Which is true. And was very funny at the time.
Even if I had found Azira, what part of her would have come back to Abdi? Would he want it; would she want him? Jesusgod, how am I meant to know?
The pale blonde girl in the canteen, scribbling in an A4 notepad, is Inge. She is the researcher Rose had wanted me to meet last time. We get talking, as you do in your vest and jammy bottoms when you find another insomniac with haunted eyes, and I tell her why I’m here. The true version. Inge listens as I describe Abdi to her, tell her anecdotes of Rebecca, try to sketch Azira’s short life. Inge rarely interrupts. She has very bright-blue eyes.
‘I keep thinking, I keep thinking, I mean, that river’s a totey wee creek . . . ach, Christ, Inge. This is so stupid.’ And there it is, I physically feel the last vestiges of resolve shudder from me.
Inge nods. Passes me a hankie. ‘Yes, but last two years we have had terrible floods. For women . . . the shame can be very great, you know? And sometimes, if others know; women can be burned alive, you see. Or scalded with boiling water.’
‘For being raped?’
‘For having sex.’
‘How can you go digging for all that stuff? Listen to their stories, write it all down?’
‘So others can hear them.’ She smiles, briefly. ‘You say you have been giving pictures of her?’
‘Yes. I’ve still got . . .’ I’m in my jammies. ‘Can you wait a sec? I’ve got one in my room.’
‘Sure,’ she says in her lovely curdled accent.
On the way back from the accommodation block, I’m halted in the yard. Dawn has painted the town red. A low, rose-tinted glaze is creeping over first the water tower, then all the rooftops. Light thickens, begins to assume its hazy forms. There are little staff huts dotted here and there: round stone buildings with thatched roofs, then the low verandahed buildings where we sleep, then bigger blocks for meetings and administration – and recreation. Rose’s Grease Pit was jumping last night when I got in; a leaving do for some CARE staff. Kenyan music pumping, the rich roasty goodness of barbecued goat. Stray beer bottles still litter the ground around a group of empty chairs. I crunch on dust and stones towards the man who waves urgently at me.
‘Ma’am. There’s police here to see you.’
Mo waits at the entrance to the compound. He looks exhausted, wears the grey T-shirt of yesterday. Not an attractive look.
‘Hey. Have you not been to bed, you?’
‘No.’ With him is another man, a plump, glossy man in an elaborate robe. His thin beard is hennaed red. Mo dunts him in the back, so he is stuttered forward. The shiny man is appalled, his heavy jowls sway. He composes himself and extends his hand. ‘Khadra, madame. At your service.’
‘You have plenty money, Missus Deb?’
‘Mo. What’s this about?’
Again, he pushes Khadra. ‘You tell.’
Khadra gazes nonchalantly at the sun above us.
‘Yes, I have money. I have money!’ I grapple with my watch strap; it’s all I have on me but I can get more, I can get more, I’m gibbering as I force the watch into Khadra’s fist. He turns the silvery strap over, over, as if he might reject it.
Mo cannot contain himself. ‘He know her. He know your Azira.’
‘You know her? Her?’ Thrusting the photograph I’m clutching in his face. ‘You know Azira? She’s alive? Is she alive?’
Khadra continues to examine my watch. A glancing blow to the side of his head. ‘You tell her. She is live!’
Khadra shakes out the folds of his rich blue-green robe. Into them, my wristwatch disappears, silver running silver, threaded time pouring and repouring. The heavy sun crawls higher, gapes on us. The air, unhurried. ‘I find things.’ With his little finger, Khadra wipes sweat from the side of his mouth. ‘I find things, I sell. Pretty things.’
It is late afternoon and I am panting. Steady puffs: a runner before my race. My heart is uncontrollable, it’s bound to give me away, me and Inge and Huq in our car with the windows open, Huq’s car, who is Inge’s boyfriend/escort/not sure but there is much glancing and careless touching between them. He’s lovely, Huq and I’m havering utter nonsense, both at them and in my head. This morning, Inge said this was a crazy idea.
You have a police who will help you?
I think so.
Be careful this is not a trap. He’s already taken hundreds of dollars.
One hundred, Inge. He said he needed them.
In Inge’s experience, the police can never be trusted. She has spoken to too many women who’ve gone to them for help. The lucky ones are ignored, the others robbed or beaten. Or worse. She urged me not to trust Mo.
