Abe 3 (Final)
Abe Story Final Part
ABE
Mayowa Ojo
6/10/20267 min read
No one in the room was capable of talking.
I could have sworn I died until they started yelling and my spirit returned to my body.
“THREE! TWO...” the shorter and more menacing of the militants yelled. There was a glint in his eyes that bothered me. There should be a picture of him beside the phrase “Trigger-happy”, I thought.
Abe stepped forward and yelled even louder for him to wait and as though on cue, we all pointed to the dead man on the floor.
Abe spoke up. “It’s from his pocket.”
Out of anger, the tall militant shot at the pocket where he thought the phone was and the ringing stopped but not without leaving a red blotch in the dead man’s thigh. The short one held the gun steadily to the dead’s man’s chest and fired… nonstop at the same spot till he exhausted his cartridge. By this time there was a gaping hole in the dead man’s chest. I moved to a corner and wretched as did a number of other people.
The militants raised their heads and looked around the room. The sound of a new cartridge clicking into place made me raise my head. Content that they had put enough fear to make even the most devout Muslim forget his favourite verse in the Koran, they called an Indian man. He recited a verse so long they asked him to shut up and leave. His exit brought a measure of hope to the rest of us.
Abe discreetly reached for my hand and squeezed it tight.
“Everything will be fine,” he whispered between clenched teeth.
I squeezed in return to acknowledge his comfort.
Within a few minutes four people left the room and we could hear their very noisy footfalls in the hallway as they ran to safety. I zoned out. This was going to go very smoothly, I imagined. I wondered if the militants were really stupid enough to think everybody in the room would be Muslim or if they were just content with having them deny whatever religion they practiced for the sake of proclaiming Islam.
A gun shot brought me back from my mental wanderings. A Kenyan Cowboy had been shot dead. The bullet went straight through his skull and sat somewhere in his brain as the man collapsed to the floor. Someone vomited in a corner of the room; others squealed while most of us just watched. Numb.
“You must think we’re stupid,” the smaller of the two militants said. “If you say rubbish, you die. You…” he pointed to another KC. The man’s legs wobbled visibly beneath his bulk. He stuttered and I could almost see the ripples in his midsection through his tight t-shirt as he vibrated. Again I let my mind wander back a few hours before the attack. I imagined this man eating a large burger with fries or a pizza and a smoothie to convince himself he was getting his RDA of fruits. As he stood before the militant I wondered if the thought of any of the pleasures of life crossed his mind. I wondered if… “Bam!” the big KC fell back, his left hand reaching almost dramatically for the militant who shot him.
The Indian family was next. The teenage daughter stood up and approached the militants. She slowly recited a verse from the Koran, not taking her eyes off the militants at any point. The militants indulged her deliberate sluggishness; the bigger one eyeing her lecherously before ordering her to leave. The entire room almost chorused a sigh of relief but not before the teenage girl spat in the shorter militant’s face and very quickly followed with a slap!
We all gasped in shock but not the militant. He instinctively returned the slap with the back of his hand, knocking the girl to the floor. He grabbed his gun and pointed it to her and I, in my mind’s eye, could see her lifeless body on the floor in a matter of seconds.
“Have you lost your mind?” he asked her.
Her mother raced to her side and knelt on the ground begging for forgiveness while screaming hysterically at her daughter.
“If you’re really doing God’s work, why didn’t you round off everybody in the mall when you came in and conduct your screening? Now my father’s body is in the hallway.”
I was stunned by her foolish bravery - broken, bleeding lips and all from the backhand slap.
The militant paused for a second. By this time his gun was hanging loosely by his side. It could have been compassion I saw in his eyes for a split second or just shock at the teenage girl’s audacity. He looked from mother to child and yelled at them to get up. He raised his gun once more and pointed it at the girl’s head. She did not look bothered and I almost envied her bravery. Almost!
Her mother started begging, pleading that her daughter be forgiven her ignorance; that she already lost a husband and would hate to lose a child in the same day. It was not until she begged in Allah’s name that the militant eased up.
He told her to get out quickly before he changed his mind. Indian woman dragged her son and daughter and raced to safety.
“I hope you all enjoyed that short tele novella. If it happens again with anyone of you, you will be dead before you know it. You…” he pointed at me and my heart froze.
I just could not bring myself to walk. I felt Abe nudge me forward and oh, the comfort I felt knowing he was walking beside me. I wanted to turn and look at him but I remembered we had been warned against any drama of any sort.
Once in front of them, I slowly recited the verse I’d memorized and was asked to leave. I stalled, waiting for Abe to recite his and join me at the door.
When they summoned him next, his response to their request was, “If only you know how much he loves you.”
There was so much empathy in the way he said it that it made the militants do a double take. They looked at each other, confused.
“Who?” the bigger of the two asked.
Abe smiled. “Jesus. He died for you so you don’t have to…”
I heard the gun shot before I heard his body hit the floor. I squatted and wept at the sight of his lifeless body. Even in death he managed to look calm, happy and confident at the same time. I screamed and kicked and the militants threatened to shoot me if I did not leave instantly. I wanted to whack Abe hard across his face for being so stupid but of the many things he was, stupid was not one of them.
With tears streaming down my face, I stepped out of the mall and walked to the gate before I was greeted by a sea of faces I did not recognize. All the while, there was a sympathetic look on some of the faces I saw. It bothered me. They must have thought I was crying because of the ordeal I’d just been through. Military personal surrounded me, snatched me up and whisked me to “safety”. But I did not feel safe. I did not feel happy to be out. I did not feel comforted by the warm blanket they wrapped around me. And I certainly did not feel less pressured by the very patient psychiatrist who examined me while stylishly interrogating me. I simply felt alone and wanted to be left as such.
*******
It’s been two years since Abe passed. Someone from his office came to pack up his apartment and I volunteered to help but I could not bring myself to attend his funeral. Still can’t visit his grave either. To have come so close to leaving Nairobi and, less than twenty-four hours before departure, be shot by senseless terrorists.
I know God is all knowing and Abe would want me content with knowing that he’s in heaven but sometimes I yell out loud. I imagine God understands the meaning. So many theories about why bad things happen to good people but I still don’t get how God could open his eyes and let that happen to someone like Abe.
It should have been me or someone else. Not Abe. He was just too good a person and yes I’ve struggled with drawing a fine line between my feelings for him and his amazing personality. He’s dead now. Feelings are a dime a dozen but his impact on me and a couple other people in that room will not be forgotten anytime soon.
In the months that followed, I had many episodes when I went back to my old habits with the bottle. I just could not handle everything my mind asked of me but even in his death he still cared for me.
I finally summoned some courage to power up and open his phone several months after his death. I was surprised to find that he had removed the password on his phone. I found my way to his text message box and saw a note saved in Drafts. I was immediately drawn to it. I would share the details of the text with you but they're all I have left from him and so pardon me if I don't. All I can say is that his words brought me hope at a time I was drowning in hopelessness and warmth at a time when the world felt cold and I, alone. I read that note daily and several times a day for so long the words became real to me.
I’m better now. I’ve been clean for over a year now. Abe would be proud. Initially it felt right to live right for him but I know he would have frowned at the ideology. So I live right for me and for God and hope someday with as few words as possible but as much generosity of heart I’m able to impact someone else’s life the way he did mine.
This story is dedicated to all those who lost their lives or know someone who did in the Westgate Mall attack on the 21st of September, 2013. In comparison to what really happened, this is short and colourful but it’s heartfelt.