At around 10:37am on Friday August 7, 1998, a pick up was seen at the gate of the American Embassy in Nairobi. One of two men manning the vehicle was seen as if arguing with the guard at the gate. Undoubtedly, they wanted entry into the Embassy compound.
Seconds later, all hell broke loose. A bomb exploded. A bomb that set things running in the opposite direction. A bomb that brought mighty buildings down. A bomb that killed, maimed, incapacitated, dealt a death blow to people’s ambitions (and aspirations) and forcefully wrenched and wrested our loved ones from our very hands.
The scene was aghast after the blast. People ran, screamed, and hollered while some tried to shield themselves with their palms – sheer madness. But for once, nobody cared what their neighbours were doing for each and every one was doing their own thing – primarily to get as far away from where the noise had come from (the bomb!).
Hundreds lost their lives and the whole country was held at ransom by the very pain and sorrow its citizens were going through. Many lost their limbs, eyesight, hearing ability and – hope!
As countless numbers of people were sifting and rummaging through the rubble trying to find their loved ones – hoping against all hope that they would find them alive – countless others thronged churches and mosques asking God to purge their sins for they thought the prophesied Armageddon had finally come. A frightening thought!
I was at home, in Nyahururu (a town in Central Kenya), at the time. Some minutes after the blast of the bomb, my mother came running to my room.
“Have you heard the news? There’s been a massive bomb blast in Nairobi. People have died and buildings have been destroyed,” she said, panting.
“What?!” I exclaimed. I had never heard of a massive bomb blast anywhere in Kenya before that day. I was flabbergasted.
As news came trickling in the rest of the day and on subsequent days, the picture of what had happened on that fateful day gradually sunk in. The images on TV spoke very loudly. Images of the injured, the dead and the destroyed buildings evoked sympathy and empathy; Images of Kenyans of all walks of life working together to help find “loved ones” (who could not be traced), Kenyans working together to help the injured and piece the pieces of the jigsaw to get a clear picture, spoke volumes.
{I fail to understand where that spirit of working together as a nation went to: working towards a common goal without looking at the creed, colour, tribe or religion of fellow Kenyans. Will that sweet spirit ever come back to bond us together again? I’m just wondering.}
It was during that time, too, that I came to hear of the term “terrorism” being widely used. I heard that terrorist activities were levelled against America, Americans and American interests in the rest of the world.
So, Kenya and Kenyans were victims of circumstances in this whole thing. Is there any reason why our brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers were affected if America and Americans were the target?
My heart goes out to Kenyanswho were emotionally, physically and psychologically affected by this catastrophic event. Poleni sana ndugu zangu.
As we mark the 10th anniversary of this “event of torture” next week, let us appreciate the essence of being just Kenyan - the beauty of it - for the sake of our fallen friends.
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