But why would he tell me this?
To extort more money. To have you abducted? Whatever you do, you must not go inside.
They’ve still not found those two female aid workers.
This man is a very powerful chief. You understand this? These people have links with militia, police, some of the staff here – and with politicians too. Drugs, guns, money laundering: they all buy big bribes.
As do human beings. Azira is not fresh enough to have been trafficked. But, in a world where people eat bare unidentifiable bones, she is not so stale as to be worthless either. Khadra tells Mo she cleaned up well. Very fine, very pretty. He has a team of scavengers who search the dumps, riverbanks, the refuse. Azira is now the property of a tribal chief, a man of great stature, great power. He and his extended ‘family’ live in a small compound of their own inside the camp. I hadn’t realised, until Inge told me, that people cling to their tribe structure here. Even the design of their bird-nest shelters can denote which tribe they come from. How it was negotiated that this chief gets an entire compound, no one is quite clear. Apparently, he is so important, it is necessary for his own safety. Where Khadra is a useful man, this chief is mighty. His compound has been used as a storage facility for smuggled arms: Inge knows this for a fact. The guns were removed, yet he was not.
I think you must report this officially.
Look, Inge. Interrupting her plain, Nordic flow. You’re just after telling me this tribe’s a fucking cartel.
You must also consider this, Deborah. It may be that she is happy there.
Happy?
Yes. If she is safe, and well-protected. Victims of sex crimes are often rejected by their communities. They are left with very few options.
Christ, Inge. Do you hear what you’re saying?
I had listened to her sigh, and the hum of the kitchen generator cranking up, the dryness of a sleepless night flattening my tongue. We sipped stale water. Watched the sun rise fully for its daily onslaught.
Mo will sort it. He’s risking a lot for me as it is.
Then Inge asked if she could help as well.
Mo cannot get involved beyond getting Azira out of the chieftain’s compound. I’m not sure how he’ll do this, but we are to wait, just far enough away that we can see the gate and the freshly painted corner of the wall. We sit, shaded in the lee of the transport yard, washed by this constant stream of disinterested people who are walking for rations, for firewood, for water, who are walking because it’s better than standing still. We’ve to wait here until I see them come out. I asked Mo to make absolutely sure it’s her.
Ask if her daughter’s called Rebecca.
And have her go crazy inside his house? No way. I see her face; I know. OK?
After he gets her out, what then? I’ve not to approach until Mo has gone and Azira is far enough away from the compound that she can’t be seen. Inge says normal procedure is for refugees to be referred to UNHCR. They undergo case creation, then pre-screening and verification, so any gaps in their story can be filled. Defining and refining as they are shuffled in and on. Then a resettlement interview, a medical examination . . .
It can take for ever.
But she’s already done all this. She was going to be resettled.
After five. Mo said it would be late, once the men are ‘on deliver
ies’. I need to pace, to grind my heels and press my soles in lulling ambulation and make my mind still as my body moves whatifit’s not her? Whatif we get shot or she doesn’t come and it was her or Mo is shot I am sick, jesusgod I’m swimming in nausea on a belly of rotten water and some orange juice Huq has offered amid joking apologies for the fact it’s not fresh.
The yellow gate cranks open. We tense, suspend our animation.
A people-carrier rolls out, turns right when we are left. Disappears behind a pile of old tyres, and we breathe in again. Ten minutes later, and Mo chugs up. He clambers from his jeep, hammers on the gate. Hammers again. Shouts theatrically.
‘What did he say?’ I whisper to Huq.
‘He says: “I have important information”.’
Mo is eventually admitted access, but his jeep remains outside. Another twenty minutes pass. We’re melting, melting. ‘Your window, please?’ Huq starts up the engine and the air-conditioning. I teach him and Inge the delights of I Spy. Yup. D for dust. Again. We are packed and trembling in our dinky jeep, no back seat to speak of; knees up round my ears. I look away, through the window as Huq leans in to whisper-flirt with Inge. Their heads meet briefly. Flaxen and jet. Finding each other in Dadaab. They are a beautiful couple. Please, please let them be happy. Outside, more beautiful people wrapped in cloths of cream and blue and green. A camel is led to the slaughterhouse: its graceful plod heartbreaking. My calves are in spasm; I need to move, muscles bubbling, there is a tourniquet on my legs. And then the yellow gate reopens. Huq kills the engine, winds the window down. Straining to hear over the tumult of the day, can only see an arm, then a humphy back, bowed down with a bundle.
