This Is Where I Am (16 page)

‘I am.’

‘Good, good. I am Khadra. Whatever you need, I have. You understand?’

Khadra means lucky or fortunate. Seeing him in his clean white robe with his wives and his comfortable belly, I thought, yes, you are well-named, sir. But I didn’t understand
then
, not really. When my son took ill, Azira queued for hours, waiting to see a doctor. If only I had known about bribes and favours and how you circumnavigate the tides.

Anyway, Khadra was late, Mrs Mursai was out, and we needed wood to boil the baby’s water. Azira said there was a group of women going, and one of them kept a fruit knife inside her wrap.
For the firewood
, Azira smiled. So I let her go. When she returned, Khadra still hadn’t come and our daughter was barely moving. Her whimpers had ceased, her eyes were glazed in a netherworld of neither shut nor open. I thought at first Azira was crying only for the baby, and then I saw grazes on her cheek. The collar of her dress torn.

When you are unprepared for the arrival of your most buried fears, the full violence of them is terrifying. I think I seized her, was shouting over and over
What happened?
And her, sobbing at me and reaching for our baby:
Has the man not come? Has the man not come?

The man never came. Perhaps he would have if I hadn’t done what I did next. It was police, Azira told me. Police who demanded a fee for the wood.

That is Kenyan wood, bitches. We can charge you with theft, you know
. We were lucky up until then, we had avoided their attention. The Mursais had been waylaid before they even got to the camp, made to hand over all their money and every possession they owned before police would allow them passage. They told Dires Mursai they would imprison him for ‘unlawful presence’ if he didn’t pay. Then they whipped him and said he was an Al-Shabaab terrorist, that he would be executed. Until then, Dires had been a doctor who thought he was rescuing his family. Now he smoked khat all day and beat his wife.

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?’