What would you do if you woke up in the prime minister's body after being locked up in one of the worst detention centres in the world?

Iman Hemmati has been suffering in the appalling conditions of the detention centres in Nauru after arriving in Australia on a boat. He is grieving for his child who died in the journey. He is angry to be treated like an uneducated fool, like he doesn’t know better because of his skin colour.

The day of his meeting with the prime minister as the asylum seekers’ representative, Iman lost his temper and tried an ancient ritual he discovered in his studies as a professor. The next day, Iman finds he is in the body of the prime minister, lying beside a woman who is not the prime minister’s wife.

Meanwhile, prime minister Lawrence Wilson is struggling to survive in the cramped and filthy conditions of the detention centre. With the help of Iman’s bestfriend, he slowly finds out about the life of the man whose face he is wearing.

As their separate journeys progress, both men realise that life on the other side is not what it seems. Iman must now decide whether to destroy the prime minister’s life or use the position to change the country for good.

When Lawrence woke up that morning, the first thing he noticed was the aching of his joints – something he didn’t remember having when he went to bed that night.

The second thing he noticed was the smell. A mix of urine, human faeces and sweat, reminding him of the time when he had to visit a farm, pretending to examine the state of the Australian outback.

The third thing he noticed was that he wasn’t in his bed. In fact, he wasn’t even in his house.

These three things pushed Lawrence to jump out of bed, knocking his head on something hard in the process.

“Oi, stop shaking the bed, I’m trying to get some sleep,” a voice said from above Lawrence.

He was on a bunk bed in a dark room. His head was throbbing like a motherfucker, worse than a hangover. Not that he’d remember what a hangover felt like. It had been a long time since he’s had one. After changing his lifestyle to become super fit, Lawrence gave up a lot of his vices. Drinking is one of them. Women, well, he couldn’t give up everything.

But these were things he kept to himself. He doesn’t even swear anymore. Not in public anyway.

Because Prime Ministers were not supposed to swear in public.

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to shake off the unfamiliar surroundings, thinking that maybe he’s having a really convoluted dream. But instead of feeling better, Lawrence realised he’s touching a very unfamiliar face. He pulled his hands away. Even in the dim light, Lawrence knew he wasn’t looking at his own hands.

“Kapa nə?!” (What the fuck?)

What language was that? Indonesian? Indian? I don’t speak those languages. I speak no other language but English, he thought.

Lawrence struggled to get up, the legs that were not his were stiff and achy like they’ve been beaten by a baseball bat. He looked around the room for a mirror. There were four bunk beds, one in every corner. Three of them each had a person sleeping on the lower bed. There was a toilet and lavatory at the back of the room, and a small scratched up mirror on the wall.

Lawrence staggered to the mirror, afraid to look at it but unable to hold down his curiosity. He wiped the mirror with his dirty shirt and stared at the man looking back at him.

The face was familiar but it was definitely not his. It was not the face of the man who pushed himself to power to become Australia’s prime minister. His dusky blond hair was now dark with a spattering of grey. His white skin was gone, replaced by dark brown with scars in several places. The face. He had seen it before. He had a black eye and a stitch on his forehead.

Yes. I remember that face, he thought.

I was in the meeting with this man. This face I am wearing. What was his name?

Omid? Amid? Ali?

He was the leader that the boat people appointed to meet with to talk about their plight in Nauru. Or “asylum seekers”, just to be politically correct around the media.

Why am I wearing his face? How did I end up here?

“Admiring yourself in the mirror, Iman?” Lawrence turned around to face the owner of the same voice who told him to stop shaking the bed. “I mean, I knew you had delusions of being a leader but I didn’t know you’re also into your looks.”

“Who are you?” Lawrence asked the man who put his arm around his shoulder like they were long time friends.

“Wow, they really beat you up good yesterday eh?” the man laughed. He stopped laughing after seeing the expression on Lawrence’s face.

“It’s me Iman, Mohammed, remember?” Lawrence just stared at the man, still confused. Mohammed’s expression changed to concern.

“You’re scaring me a bit my friend. They must have really hurt your head more than the doctor said,” Mohammed said, taking Lawrence’s arm and leading him to the bed.