All your worldly goods.
Thrust out into the open glare, the cloaked figure stumbles. Is weeping, I can hear her crying, then Mo appears. He shoves at her again, too rough. Too rough! Steps forward to yell into the gathering crowd. ‘What’s he saying?’ I hiss.
Huq translates. ‘Um . . . She is dirty bitch thief. He says: “You steal from your master? You are lucky he does not kill you.” ’
‘Oh my God!’
Mo has struck her on the face, she reels and clutches for her bundle.
‘Oh God, stop him, Huq,’ cries Inge.
‘Ssh. Now he says: “You take your . . . um crap, effluent? . . . you get out now. You get out, whore, and you never come back.” ’
The woman falls down, sobbing and clutching at Mo’s legs. He kicks out, but doesn’t make contact. I’m sure he didn’t make contact. For an instant, his stare wavers, like he is searching, then the yellow gate slams. Mo stops kicking. Moves back to his dirty jeep. The cowering woman lies in the dust. A man walks over to help her. Spits on her face, then walks away.
‘Herre Gud.’ Inge is unlocking the passenger door. ‘We have to help her.’
‘No!’ shouts Huq. ‘You go now, that police gets killed. The man inside is nasty, nasty bastard.’
Mo screeches at her one last time, his sturdy finger poking at the air. Then he hauls himself into his jeep. Is gone. I’ve still not seen her face. Remain dispassionate, this scene is sterilised by the frame of open window, the metal casing of the jeep. I am observing a distant far place, these are actors and puppets and the puppet pulls herself up, walks in imprecise steps, her strings newly cut. Arms behind to heft the load of her burden. She shakes her head and her headscarf shifts.
And I can see that it’s Azira.
I get out, quietly. Mouth ‘no’ at Huq who wants to follow. We are less than a hundred yards from where she teeters. A length of plastic sheeting hangs from the wall of the depot. Inert in the still, searing heat, it offers me a little cover as I move from the side of the wall to the depot entrance. I can see better from here. Come this way. I’m willing her, I’m saying the word Rebecca in every ripple of my brain. Spine long and high, Azira examines her surroundings. Growing confidence in her steps, in her ability to bear her body. The churning mass of people had never really stopped; it meanders on without her and she turns, is turning away from me. An older woman shouts something, Azira flinches. Turns back. This way.
This way. Please. And she does; I watch her come towards me. Taller than I imagined, thinner than she should be. Skull and cheekbones and broken teeth. Rebecca’s mummy. Abdi’s wife.
There she is.
Sunlight invading me, it churns behind my eyes in needle-fine whorls, obscuring then revealing a flash of face, her hair, her wrist. The flicker of her moving. Closer, closer: I could touch her. I do, and as I do, I say her name. Say it soft as you would coax a child. She shrinks, the distance of her all held in. Glances, then stares ahead. Waiting.
‘Azira. You are Azira?’
Unblinking. Hands manacled to her bundle of rags.
‘Mother of Rebecca? Ree-be-ca? Hooyo?’
Full gaze on me. She begins to scream. A torrent of urgent words which I can’t understand.
‘Ssh! For Christ’s sake! Huq!’ I shout. ‘Huq!’ as Azira is grabbing me, the rags of her nails tearing flesh. ‘What’s she saying?’ Huq and Inge are running over. I’m wrestling with Azira. ‘Stay quiet! Stay quiet!’ Huq reaches us first. He seizes her by the shoulders and is pulling, dragging her in the direction of our vehicle. As he tugs, he’s talking, gesticulating, pleading. Immediately, Azira stops. Folds her hands beneath her chin and drops towards the earth. Inge takes her by the wrists. ‘No. Maya. Maya.’ Between them, she and Huq pull Azira upright.
‘She says: “You have my baby?” ’
‘Yes!’ I nod. ‘Yes. She is safe. Tell her safe. Tell her her husband’s safe. Abdi.’
‘Abdi?’ Azira repeats.
