When I fled from Terror only to Find it in my Bed

Within a minute, The Growler roared into Mokowe town, the scent of burning wood and ash flooding through the open windows. Mpeketoni the epicenter of that al-Shabaab massacre, was now only twenty minutes away. My heart raced at the thought of passing so close to where so many lives had been senselessly taken. What if the terrorists were still hiding in the vast Boni forest that lined parts of the road ahead of us?

“Oh my God!” Mutua’s voice was tight with panic.

Before I could turn to ask what had startled him, the sight before me answered my question. Just a few meters ahead, a mob had gathered. People with machetes raised high, large stones clutched in their hands, their faces twisted with anger and fear. Flames crackled from burning logs in the middle of the road, the choking smell of smoke filling my nose.

“This is it,” I thought, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. “I’m going to become a statistic today.” Another cold number.

I looked down at the black T-shirt I was wearing. The word “Kenya” was emblazoned across my chest, but it wasn’t a patriotic choice as I had simply grabbed the first clean shirt I found when I fled my House that morning. Now, the fabric clung to my sweat-soaked body, the heat and fear mingling together in a suffocating grip.

In my mind’s eye, I could already see the news. Victoria Rubadiri, the polished NTV news anchor, her smooth voice announcing, “Rowdy Mokowe crowd burns helpless Subaru,” just before the footage of my car engulfed in flames.

Determined not to let that happen, I slowed The Growler to a halt, my hand already fumbling for the seatbelt. I’m no Usain Bolt, but in that moment, I felt sure I could outrun anyone, despite my 85 kilos. Fear has a way of making you feel light as air.

The crowd inched closer, their eyes hard, their hands gripping weapons tightly. One young man approached my window, his face expressionless. He wore black jeans, brown open-toed shoes, and a faded cap with “Kenya” stitched across the front.

At least he loves Kenya, I thought with a flicker of hope. Maybe he loves all Kenyans equally. However, in truth, my T-shirt had nothing to do with love for the country.

As I rolled down the window, the hot air outside collided with the cool interior of the car, a wave of dust and sweat swirling around me. My heart hammered in my chest, but my face remained calm, a trait inherited from my father, who was calm during a crisis. His stillness was like a rock in a storm, something I clung to.

“Mambo vipi bro,” I greeted the young man, my voice steady despite the panic bubbling inside.

It was a ridiculous question. How could anyone be fine? But Swahili greetings often demand an answer about one’s well-being.

“Mzuri tu,” he replied, his voice unexpectedly calm, almost friendly.

My heart slowed its wild beating. Maybe Victoria Rubadiri wouldn’t be reading news about my car being torched after all.

The mob wasn’t hostile, not toward me at least. They were angry, frustrated by the government’s sluggish response, blocked roads in protest. The killings in Mpeketoni had sparked waves of violence, spreading death to Hindi, Mokowe, Witu, and the villages nearby. The terrorists had left a trail of blood – shooting unarmed villagers at point-blank range, or worse, slitting their throats. The smell of fear still hung in the air, thick and nauseating.

I had felt safe on Lamu Island until that morning. The soft lapping of the ocean, the smell of salt and fresh fish – it had all felt like a haven. But islands, I realized then, are double-edged swords. They can isolate you in safety, but just as easily, they can trap you in danger.

Earlier that day, Papa had called, his voice unusually sharp as it crackled through the phone. He never gave direct orders, always preferring to offer choices, but this time was different.

“Take the next flight out of Lamu!” he had commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I listened politely, though I had no plans to leave. I loved the serenity of the island, not to mention its delicious Swahili cuisine. Nairobi didn’t have authentic Swahili pilau, biryani, mahamari, vitu vya ngano, or fresh seafood like the prawns and parrot fish I enjoyed here, especially when prepared by my immensely talented housekeeper and chef, Aunt Lei.

On the way back to my house, I noticed small crowds forming, their faces tense as they huddled in tight circles, murmuring. Their eyes flicked nervously between each other and the ground where leaflets lay scattered like fallen leaves. The air felt heavy with a mix of salt from the sea and an undercurrent of dread. As I walked closer, the paper rustled beneath my feet. I bent down and picked one up, its edges crumpled from being hastily handled.

The words stared back at me in bold, dark ink: “If you are not a Muslim, we are giving you twenty-four hours to leave this Island!”

A chill shot through me, colder than the early morning breeze. My fingers tightened around the leaflet, the cheap paper scratching against my palm. At the bottom, unmistakable and sinister, was the signature: al-Shabaab. My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach, my pulse quickening as the full weight of the message sank in.

I practically sprinted into my house, heart racing, my legs feeling like they could give out at any moment. The scent of fresh cilantro and garlic greeted me as I burst through the door, mingling with the rich aroma of frying fish. Aunt Lei was at the stove, her soft humming blending with the sizzle of oil. She swayed gently to a taarab tune, her hands deftly handling a king-sized parrot fish, its scales gleaming under the kitchen lights.

“As-salaam alaykum,” she greeted warmly, her voice full of the peace I sorely lacked.

