by NEELAM VERJEE
A relative kneels near the gravesite of Ruhila Sood, a Kenyan journalist who belonged to the tiny Ismaili Muslim community. PHOTO/Thomas Mukoya/Reuters
Nairobians are a hard-bitten lot. Despite our charm, humor, and warmth, not much jolts us out of a rather cynical world view: hustlers to traffic, armed robberies to carjackings, grenade attacks to political violence. That changed last week, when terror came home. This usually bustling capital, a laissez faire kind of place known as the “green city in the sun,” ground to halt amid the horror. We had no defense against the attackers on Westgate.
It started off as a regular Saturday, a sunny morning I spent running errands at a nearby mall in preparation for the arrival of guests. I had just returned home when at about 12: 45 p.m., my brother called to make sure none of us were near Westgate, about 20 minutes away from my home in the leafy tranquility of Nairobi’s diplomatic zone.
We spent the next few hours glued to our television and Twitter. My cell phone buzzed with calls from relatives and friends. I had dropped by my aunt’s house in the morning and mentioned that I had to pick up some groceries. She lives behind Westgate and feared I had gone to the supermarket there. My friend Tessa was walking to Westgate when she had heard gunshots; she turned and ran the other way. My uncle was in a mall across the road and about to head to Westgate when the shooting started. One by one, the messages came in. Most were accounted for, albeit with harrowing stories of waiting in storerooms and behind boxes, unsure if it was safer to hide or attempt escape.
I couldn’t help but think it could have been me, or someone in my family. This was our stomping ground, our territory. Westgate was where we met up for brunch, or went to the movies. Due to convenience, security, and, frankly, a lack of alternatives, much of Nairobi life for those who can afford it revolves around its high-end malls. I had been sitting in a coffee shop on the second floor of Westgate with my friend Rowan at exactly that time the previous week. My boyfriend and I had been eating at the burger restaurant that would later be in the front line of fire, exactly three weeks before.
I’ve been here before in another way. In 2008, I was a reporter living and working in Mumbai. I was there on November 26, 2008 during the attacks on the Taj Mahal and Oberoi Trident hotels. Those attacks had begun with reports of gunshots in Leopold’s Café on Colaba Causeway, and in a major train station, before escalating into an all-out three-day siege of the hotels complete with hostages held, and a total of 166 dead. Just as my brother had warned me last weekend, a friend called me soon after the first gunshots in Mumbai were fired, telling me to stay away.
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