I only realised I’d been shot later, when I started to get cold, when I felt the blood seep through my clothes and when I looked down and saw how the bullets had shredded my trousers.
And even though I wanted to cry out in panic, I knew I couldn’t make a sound, I couldn’t move a muscle because I could hear them shoot anyone who let out a moan.
It was a good thing I had my phone on silent as well because they shot at any ringing phone and whoever was next to it as they made their rounds to make sure, I imagine, everyone was dead.
And as I pressed into my vibrating phone I knew I had to press on my leg so the blood would clot because dead people don’t keep bleeding.
This became even more exigent when I heard them walk back in my direction and my body gave an involuntary tremor but they hadn’t turned back for me. They were after the alcohol that was stacked opposite the meatery.
And if I had any doubts as to what drove these men they were cleared up when they spared not a bullet in their assault of the bottles.
I remember it flowing across to where I lay before I lost consciousness, for how long I don’t know.
I could see their feet dangling from the deep freezers when they sat down for what I took to be a break from the killing.
When I came to it was quiet. My throat was parched. I ran my tongue over my lower lip and tried to move but my left leg wouldn’t move. It was then that I remembered what had happened.
I could feel my phone vibrating. Luckily my body had kept it from soaking up the blood and alcohol. It was my wife and thinking I was going to die I took the risk of picking up.
I remember telling her something along the lines of, “I’m dying, please do not mourn for me,” as I implored her not to tell our son that I was dead until he finished sitting for his Kenya Certificate of Primary Education.
How she would have fulfilled that dying wish I have no idea. But I told her not to call me again because I was dying.
It was a stroke of luck that we hang up when we did because they came back. I heard them open what I knew to be the soda fridge when I heard that spurt of gas that’s released when you pry open a soda can or bottle.
I could see their feet dangling from the deep freezers when they sat down for what I took to be a break from the killing.
There were five pairs of feet that could see. All their hems were covered in blood and although their shoes were splotchy with blood I could make out the colours.
One had brown boots – the kind young ones wear these days – so he must have been the one with the feminine voice, another one had on brown loafers, another white ones and two others black ones.
Before long they started to call out for survivors, “if you’re still alive, we’ll let you go,” they said. I wanted to speak out so badly. I don’t lift weights so my arms were burning from supporting my head.
I was so tired but before I did anything I heard some ladies call out. I wish they hadn’t. I wish they’d held on because I heard them get shot in cold blood.
And this is the reason I didn’t come out even when the police reservists came calling. Their Kiswahili sounded Kenyan but I couldn’t be sure they were the cavalry as I couldn’t be sure from their shoes that they weren’t the terrorists.
I only let on that I was still alive when I saw the boots the paramilitary wear and even then I waited for someone else to come out first.
“Sija wahi ona miili nyingi kama hii (I’ve never seen so many dead bodies),” I could hear them say as one shook my leg to see if I was still alive.
It was then that I heard something heavy move and someone say, “nisaidieni (help me),” and when I didn’t hear him get shot I tried to call out but all that came out was a guttral sound. But it was enough.
I still felt like I was taking a risk though because it could have very well been an act and four bullet wounds to the knee later I’m glad it wasn’t.
I don’t remember much after that. I remember my leg sticking to the floor when I tried to stand up. I remember clutching onto the belt of one of the officers who let me out and I remember the faces swimming when we got out.
The next thing I knew I was on a hospital bed. I know the President said the nightmare is over but not for me because I still haven’t come to terms with what was the worst day of my life.
As told to Olive Burrows by Fred Bosire.
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