Open Writing

Chapter 9
‘Only a Gun Can Make me Go’

There was a road of sorts which could be taken from Gelib to
Afmadu but Nimrod had already advised this was treacherous and
unsuitable for a saloon vehicle. It crossed barely passable terrain. We
had no option but to return to Kismayu with the intention of finding
the main road which had eluded us the day before. The decision
to go was a disaster. If only we had stayed in Gelib a day or so
longer, my life might have been very different today.

The journey back to Kismayu was unproblematical. When we
reached the outskirts however, we found the streets were now being
patrolled by numerous soldiers. This had not been the case twenty
four hours earlier. If it had we would surely have noticed given our
raised state of paranoia.

Papa had decided, correctly, that we had taken on the first part of
our journey with no thought about provisions needed to sustain us –
how could we have given the suddenness of our departure?

Getting
away quickly had been our obvious priority. We needed to buy food
now, and enough liquid to guard against thirst if we were unfortunate
enough to have another mishap on the road. To save time I was
given the task of driving back to the petrol station to refuel again,
and to buy whatever drinks I could lay my hands on. I’d agreed to
pick up my parents outside the market after their intended purchases
of sambuusa, sweet fried bread, some mangoes and roasted nuts.

While the attendant was busy fueling the Mercedes I walked into
an adjacent little shop where I readily found bottles of Fanta and water.

These would do very well, I thought. When I went to the till, I
got the fright of my life and almost dropped everything on the floor.

Copies of the Puntland Post lay in a neat pile on the counter.

Staring
back at me was my own image, as well as a picture of my father. We
were front page news! Without reading the full story – that would
only have drawn attention to myself – I could see from the bold
print underneath our faces that we were wanted for questioning in
relation to Mursal’s shooting spree. It was official then. My heart
thumped so hard in my chest that I thought I was having an attack. I
had to stay calm – get myself under control. Somehow I managed to
smile at the young girl who took my money. I walked unhurriedly
back to the car with my shopping. I was sure no suspicions were
aroused. The petrol attendant needed paying but once done I drove
off with as much composure as I could muster.

Arriving back at the rendezvous point it was a different story.

There was a hullabaloo at the market entrance. Right at its centre
were my parents. They were being pushed and prodded by a particularly
aggressive young soldier, aided and abetted by a number of
market women whom I guessed must somehow have recognised
Papa and informed on him. Everything after that seemed to happen
in slow motion. An aging Italian-made military truck pulled up at the
scene. More soldiers spilled out. I watched in fear and trepidation, as
my parents were bundled away. There was nothing I could do to help
them. I felt useless, selfish, pusillanimous. What could I have done?

Later I imagined a heroic rescue, driving our car into the soldiers,
scattering them in all directions, while pulling mother and father to
safety. Yet deep down I knew, and I’m sure they would have agreed,
that any such attempt would have been idiotic. I might have been
shot, or at the very least, taken into detention as well to face God
knows what. Rape? Torture?

You may challenge my logic and conclude that my lack of inter-
vention was unnatural; that any human being would have made some
attempt to aid their nearest and dearest. Believe me I have thought
about it often enough since that day. I’ve been able to console myself
with the knowledge that Nimrod had been right. Without a gun, we
are weak. History abounds with evidence to support this contention.

That’s why so many Jewish people allowed kith and kin to be meekly
led away to perish at the hands of German soldiers. There were few
documented cases of their tormentors being rushed and overcome.

Their collective fear made them behave like cattle awaiting a bolt to
the head. By showing no resistance they maintained the slim hope
that individuals might just survive another day.

I sat with the car engine idling a few minutes after my family were
taken away. For the second time in just a day I was filled with grief
and I cried bitterly. Yet my mind was clear and made up. I had to
proceed to Kenya alone. I hoped and prayed that my parents would
survive their interrogation; that the military would conclude they had
nothing to do with Mursal’s stupid act, and would be allowed to return
to our home in Mogadishu. There was no going back there for
me, however. The risk of having no answer to my prayers was too
great.