Chapter 3: Zayn Should Be Here - My Name Is Samim

I say goodbye to Miss Angela and walk to the living room, where a boy and three girls are watching TV. A girl with curly hair in a braid and a stocky boy with broad shoulders look around my age, and the others are younger. The older ones sit on the sofa and the younger ones sprawl on the carpet.

It’s strange to be here, hovering in the doorway, like an uninvited guest.

There is a cartoon about a weird small pig on TV, and the little ones are giggling. The girl with a braid notices me and walks over. She’s wearing a yellow T-shirt with a rocket on it. I like it. I like everything about space.

She stops before me and blows a short strand of curly hair off her face. “Are you Samim?”

I nod.

“Nice. How old are you?”

“Thirteen years and three—”

“For once, just say you’re thirteen!” Zayn throws his arms in the air.

“I’m thirteen,” I say.

The girl’s big brown eyes grow even bigger. “Nice! You’re tall! I’m Rita.”

Zayn spreads his arms in confusion. “What’s with all the ‘nice nice nice’? You are not that nice!”

I drop my head, trying not to smile.

“Where are you from, Samim?” Rita asks.

“Afghanistan.”

“Nice.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.

“I’m from Eritrea,” Rita says after a pause.

“Eritrea is in Africa, right?”

“That’s right.” Rita smiles. “Most kids I know have never even heard of it.”

“I met people from Eritrea at the refugee camp in France.”

She looks at me closely. “Of course, you’ve been through Calais too, haven’t you?”

I nod, and we stay silent for a moment.

“Come on.” Rita grabs my hand and pulls me towards the TV. “Let me introduce you to the others.”

I hold my breath in shock. In my home country, boys and girls don’t hold hands. We go to different schools and never play together. I try to hide my embarrassment, but everyone stares at me and my face turns red.

“You look like a pomegranate,” Zayn chuckles, and it’s not helping.

“This is Samim, everybody.” Rita introduces me to the kids in the room. “He is from Afghanistan. And can you believe he’s thirteen? Samim, this is Ayan, Lily and Skye.”

Ayan has broad shoulders and a big scar across his face in the shape of a crescent. His right eye is smaller because of it. He puts down a half-eaten apple, gets up, wipes his thick, sausage-like fingers against his trousers and shakes my hand. My fingers burn from his squeeze.

“Bomb,” he explains, pointing at his scar, noticing my stare. His voice is as deep as a grown man’s.

I look away, annoyed with myself. I didn’t mean to stare at him; I know how annoying it can be when people stare. He sits back, takes another bite of his apple and continues watching TV.

“I don’t think he cares that you stared.” Zayn says.

The two little girls on the carpet gape at the TV. One of them, Skye, gives me a quick wave.

“Lily and Skye are sisters,” Rita says. “And by the way, Ayan and I are also thirteen.”

“Nice,” I say, twiddling with my bracelet awkwardly.

“Oh no, don’t you start!” Zayn shoots me a warning look.

Rita sits back on the sofa and pats the space between her and Ayan. “Sit with us!”

I gulp.

Zayn slumps on the floor and sneers at me. “If you turn any redder, they’ll think you’re constipated.”

I wish he would just shut up!

I sit, then fold my arms and squeeze my legs together, trying to take as little space as possible.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Breathe, or you’ll pass out again!”

Everyone laughs at the silly pig on TV, and I look around. I don’t move my head, just my eyes, so the others don’t think I’m nosey.

The walls are white and covered in paintings of the sea: an upside-down fishing boat abandoned at the shore, a painting of a sea storm and an ocean at sunset… Shivers crawl down my back and I drop my eyes. I hate the sea. I hate water. I never want to be near any sea, ocean, lake or river again.

I wiggle my feet, enjoying the warmth and softness of the carpet. This house is beautiful. It’s bright, warm and safe, and it has big windows. Could it really be my new home?

Once the cartoon is finished, Ayan switches off the TV.

“Pig is stupid,” he says with the voice of an old man.

Rita giggles, but Lily, who looks about seven, snarls at him, “Don’t say ‘stupid’ or I’ll tell on you!”

“Stupid,” he repeats, with zero expression.

“I’m telling! I’m telling!” Lily runs out of the room.

Rita glares at Ayan. “Nice!”

Ayan shrugs. “I say truth.”

Zayn’s face lights up with a grin. “Ayan is my best friend now,” he whispers to me. Only why does he bother whispering? It’s not like anyone else can hear him.

“Okay, bed now. School tomorrow! Hurry hurry, up up, go go!” Ayan says, gesturing for little Skye to leave the room. “Now we watch what we like to watch.”

Skye folds her arms and scowls at him.

“School?” I gulp.