“Waleykum Salaam,” I mumbled, my voice a mere whisper. My chest felt tight, like the terror from those leaflets had wrapped itself around my lungs, squeezing the air out.

I watched her pause for a moment, wiping her hands on her apron, her face turning toward me expectantly. When I finally told her about the leaflets, I saw the color drain from her face. The dhania leaves she had been chopping slipped from her fingers, scattering across the counter.

“Aaaaaaaah!” Her cry pierced the air, high-pitched and raw like all the joy in the room had evaporated in an instant. Her eyes filled with a mix of disbelief and dread, her usually cheerful face crumpling like a wilted flower. Aunt Lei wasn’t just my housekeeper; she was family, like the big sister I never had. Her children, Tuma and Omar, were the laughter in this house whenever they visited, their joyful energy always brightening the air. Now, the house felt empty, and hollow, as if a dark cloud had descended upon us.

When she walked me to the jetty, the salty sea breeze doing nothing to lift the weight that hung between us, we didn’t speak. She was a Muslim and I was a Christian. But we were family. This island had become my second home. I even preferred it to Nairobi where I had been raised. Since most of the people on the Island were Muslim, most of my friends there were Muslim. Some, just like Aunt Lei, had become family. I was seriously contemplating Islam. Now, the terrorists wanted to drive a wedge between us. But they had failed.

The sound of our footsteps echoed on the wooden boards, the creak of the dock the only sound besides the distant cry of seagulls. Her hand brushed against mine as we parted ways, the silent goodbye lingering like a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. I looked back at her one last time before stepping into the boat. Her face, usually so full of light, was shadowed with sorrow. I thought of her niece, who was waiting for me in Nairobi, and smiled.

The boat rocked gently as I took my seat beside Mutua, the Red Cross volunteer, and a few others who were also fleeing. The smell of diesel from the speedboat’s engine mixed with the briny sea air as we skimmed across the water. I clutched my bag tighter, the slap of the waves against the boat a steady rhythm to my racing thoughts. Every gust of wind brought with it the memories of the terror I was escaping from, the chilling image of those bloodied leaflets vivid in my mind.

When we finally reached the mainland, the land beneath my feet felt strange, like I had lost all sense of stability. We walked briskly, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes as we headed toward the enclosure where I had parked The Growler. The air was heavy, the silence between us pregnant with fear. Without a word, I jumped into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. The deserted road stretched out before us, a desolate expanse that seemed to go on forever.

As we sped down the highway, passing Mkunumbi town, the landscape changed. We entered a vast forest, the dense trees looming over us like silent sentinels. The air inside the car was thick with tension. The rumor was that the terrorists were hiding somewhere within these woods, and each shadow felt alive, every rustling leaf a whisper of danger.

Suddenly, we approached the vehicles the terrorists had abandoned after their massacre. The sight of the bullet-riddled cars sent a shiver down my spine. I slowed The Growler to a crawl, my mind already spinning stories, the writer in me itching to capture the scene. I rolled down the window and snapped two quick photos, the click of the camera loud in the stillness.

But Mutua’s expression stopped me cold. His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror. He shook his head, a silent plea for me to keep going. I pressed the accelerator hard, the car lurching forward as the engine roared back to life.

“Who does this?” I yelled, my voice cracking with the weight of it all. “Who kills innocent people in cold blood?!”

The Growler’s speedometer climbed rapidly – 150 kilometers per hour…151…152…159…203. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a hammer against my ribs. Mutua sat in tense silence, his hands gripping the seat as we raced down the road, our hearts in sync with the roar of the engine.

We were fleeing—running from evil men who hid behind guns, machetes, and twisted ideologies, men whose names I refused to utter but whose presence haunted every corner of my mind.

As the kilometers flew by, a flood of words filled my mouth, the anger burning hotter with each second.

“To those men and women hiding behind terror, I have one message: You cannot take what is not yours. We all belong to God. Stop stealing from Him, or face His wrath.”

I wasn’t done. The words kept coming, my voice rising above the hum of the tires on the road.

“To the Kenyan government, to African leaders: I know terrorism is a global issue, but people are dying locally. This must stop. Raise your game. Change your tactics. Fight the ideological war too. Tackle the rampant poverty. Protect your citizens. And don’t kill innocent Muslims.”

I didn’t stop there. My voice was hoarse now, but I kept going. “To my fellow Africans and human beings: Don’t turn a blind eye to terror, or you won’t see it coming. Let’s take care of one another.”

When The Growler finally coasted into Malindi, the sky was turning a soft shade of pink. My hands trembled as I turned off the engine at the parking lot of a boutique hotel. 150 kilometers from Lamu Island and the terror I had fled from, I felt the weight of it all settle onto my chest.

I wanted to cry. And I did.

Tears of relief that I had made it. Tears of grief for those who hadn’t. Tears of rage at the terrorists who killed without mercy. But most of all, tears of hope that maybe tomorrow would be safer for all of us.

That night, I dreamt of the beheadings that had taken place in Mpeketoni and woke up with sweat dripping all over my face. That’s when I realized that you can flee from the scene of terror, the scene of violence, but that terror follows you wherever you go. But you can be free from this terror. We must help you to be free.

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