The Other Side of Truth by Beverley Naidoo

hand away. He folded his arms tightly around him.
    “This is ridiculous,” declared Mr. Nathan, addressing Hawk Lady. “You are causing the child unnecessary distress. These children are in the care of Social Services and Mrs. Appiah from the Refugee Council is also working with them. They are not going to run away. I cannot see the point of putting him through this.”
    “We’re following the regulations, sir. What other proof do you have of their identity?”
    “It is only a week since they arrived and—”
    “But you still have no other proof,” Hawk Lady interrupted, stretching her neck as if to mark a victory. Obviously they would not force the boy to have his fingerprints taken, she continued, beginning to sound impatient. But without them he was unlikely to be given his Temporary Admission papers. He should decide quickly because he was now holding up the queue. Femi must have been following it all because suddenly he thrust up his arm toward the inkpad, allowing Hawk Man to take hold of his hand. The set of his jaw showed that his teeth were clenched. They remained clenched even when he was washing the ink off his fingers.
    On the other side of the room, they had to wait yet again.While Mama Appiah and Mr. Nathan spoke to some of the people around them, Sade began to play a little guessing game with herself. Which countries did all these people come from? Her only clues were clothes and faces, and those weren’t very reliable. But she liked testing her memory. What different countries were there in Asia, in South America, in Europe? Then she tried to remember names from the map of Africa above Papa’s desk. Cameroon and Chad were next to Nigeria, but what was to the east of Chad? Sudan, Somalia? She puzzled over a woman in a lime green robe with purple flowers, her head covered with a scarf and her arms cradling a baby. A tiny wrinkled hand escaped from the hibiscus pink blanket, its fingers curled like little tendrils. The mother’s face reminded Sade of sunken dunes in the desert. She sat so still, staring almost blankly, while her baby’s fingers explored the empty air. Where was the baby’s father, she wondered? Sade wanted Femi to join her quiz. They used to make up quizzes for each other, especially on long journeys in the car. Because she was older and had learned more at school, Femi used to get his own back by asking questions about sport. Sometimes they used to work in teams, one with Mama and the other with Papa. But when Sade asked Femi to make up a quiz with her now while they waited, he shrugged her off irritably. Instead he buried himself in the comic that Mama Appiah had bought him. Couldn’t she see that he was busy?
    When their number was finally called, the interview took hardly any time. The man behind the glass did not wear a uniform and looked young enough to be a student. His croppedbrown hair stuck up straight like a brush. He asked exactly the same questions that Mr. Nathan had already asked them and Mr. Nathan did most of the talking. When Brush Head asked about their parents and how they had entered the country, Mr. Nathan replied that the children were still very frightened. They had come by air to London with a lady and they needed time to tell their full story. Sade clasped her hands together below the counter as Brush Head studied her and Femi before beginning to write. There was a form for each of them with their photographs pasted on the right-hand side. From upside down, Sade read the words “TEMPORARY ADMISSION.” The forms were passed under the glass for them to sign. It was only then that Sade saw that above “Family Name: ADEWALE,” Brush Head had written in bold large letters “CLAIMS TO BE.” Did that mean he didn’t believe them?
    “Well, we got what we needed in the end,” Mr. Nathan commented as they entered the subway. “Now that this is sorted”—he held up the folded papers—“you can start school.”
    Femi, who was ahead of them, whirled around