“Yes, school.” Ayan’s face never shows any emotion. He holds his head high, his lips are curved downwards, and his eyes are heavy and half shut. He always looks half sad, half bored.

“We’ll probably be in the same class,” Rita says, “so don’t worry about school. The teachers are nice, and I’m sure you’ll make friends.”

A coldness settles in my gut. I haven’t been to school in years!

“You’ll be fine,” Zayn says. “New home, friends, school. It sounds like a normal, boring life. Remember wanting to be normal?”

I take a deep breath.

I’m going to school. Everything has changed again. And although I like this change, it comes with new worries. What will my school be like? What will the children be like?

“As my sweet grandmother, who could leave me in the dust hopping on one leg and a crutch, used to say, ‘If you worry too much, it means you’re not doing enough’,” Zayn says. “So quit steaming your potato-brains before they become mash, and enjoy this new house, school, friends… This is the life we dreamt about!”

Ghost Zayn is wise, much wiser than Alive Zayn. Alive Zayn was mostly funny and sometimes annoying, but Ghost Zayn is like a wise old man. Still a very funny and annoying wise old man. I’m grateful for Zayn. I will always be grateful for him. He is the reason I’m alive.

Miss Brown walks into the room.

“It’s bedtime,” she says. “Also, Ayan, please don’t say ‘stupid’ again.”

Lily is smirking from behind Miss Brown’s back.

“I say truth,” Ayan says.

Miss Brown gives him a forced smile. “Even so.”

Everyone leaves but me. I don’t know where to go.

“Come, Samim. I’ll show you to your room,” Miss Brown says, and I follow her along the corridor with framed pictures and then up the stairs to the second floor. The wall by the stairs is also covered in frames, only they don’t have photos. Instead, they are documents: diplomas, certificates and even a driving licence.

Who do these documents belong to, and why are they displayed?

The corridor on the second floor has five doors: four bedrooms and one bathroom. Each bedroom has a handmade name plaque on it. Ayan’s is just a rectangle, Lily and Skye’s is in the shape of a flower, and Rita’s is a spaceship – it’s the best!

Miss Brown opens a door without a plaque and gestures for me to enter. “This is your room, Samim.”

I walk in and think my heart is going to explode. I have my own room now! My very own room! I keep repeating it in my head, and it still doesn’t sound real. After years of sleeping on the streets, in dirty barns, wet tents and prisons, I now live in a nice house and I have my own room!

There is a bed, a small desk and a wardrobe. Just for me! My room has a window with a view of a road and vast grassland behind it, spreading for kilometres like a giant green carpet. The field touches the horizon and swallows the last rays of the sun with it. I can’t take my eyes off the window.

“Do you like it?” Miss Brown asks.

Like it? I love it! I have never even dreamt of having my own room! I just wanted to stop running, to be safe. I love it! But I can’t say a thing. The words bottle up inside me, and all I do is nod.

“Excellent. Please make it your own. Draw pictures for the walls, maybe print some photos of your homeland off the internet?”

I squeeze a smile.

“You won’t be going to school tomorrow, Samim. You have your first interview with the Home Office in the morning.”

I drop my gaze, fighting rising panic.

Miss Brown comes closer and touches my shoulder with her warm palm. “You will do great at the interview, I’m sure.” She then walks to the door, and just before she leaves, she says, “Oh, and one more thing. Could you please make a name plaque for your room when you can? I want everyone to know this room is yours now.” She winks at me and closes the door.

“My name plaque. My room. My new home.” I say the words, but they sound foreign. I flop on the bed, and my body bounces off the springy mattress.

“Fun!” Zayn climbs on the bed. “Come on, join me!” he says, jumping up and down.

“No. I don’t want to break it.”

Zayn slumps on the bed. “You just don’t know how to have fun, do you?”

I look through the window and watch the green field turn blue in the dusk. I grew up surrounded by mountains wearing cloudy hats, standing tall, reminding me how small I was in comparison. I grew up running across green valleys, climbing rocky hills and drinking water from ice-cold rivers. I didn’t think about how wonderful my homeland was back then. It was home: that was it. But in the detention centre, I dreamt about home every night and wished I could stay asleep for ever…

The grassland outside my window turns black with the night. Now, all I see are streetlights and shadows.

“It’s bedtime,” Zayn says.

“I know.”

“You were due some good luck. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

Zayn should be here with me. Like he was with me when I ran through the valleys, climbed the hills and swam in the rivers of Ghazni. He should have made it here with me and had his room, too, with his name plaque on the door.

“Mine would have been in the shape of a football under Messi’s foot,” Zayn says with a proud smile.

I grab my face, pressing fingers on my eyes to stop them from tearing up.

Zayn would have loved it here. And he would have known how to be happy. He should be here instead of me.