your clan warfare. You thought Rangers v Celtic was bad? Christ, it’s got nothing on this lot. Problem is, the Kenyan authorities blame every single crime on the refugees, the refugees blame it on the Kenyans and we all do a merry dance of denial. And I’ll tell you this – in the midst of it all, the fecking “bandits” have carte blanche to take – and do – whatever they want.’

  ‘This isn’t hugely helpful.’

  ‘Agreed. But that was the sum total of what the old boy could tell me. That and that all the birds here are the “demons of the dead”.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I know. Guess it happens, though. If you cram every horror that takes place here into your head, you’re bound to overload. Eventually it all becomes one homogeneous mass. Just makes you go ga-ga.’

  ‘How do you do it then?’

  ‘I can’t not.’

  Rose pushes neat hair behind her ear, crosses her legs so one shiny foot rests of top of the other. ‘Once you’ve . . .’ Sighs. ‘I’m not being noble or anything, trust me. I like a good time as much as the next person. Give me a party and a blast of Rod Stewart –’

  ‘Rod Stewart? Sorry, don’t think me rude, Rose. But what age are you?’

  I mean this as a joke, but draw back immediately I say it. Who am I, quipping with the familiarity of a BFF, when I’ve known her for ten minutes, two phone calls and a handful of emails and texts? I can’t help it, though, Rose oozes approachability.

  ‘Put it this way: I’ve been married forty years.’

  ‘Away!’

  I had her down for being late forties. Early fifties at most.

  ‘Och, I was a child bride, me. But, honestly – see when you’ve seen all of this fecking awful misery, you can’t just walk away. I mean, you’re never going to make a massive difference, but . . . one thing, you know? One family, one person even. If you can hold out your hand and –’ Her foot jiggles, ‘Well. You know, don’t you? Otherwise you’d not be here. Anyway. I do have some news for you. Very positive news, in fact.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been doing some checking with Médecins Sans Frontières.’ Rose smiles, but it is a spasm of a smile. I balance on the thin rim of my metal bed; she takes a pair of reading glasses from her shirt pocket. Once more, I glimpse the silvered scars on her breast.

  ‘OK. So. They have a record of a female with Azira’s name presenting at the clinic here in Dadaab on the tenth of January 2009.’

  No smile, so the quiet enormity of this fact takes a moment to impact; it hovers like a massive wave, then crashes, warm salt flowing. ‘Oh my God!’ All my dreams come true this easy, this easy. We’ll return in triumph, charging through the sky, powered only by my mighty fist, my steadfast resolution.

  ‘That’s two days after Abdi arrived in the UK! Oh my God, Rebecca was right. She’s alive!’ I feel dizzy, delirious as it beats and bursts anew. I can see Rebecca’s little face and –

  ‘OK, OK. Don’t get too excited. Bear in mind this was almost two years ago. Michel at the clinic was good enough to let me see the medical report.’

  Kind and brilliant Rose offers me a sheet of paper but everything is blurred. ‘You read it.’ I listen through Rose-coloured glasses. Hugging myself. Will I phone Abdi, or just bring Azira directly to him?

  ‘OK. It says the woman presented with multiple lacerations on head, back and thighs.’ Rose coughs, adjusts her glasses. ‘Severe trauma indicated to genital area . . .’

  Little vicious bite I always knew was there, like when you touch your breast and feel a lump and pretend there is no shooting pain. Then you return to it in the night-time on your own, and prod and wince and remove yourself from its malevolent possibility. But you know it all the same.

  ‘She was raped?’

  Say it aloud. Let delicate folds of language bleed.

  ‘I reckon so. I’m so sorry, Deborah.’

  ‘But she’s alive.’

  ‘Possibly. Problem is, they never treated her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She disappeared. In the cubicle one minute, gone the next. It’s not that unusual, Michel says. Often, women will be brought in by well-meaning friends or neighbours. But the shame’s too much for them. That or the thought of another person touching them.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything other than that we know, in January last year, a woman by the name of Azira Samatar Guleed Hassan was injured, but alive. Thereafter, the hospital has no more information.’

