Barely, had I crawled in than one of the terrorists trudged in, the deafening burst of his machine gun announcing his arrival. By then I had crawled along the ceiling to the part right above the gym.
The gap between the roof and the ceiling was to become my hiding place for 20 hours, the thin ceiling my buffer from the terrorists’ machine gun.
All around me was piping, rafters, wiring, beams, and sheets of papers, the kind used to package construction material. And darkness.
I could hear the blood thirsty terrorist walking around the gym moving from one changing room to the next, his gun silent, for a moment.
Then he got to the point I made my climb up, just right outside the gym on a corridor. My phone and shoe could have made him suspect someone was hiding in the roof and he started spraying bullets from his machine gun. I was the target.
I can’t explain how I came out of that place alive, but somehow, his bullets just missed me, yet he was shooting indiscriminately.
Then silence. A long deadly silence.
I could hear him walking around the changing rooms. In two instances, I heard him say a prayer.
I got tired of lying on my tummy, and I turned to lie on my back. The papers I was lying on crackled. Then I heard the gun being corked before bullets started flying again.
Instinctively, I sat up to avoid exposure. After a few minutes, the gunfire stopped. I think he had exhausted the magazine. But this time, the bullets had raptured the pipes, and water was gushing all over.
All this while, I was holding on the rafters, for around two hours. When my body could not hold any longer, I carefully lay down. After what seemed like eternity, I heard voices from the roof above. I could tell they were the police from the instructions being issued. They were walking all over the roof.
At this juncture, I wanted to shout for help. But again, my instincts got the better of me. My voice could either alert the terrorist that I was still alive, or the police could mistake me for a terrorist and shoot me.
Breaking of a door
So I decided to bid my time.
Below me, I could hear the terrorist shooting outside the building. Above me, the police officers, who I presumed were the Recce squad, were digging on the wall that formed part of the roof.
Then at the breaking of dawn, everything went silent. The digging above me stopped as did the pacing and shooting below. I fell into deep slumber before I was woken up by gunshots and people shouting in Arabic.
The Recce squad, had had enough, and the shooting became intense. All this while, I was keeping my cool, but shivering in fear.
At around 9am, I heard one of the guys above me say “maliza hii kazi.” (Finish the job)
Then the sound of gunfire, followed by the breaking of a door and an intense search.
I could tell where the voices were coming from, and I could feel the change of mood as the tone of the voices changed from desperate orders to those of friendly banter.
At this point I knew the worst was over. Again, my instincts took the better of me and I didn’t shout for help for fear of being mistaken for a terrorist. After about 30 minutes of a thorough search, doors opening and equipment moving, there was silence.
I don’t know why, but I was relieved by the silence. In my mind, I was going to stay put at the ceiling until evening when I was sure I could come out alive. So I made myself comfortable.
Then another group of people walked in. From their accent, I could tell they were foreigners.
I tried to call for help but my voice failed me. Eventually, I climbed down from the ceiling but by then, they were long gone.
I walked to the gym balcony, knowing that I could be mistaken for a terrorist. Below, I could see people, mostly heavily armed men. I did not want to risk my life, so I moved to the opposite side. There, I saw two men, but they got out of sight before I could raise my voice. I opted to go back to the balcony, my t-shirt in hand, to wave for help. Somebody saw me and asked me to identify myself. On my way down, I had to jump over the bullet riddled body of the terrorist who had terrorised me all night on the eight floor.
Outside, I was received by Independent Policing Oversight Authority officials, who recorded a brief statement. I remember meeting Interior Cabinet Secretary Fred Matiang’i, former Inspector General of Police Joseph Boinnet and Nairobi Governor Mike Sonko.
Mungu anakupenda, (God loves you) Sonko told me.
Kenya Red Cross Society officials did a medical assessment of my body – my muscles were cramped up – and took me to Aga Khan Hospital for further check-up, where my family and friends picked me. Memories of that ordeal still linger in my mind, and any loud bang startles me. I was not supposed to be at DusitD2 that day, but I came out alive by the grace of God.
The hotel organised therapy sessions for survivors, but I stopped attending as they were eating into my work time. Since then, I have never heard from any government official or anyone from the hotel.
Life has to move on, albeit with a small scar on my left hand that will always be a reminder of my close shave with death.