Table of Contents
From "Dead to the World"
By Katy Demong '05Written for English 243, Creative Non-Fiction
It is the fourth and final month of my semester abroad and I'm in the middle of my independent study in the coastal city of Mombasa, Kenya. I've adjusted to life here in most ways: greeting co-workers and passersby in Swahili, walking around the city to and from work, taking matatus-the local form of transportation that makes buses look like a first-class (albeit comparatively boring) ride-down to the south coast and back up to the main island for recreation.
Either I've adjusted to life here or I've just become numb to everything around me: walking past the trickling marble fountain that stands in the middle of the lobby, the white pillars and palm trees of the entrance to my "home" at the Lotus Hotel. Walking fifty meters past those pillars where the smooth pavement turns to a rutted dirt road with torn-up sections of concrete and scattered shards of glass. Past the children playing on that street in dirt-stained t-shirts that are several sizes too large and have shreds of torn material that hang from their sleeves. They are Somalian refugees. They have no money, no home, no country even - and certainly no pillars or fountains. I walk past them every morning on my way to work and again on my way home. They know me by now and I stop and slap hands if I'm on time or happen to be in a good mood, or walk coldly past if I am not, past their outstretched hands: looking for spare change, a piece of candy, or even a high five. Just to touch my skin. My white skin.
I walk past them on the way to the office of the Daily Nation, Kenya's most widely-read newspaper, where I hold the exalted position of ... intern. After the first week I have established a schedule: come in around nine-usually the last to arrive-and look for an unoccupied chair. People are continuously getting up, having their chair taken, coming back, taking someone else's chair-so much that there is no "their" chair and no one really notices when it is occupied when they return, would be surprised if it was still vacant. Then I look for a copy of the day's paper. I read it from cover to cover, then read parts of it again, and finally assume complete and utter boredom.
On this particular day, though, ... out of the corner of my eye I see Njuguna, the editor, running out of his office and right past me. He comes back, grabs my arm-"Katy, come see how we deal with terrorism!"-and then sprints out of the office. I look around as my co-workers stare at their computer screens, then grab my little notebook full of scribbles and run out the door.
"Mzungu, get in the car!" ("Mzungu" means "white person" and is what my Kenyan friends call me affectionately). ... After about an hour of high-speed getaway driving and frantic phone calls, I still have no idea what's going on, except that there were two separate terrorist attacks that morning, and we are headed for some place called "Paradise Hotel." The day is hot as usual and I wipe sweat off my forehead. ... After what seems like an endless ride, the car comes to a stop. We pile out and as I begin to shut the door the driver, Dominic, grabs my arm. "Mzungu, be careful. You are at the site of terrorism, where white man is the enemy." I nod and take off after the others, carrying my notebook and pen.
I walk underneath a burning sign that says "Paradise Hotel" while chunks of wood fall off the elaborate sign, and step carefully over ashy piles of debris in my sandaled feet. ... There is furniture floating in the large circular pool at the back of the hotel and nearby, burning pillars are crashing to the ground. There are burnt glasses and Coca-Cola bottles still sitting on the poolside tables. ... Surprisingly, there are not many people at the scene yet - it is still early in the morning. ... Every few minutes someone will stop me, seeing my blonde braid and long blue floral skirt, and say, "Excuse me, ma'am, but you need to check out of the hotel now."
"It's OK," I say. "I'm with the Nation." I work my way over to the edge of the hotel that overlooks the beach and is virtually unscathed by the bombings. Looking out, over the white beach and turquoise water, I see tables carefully set up on the tiled patio. It looks perfect. I can imagine that I am a tourist on vacation, ready to take an adventurous dip in the ocean.
By now the sun has reached its hottest point and the heat of the burning hotel is only adding to the sweltering temperature. I continue walking for I don't know how long, continually wiping sweat with the back of my hand. Finally I reach what used to be the Registration desk, where the suicide bombers drove their Pajero through the unsuspecting doors. This is where the most damage is, and I tromp through uneven, ashy ground and step over burning logs. The smoke is so thick, my eyes tear up and I have trouble seeing where the best footing is. I imagine myself in a war film, searching for my loved ones, while heart-wrenching violins play in the background.
I come to an abrupt stop. My eyes rest on a charred, black body. The muscular back peeks out from the wreckage and the body wears a hula-like skirt. Scanning the area, I am able to pick out several more bodies, all of them Africans-same skirt and bare chest. They are traditional dancers, there to entertain the arriving guests, the arriving white guests. ... My mind is blank. ... I feel nothing but numbness. I walk away from the scene; tears are streaming down my face. I bump into Baya, the cameraman. "Mzungu, are you okay?" I nod and wipe the tears and snot from my face. I am glad he thinks I am upset, doesn't know that it is only my delicate blue eyes that can't handle the dense smoke, doesn't know that I feel nothing on the inside. ...
I sat alone in my hotel that night, trying to make myself cry. I did cry, but the tears weren't real and the tears earlier that day were only caused by the smoke of the burning hotel. The real tears were to come later.