  ‘What about other clinics?’

  ‘I’ve checked them all.’

  ‘Do we know who brought her in?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  Rose slips her glasses back into her pocket. ‘Look. Security here is shite. Even for us. We’re confined to our compounds from dusk to dawn – no exceptions, by the way. They have approximately three hundred police to cover all three camps. In reality, that translates to ten or fifteen on duty at any one time. And, since coming here’s seen as a punishment duty, they’re usually young, inexperienced – and seriously pissed off.’ She’s flicking through her sheaf of papers. ‘Notwithstanding the numerous allegations of police taking bribes and being involved in rapes and violence themselves. Here. Take a wee look at this report on security. That’ll give you a flavour of life in sunny Dadaab.’

  The brief shine of my optimism is rubbed away. I glance at the top paragraph. Can’t bear to read the rest.

  The security situation in and around Dadaab has been deteriorating . . . Despite additional live fencing being installed, banditry attacks within the camps (including looting, shooting and sexual assault) have become almost daily occurrences. One or two bullets being fired is now considered a minor incident and violence is often not reported to police. In any case, the investigative skills of local security are very limited. Investigations rarely lead to arrests and convictions, while those suspects who are handed over to police are often released shortly afterwards.

  ‘OK? So, I definitely think we should leave off going to the police until the very last resort. They do have a station here, and they keep “records” of a sort. But their records rarely correspond with what we hear on the ground. Plus, once we start going all official, we’re casting aspersions on their professionalism. Which will very much limit our other options. You with me?’

  I nod. From a distance, bells peel. Tiny tinkly bells. I feel the press of Rose’s hand on my arm.

  ‘To me, the best thing would be to gather as many facts as possible. We need eye witnesses to tell us exactly what happened, who survived, who helped who. So, I’d say our first avenue would be to speak to the transfer agents. They’ve an outpost in the camp. Oxfam don’t use them – and, if I have my way, no bugger will ever use them again. Our main problem is
we’re meant to have a security escort whenever we travel outwith the compound. Which is also . . . limiting. So you’ll have to bear with me – act daft and say very little, yeah?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And you might want to turn your rings inwards.’

  My engagement ring – a modest twist of diamonds, and the eternity ring of sapphire and diamonds Callum got me when . . . he called it my maternity ring.

  ‘Nice. I’m an emerald girl myself,’ says Rose. ‘Emeralds and diamonds – the more bling the better. But not here.’

  ‘Of course. Will I – should I just take them off?’

  ‘No! No, God. I know we’re in the compound, but . . . no. Just keep them with you, but hidden. You could put them inside your bra, I suppose . . .’

  I consider my meagre cleavage with its shaved-off edge. ‘Nah. You’re all right. Think they might slip out.’

  ‘Nice shirt, by the way,’ says Rose.

  It was, two days ago when I set out. I’ll need to ask about showers sometime, but to wash seems a very dirty thing when there are standpipes and tankers and huddles queueing for water. On the way in, we had passed one of the water stations: hundreds of bowed heads waiting; their canisters laid in the dust. Great snakes of yellow, orange, cream containers segmented and twisting in patient coils. I brush the worst of the red stour from my chest.

  ‘Thanks. And I love your shoes.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Rose twinkles her upturned foot. Pinpoint bursts of golden light flit from wall to wall. ‘They weren’t cheap, you know.’

  The transfer agents are worse than useless. We crowd on to a stepped verandah, people jostling in and out as Rose makes herself heard. A plump and sweaty man with a plastic visor to hide his eyes chews his pen. Shakes his head. Scratches his arse.

  ‘We’re talking tenth of January 2009. You had a convoy then, leaving for resettlement to the UK.’

  ‘No remember, no.’

  ‘Well, can I see your records, please? You’re required to keep a log of all journeys – it says so in your contract.’

  ‘All gone. Records gone in fire. Big fire.’