“Don’t you remember yesterday? You went to see the prime minister to talk about the conditions here in the centre. You wanted to negotiate to give us better facilities and to allow us to live with our wives and children. Remember?”

Lawrence nodded. He remembered a conversation with this Iman guy. He pleaded for better services, for better conditions. He remembered how he asked for families to be united instead of separated in the centres. He asked a lot of questions about how the processing works, if they have a chance to actually live in Australia.

I wasn’t listening that much. I’ve already made the decision before entering the meeting, Lawrence thought.

“Ok good, you remember that part. Do you remember what happened next?” Mohammed asked.

“He…I attacked the prime minister,” Lawrence said, grasping his memory.

“You bet your ass you did!” Mohammed said, slapping Lawrence’s back in glee. “I couldn’t believe you did that. I mean, the peaceful Iman losses it and attacks the prime minister. I bet it was all over the news”

But Iman didn’t attack the prime minister. Lawrence was starting to remember what really happened. He was giving Iman the same rehearsed lines about proper procedures and committee reviews on the situation. But Iman became agitated, asking for a real answer. Lawrence just kept telling him the same things over and over. The same political speak he’s practiced for the media. Then, before anyone could react, Iman grabbed Lawrence’s head and spoke an incomprehensible mantra before spitting on the prime minister’s face.

The guards took a second to react but by the time they did, Iman already released Lawrence’s head, mumbling the same words over and over. Lawrence was immediately dragged away from the room, not knowing that the guards gave Iman a good beating before sending him back to the detention centre.

Was it a voodoo chant? Did the bastard do this to me? Lawrence shook his head, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. But it wasn’t a bad dream. He was in the detention centre. He was in Iman’s body. And if he’s in someone else’s body, then who was in his?

Iman expected to wake up in pain after his beating the day before. He expected to roll out of his miniscule bed, onto the dark depressing detention room for attacking the prime minister of Australia. He expected the same stench of human waste, like he always smelled each time he woke up.

What he didn’t expect was waking up in a plush bedroom next to a beautiful woman wearing very little to cover her parts. Iman bolted upright, staring at the woman next to him, her exposed nipple peeking out of her top, and feeling the beginning of a boner stirring under the sheets. As slowly as he could, Iman moved the doona to get out of bed without waking the woman up. He stood up and realised he was naked, staring down at an unfamiliar penis.

He had a white man’s dick. In all the years that he’s looked down there to use it to pee, it had never been white. Iman found a mirror on the other side of the room and walked towards it, knowing that he wasn’t going to see himself in the mirror.

He was in the prime minister’s body. His clean, white, healthy body that had never slept on his own filth while sitting in a cramped boat waiting to arrive to salvation – only to realise they’ve left hell for another hell. Iman smiled at himself in the mirror. Although he didn’t particularly consider the prime minister a good human being, it was a good vessel to borrow for the time being.

I can’t believe it worked, Iman thought smiling to himself. He wanted to celebrate and he knew just how. He slipped back into bed, caressing the breast of the young woman beside him. The woman who was obviously not the prime minister’s wife.

Was this where he went after the incident yesterday? Was this woman his favourite mistress? Were there others? He’d been known to bed several women, one in every city supposedly. His wife, of course, reassured everyone it was all just gossip but it was just to save face.

The woman stirred in the bed, stretching her arms and landing on Iman’s chest. “Good morning sir,” she said, smiling at him. “Last night was amazing. We still have enough time before our flight back to Australia. Your schedule is quite full for the week so this might be our only time to laze in bed a while.”

His schedule would be full, of course. That’s what politicians do. Moving from one meeting to another lying to their teeth. All of those could wait though. Iman decided that today would be a good day to go to the detention centre and have another meeting with the prime minister. He knew that after yesterday’s incident, the media would take it as a sign of the prime minister’s dedication to make things work. Why else would he go back to meet with the person who attacked him the day before?

Even so, Iman didn’t mind casting a momentary good light on the prime minister. There will be time to tamper with his image in the most destructive way possible.

Iman kissed the woman beside him, cupping her breast with the palm of his hand. It had been a very long time since he’d been with a woman. He would enjoy this moment. He would enjoy this new life.