Open Writing

Chapter 14
Test of Strength (continued)

These days every man in Hobyo is armed to the teeth. The town
is the capital of world piracy. But at the time I was held captive
there, it was apparently very unusual to see a weapon, and certainly
not one aimed at human flesh. Al-Rashid and his men had left their
guns on board the dhow, so I thought. Whether this was intentional
to avoid drawing attention to themselves I could not say, but it
turned out to be their undoing.

Twenty minutes after I had been locked away, Nimrod and his
men crowded into the bar holding their guns in a ready to fire position.
I’m sure the AK47s would have looked very intimidating. The
sight of any gun barrel is enough to drive fear into ordinary men.

This is how Nimrod described the scene:

‘Most people in the bar were already quite drunk and wanted no trouble, for
sure. The bar girls screamed plenty when we made our entrance but that is what
such women do. They see a Maasai and they think we are going to take their
blood, like we would from the neck of a cow.

Now I had a
different kind of test, but was confident of success.’

Nimrod seemed to have thought of everything. He knew there
was no chance of us getting away unless al-Rashid and his henchmen
were deprived of their freedom. I helped to identify them all – one
by one they were separated from other bystanders. It was then that
Gabobe made an unexpected move. Before anyone could react he
lunged forward and grabbed Ayanna. He held a serrated blade
against her throat and cut her to underline the seriousness of his intent.

‘Not again,’ I thought, fearfully.

‘Painted Maasai thieves!’ he yelled, his face contorted with rage.
‘Did you think you could steal our property so easily!’

He’d moved so that his back was to the wall. Ayanna looked petrified
as a little line of blood trickled down her throat. It was, I realised,
a moment of serious danger for us all. If our situation was reversed
and Nimrod’s men were forced to give up their weapons, they
would surely be shown little mercy, and I would be back to square
one.

‘Unlike yourselves, we are not thieves,’ Nimrod answered, almost
serenely. ‘You have been watching too many of those ridiculous
American films if you think your action will change the outcome of
these events. If you kill her, what then? Do you think you will survive?
Better if you give us the knife, now.’

The standoff continued. Beads of perspiration began to form on
Yusuf Gabobe’s brow as his little eyes darted from one member of
Nimrod’s band, to another. He looked desperate. Only then did he
realise how futile his attempted resistance had been. There was no
way he could come out on top.

‘Consider this,’ Nimrod continued, ‘one choice for you is to walk
over there and be safe with your friends, the other .........’

The sentence was never completed. What happened next occurred
in a flash. Another shot rang out. There was more yelling and
diving but less than before. My would-be rescuers looked taken by
surprise as none of them had fired.

I saw a large piece of bone and scalp parting from Gabobe’s cranium.
The impact spun him violently to my right. Ayanna was released
from his grip. Her face and blouse were covered in blobs of
blood but it was that of her tormentor. Hysterically she fled, screaming
into my embrace. The Maasai didn’t need to look far for the perpetrator.

Of all people it was the man who had hugged Gabobe at
Bur Gavo, and kissed his cheeks. Al-Rashid was holding the same
pistol which he had discharged to settle the melee of women on the
beach at Bur Gavo. Nimrod spoke to calm his men and then to the
Arab.
‘My message to you, fat one, is the same as it would have been to
the man you have shot. I’m hoping you believe that saving your neck
is a higher priority than troubling yourself further with the fate of a
few Somali peasant women (I bristled at that!). Better to be locked
up for a few hours, than dead.’

Al-Rashid grinned. Like a lamb, he dropped his pistol on the
floor.

‘My life,’ he bragged, ‘is worth a thousand such women.
Nevertheless,
I acted to protect my investment. That idiot looked as if he
was going to kill her.’

One of the Maasai stooped to pick up Gabobe’s dagger; another
walked forward and took possession of the discarded revolver. He
waved the barrel back at its former owner. Al-Rashid and his Arab
friends were then all taken away and locked in the same back room
from which we women had been freed. Nimrod kept the padlock
key. Internment wouldn’t keep them at bay forever, but it would give
us a head start, he figured.

Yusuf Gabobe was not dead. How could he be alive still with
such an injury? I swear I could see his brains. His face had changed
colour. All the vitality had drained from it. As he lay on the floor,
some protective sub-conscious reaction caused him to raise both
hands to his head, to touch his reconfigured skull, and then rub his
fingers on his chest. He did this several times. With each movement
he let out a low moan. Everyone watched this performance in fasci-
nated, silent horror. I saw a spectator kick the piece of blown off
scalp along the floor towards its owner. And then Gabobe sighed, as
if somehow exasperated, and drew his last breath. I had warned that
his little venture would not turn out well for him. How right it transpired,
I had been.

Expressing apologies to the remaining drinkers, and with further
cooperation from the now tamed proprietor, Nimrod locked them
all into the bar from outside in the street. The metal window shutters
were also barred so that those within could not easily summon help.

Quickly we made our way back to the quay. People stopped to
gape at us as if we were a circus act. They soon went about their
business or stepped smartly to one side when they saw our rescuers’
guns.

The dhow which Nimrod and his men had been loading earlier
was now ready to depart. We climbed aboard. Before leaving our
mooring there were further precautions to be taken. From below
deck, Nimrod brought forth an axe and a small container. He leapt
back onto the quay and skipped across to al-Rashid’s vessel. Three
minutes of frantic chopping brought the mast tumbling down. Then
he disappeared below and poured salt into the dhow’s engine. Finally
he cut the ropes which secured the vessel to the quayside. The crippled
dhow soon began to drift.

We left the harbour in calmer water and with a near full moon
poking its head above silvery clouds. The other women thought we
had been captured by competing slave traders. When I explained that
Nimrod and his crew were friends, they began a series of ecstatic
ululations which continued at intervals, well into the night.

Once back on the open ocean the crew tacked, immediately taking
us into deeper water for fear of striking the reef. Soon the lights
of Hobyo disappeared. I didn’t know where we were going, nor at
first did I ask. To be free again was all that I could have wished for.
I watched Nimrod standing, it seemed proudly, at the bow. He’d
adopted the one-legged stance I knew to be so typical of his tribe.

He turned around and smiled when he saw me looking at him. He
was indeed a handsome fellow. A surge of warmth towards him
spread through me and I began to imagine perhaps what I should
not.