There were already people crouched behind the counter but I squeezed in and got enough room to lie down, face first.
It was what you typically did when caught in the cross fire between police and armed robbers – which is what I thought was happening given the screams of ‘mwizi’ (thief) I had heard before hitting the deck.
Before I hit the ground I saw some shoppers still walking around, pushing their shopping carts slowly, trying to figure out what was going on. They, like me, probably thought the gunfire would be short-lived and matters quickly cleared up.
I didn’t immediately seek out a hard-to-reach place either or an alternative exit because, like I said, I didn’t think we were the targets but I was quickly dispossessed of that fantasy when I heard the shooters speak.
It was hard to make out what they were saying at first because they spoke in a mix of English, Kiswahili and what I think was Arabic but from what I could make out I knew we were in trouble.
“You have invaded our country,” I believe one of them said, “you have raped our women and killed our elderly and it is time we got some retribution.”
Once they made their mission known they just started shooting and I could hear screams, cries for help, gasps of shock as, I later found out, they shot those who lay on the ground between the aisles.
I quickly burrowed my upper body beneath the meat counter as there was no room for anything else but I still hoped that someone would stop ‘them’ whoever ‘they’ were before they got to us.
Hope blossomed when I heard them come upon a woman who identified herself as a French national and her children. I knew she had children because they were crying and one of the terrorists told them to, “shut-up.”
I couldn’t make a sound because I could hear them shoot anyone who let out a moan
I didn’t hear their response but I recall their mother being told, “You’re lucky we don’t kill children,” before being ordered to take her children and run.
She wasn’t however, the only one to identify herself as a French national but having no children, this woman tried bargaining for her life.
“I have money,” I think she said, “take anything you want.”
But as they’d said, they weren’t after money so they shot her and I knew in that moment that if they had no mercy for an unarmed woman who’d laid herself bare, they’d have no mercy for me — a man.
And I was right. I could feel the counter shudder as they shot at the display case. I could hear the squish sound the meat made when they stood on it but curiously I didn’t feel it when the bullets hit me.
I only realised I’d been shot later, when I started to get cold, when I felt the blood seep through my clothes and when I looked down and saw how the bullets had shredded my trousers.
And even though I wanted to cry out in panic, I knew I couldn’t make a sound, I couldn’t move a muscle because I could hear them shoot anyone who let out a moan.
It was a good thing I had my phone on silent as well because they shot at any ringing phone and whoever was next to it as they made their rounds to make sure, I imagine, everyone was dead.
And as I pressed into my vibrating phone I knew I had to press on my leg so the blood would clot because dead people don’t keep bleeding.
This became even more exigent when I heard them walk back in my direction and my body gave an involuntary tremor but they hadn’t turned back for me. They were after the alcohol that was stacked opposite the meatery.
And if I had any doubts as to what drove these men they were cleared up when they spared not a bullet in their assault of the bottles.
I remember it flowing across to where I lay before I lost consciousness, for how long I don’t know.
I could see their feet dangling from the deep freezers when they sat down for what I took to be a break from the killing.
When I came to it was quiet. My throat was parched. I ran my tongue over my lower lip and tried to move but my left leg wouldn’t move. It was then that I remembered what had happened.
I could feel my phone vibrating. Luckily my body had kept it from soaking up the blood and alcohol. It was my wife and thinking I was going to die I took the risk of picking up.
I remember telling her something along the lines of, “I’m dying, please do not mourn for me,” as I implored her not to tell our son that I was dead until he finished sitting for his Kenya Certificate of Primary Education.
How she would have fulfilled that dying wish I have no idea. But I told her not to call me again because I was dying.
It was a stroke of luck that we hang up when we did because they came back. I heard them open what I knew to be the soda fridge when I heard that spurt of gas that’s released when you pry open a soda can or bottle.
I could see their feet dangling from the deep freezers when they sat down for what I took to be a break from the killing.
There were five pairs of feet that could see. All their hems were covered in blood and although their shoes were splotchy with blood I could make out the colours.
One had brown boots – the kind young ones wear these days – so he must have been the one with the feminine voice, another one had on brown loafers, another white ones and two others black ones.
Before long they started to call out for survivors, “if you’re still alive, we’ll let you go,” they said. I wanted to speak out so badly. I don’t lift weights so my arms were burning from supporting my head.
I was so tired but before I did anything I heard some ladies call out. I wish they hadn’t. I wish they’d held on because I heard them get shot in cold blood.
And this is the reason I didn’t come out even when the police reservists came calling. Their Kiswahili sounded Kenyan but I couldn’t be sure they were the cavalry as I couldn’t be sure from their shoes that they weren’t the terrorists.
I only let on that I was still alive when I saw the boots the paramilitary wear and even then I waited for someone else to come out first.
“Sija wahi ona miili nyingi kama hii (I’ve never seen so many dead bodies),” I could hear them say as one shook my leg to see if I was still alive.
It was then that I heard something heavy move and someone say, “nisaidieni (help me),” and when I didn’t hear him get shot I tried to call out but all that came out was a guttral sound. But it was enough.
I still felt like I was taking a risk though because it could have very well been an act and four bullet wounds to the knee later I’m glad it wasn’t.
I don’t remember much after that. I remember my leg sticking to the floor when I tried to stand up. I remember clutching onto the belt of one of the officers who let me out and I remember the faces swimming when we got out.
The next thing I knew I was on a hospital bed. I know the President said the nightmare is over but not for me because I still haven’t come to terms with what was the worst day of my life.
- capitalfm.co.ke
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