‘Yes! Tell her we’ve come to take her to them. Tell her she’s coming to Yookie!’
Huq translates this. Oh, the thrills coursing through me, I could almost burst in flames. I’m anticipating the same delirium that’s overwhelming me, grinning like a heidcase to receive her delight. Azira looks plainly out at me, then bends her knees so we are equal height. The bundle on her back is distorting. Liquid. The rags part, the bundle shifts and yawns.
‘She says: “What about my son?” ’
24.
Today is a good day. Rebecca is making paper chains in the living room; I am round and full from the ham Mrs Coutts delivered. Ham is pork, of course, but I am no longer a Muslim. My Christmas tree is testament to that. Even so, I hesitated. It was the salt smell of it, the ragged pinkness and the blackened edge.
‘That’s marmalade, so it is,’ Mrs Coutts told me, poking the sticky rind. ‘The Scots invented marmalade, you know.’
Yes, but only the Scots would eat it, Mrs Coutts. Marmalade is not a subtle confection: it is loud and orange, laced with bitter lumps, yet the resonance is robust and sweet. Surprisingly delicious turned to caramel on ham. Two slices were not enough. So I had four. Yes, I still feel guilt when my belly is full; but I feel hunger in greater measure.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, Mrs Coutts is coming to dinner with us, and the day after, Rebecca and I have been asked to Sandrine’s home. There we will have fish, Sandrine says: Scottish salmon and dill. I didn’t mention it, but we are also having salmon for our starter here (smoked offcuts which Dexy has acquired). For the main course, Mrs Coutts has told me how to stuff a turkey, but there is no need. My minister has gifted us a turkey crown, and a cake with nuts and currants. He said he won them in a raffle, but I think it is charity. No. It is kindness. Our Christmas tree is courtesy – again – of Dexy. Small, but perfectly formed (this is true of both Dexy and the tree), it sits in a pot under our window. My only concern is the chewed nature of its base – it appears to have been snapped rather than sawed.
‘You are very kind, Dexy,’ I said. ‘But did this belong to someone else before it came to us?’
‘No exactly. Well, put it this way: no a person, any road.’
I thought it best to smile and thank him again. Then he gave me a present for Rebecca.
‘I know the wean’s into reading
an that, so I brung her a book. It’s fae a wee second-hand place – disny mean it’s shite by the way.’ He thrust a tattered hardback at me. ‘Oh, and I huvny wrapped it. Mostly because I huvny any paper.’
The book is a compendium of sorts. It’s called The Girls’ Book of Heroines and shows a young girl with dreamy eyes staring at a vision of a maiden in a chariot. The colours are bright and delicate, blurred at the edges as if painted by hand.
‘Dexy. I know she will love it. Thank you. I am very touched.’
‘Fucksake, we know, pal. Leverndale? You don’t need to boast about it.’
I invited Dexy for Christmas too, but his response was apologetic.
‘Nae offence, but you’re no the best of cooks. Apart fae they wee cake hings. And they do a cracking Christmas dinner down the Lodging Hoose Mission. So, if it’s a the same to you . . .’
In a way, this is good because if he came, I don’t think Debs would. She is arriving shortly to drop off gifts for Rebecca, and I plan to ask her then. Doubtless she’ll be spending time at her sister’s, but I know Rebecca would be so happy to see her, even for a little while. Deep, hidden down, I had wondered if we might be invited to hers, but Debs has grown distant. Today will be the first time we’ve seen her since the cathedral and her mysterious dash abroad. It can’t be work, it must be love that drives her to long quietnesses and sudden absence. I have to think this, for I cannot bear to believe she’s growing tired of us; am extremely aware that the mentoring period is done. My pleasant fullness abates. ‘Dropping off gifts,’ she said. Does that denote a duty discharged? Anyway, I will give her the antique vase and it can be a parting gift or a seal of friendship, or simply a place for flowers.
I am in my bedroom, sorting through my rucksack. I feel a little foolish. Carrying it everywhere has not protected my papers, it has endangered them. My Christmas gift to myself is a grey box with a key. The box has a handle, it is almost a suitcase, but metal, with folding files inside. I can keep my papers in this, then I need only carry the key. I survey my bedroom. They should be safe enough here. If I place the box in the wardrobe, behind my extra blanket.
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