Christian Jungersen - The Exception

The battalion officers quickly learned to plan the killings differently. At later massacres, the soldiers never had a moment alone with the Jews. The rule was to make the victims seem like one large, anonymous horde. The German concentration camps were run on the same principle. Shaved, starved and filthy, the prisoners were bound to be less unsettling to the German camp staff because the inmates seemed not-quite-human, and this made it that much easier for the camp guards to get on with their work.

Iben knows full well that the brief interlude outside the hut has made it that much harder for these men to kill her. For the moment she feels satisfied with herself.

A short, grey-haired man with scars across his cheeks comes up to her. He says something in Dhuluo that might well mean that she must go back into the hut. Odhiambo says something in reply. What he says includes the name ‘Phillip’ and at the mention of this name, the scarred man glances quickly at Iben to check if she has noticed.

Iben knows the importance of keeping her expression blank. Phillip is an unusual name for a Luo, which makes it easy to work out that they are discussing Dalmas Phillip. Although a fairly minor Luo chief, he is much talked about as one the most active fighters against the Nubians. He is also said to have raped many Nubian women, in spite of being over sixty years old.

Iben finds it impossible to completely hide her reaction. The man registers the instant shift in her face. It ruins everything. They can’t let her live if she knows the identity of the leader of the whole hostage operation. Iben is suddenly aware of how tired and weak she is. She slips back into the darkness of the hut and, curling up in her place, she cries.

Cathy mumbles words of comfort, but Iben senses a new reserve among her three fellow prisoners. Of course they too can see that the risk of being first in line for execution increases for them the better Iben gets along with the men outside. But then, what can they say? Iben could easily argue that a good relationship with the guards could very well save all of them.

Cathy keeps repeating that they will make it, they will survive. It is the same mantra that Iben has been repeating to herself endlessly over the last two days.

Meanwhile Iben has worked out a twist to the scenario. If the Luos simply wanted to drive the SEC out of Kibera, shooting in the general direction of aid workers would have been quite enough. Considerations of employee security would be sufficient reason to make them close their local office. The Luos’ risky decision to kidnap four SEC workers might mean that they want much more. The leaders of the operation may well be angling for a large ransom payment, for instance. And Omoro, Odhiambo and the others would almost certainly know nothing about it. In any case, the SEC would never give in because the result would only lead to more kidnappings and, in the long term, cost more lives.

Iben hasn’t told the others of her suspicions, but now she cannot resist telling them that the guards know that she recognised the name of Dalmas Phillip.

This silences Cathy.

Iben tries to rest on her patch of uneven, hardened mud. She scratches at the beetle’s back and tries to make herself dream about Denmark. A muscle in her stomach cramps. It isn’t painful, but her entire abdomen twitches.

Only three years earlier she was an ordinary student. At this time of day she’d have been sitting at home reading. A smell comes back to her, the scent of printer’s ink and coffee that filled the rooms of her female friends when they met to discuss books.

Cathy’s voice pulls her out of her dream. ‘Look, SEC will have to get in touch with our embassies. And if the diplomats threaten to stop development aid, then all of a sudden Arap Moi and the police will be on our side. And then they’ll find us.’ The oil lamp is close enough to Cathy to illuminate the imprint on her cheek of the rough floor. ‘And when the police come to free us and attack everyone out there, it won’t matter if you know about Dalmas Phillip.’

It’s sweet of her to try to be reassuring. They both feel that to attack the Luos here in the bush is nearly impossible, but neither of them says so.

It has been a long time since they heard anything from Roberto. Iben asks how he is doing.

His voice is almost gone. ‘Not too good.’

Iben goes to sit next to him. The darkness and the heat do strange things to time. It must be the waiting that makes time move so terribly slowly. Eventually they fall asleep. Their dreams are chaotic.

Iben is in her own corner again when Omoro comes in with a kettle full of the dreadful tea that is available everywhere in Kenya. It is always served mixed with milk and lots of sugar. Most Kenyans love their tea and it is a thoughtful gesture on Omoro’s part. Iben and Cathy thank him profusely and drink, even though the oversweetened concoction somehow swells in the mouth after more than twenty-four hours of hunger.

A little later Omoro brings a dish of dry mush made from ground cornmeal. They eat with their fingers from the dish, doing their best to forget about those trips to the trench. It is a pity that Roberto has no appetite, but it’s a relief that his soiled fingers aren’t dipping into the food.

Omoro sits next to Iben and whispers in her ear: ‘If that old man with the scars wants to take you outside, you must try to get out of it.’

Iben would like to ask Omoro what he has heard about Dalmas Phillip, but she stops herself. Instead, she tries to imitate the sound made by the Luos when they understand and accept something.

A fly insists on trying to land in her eye. Every time she waves it away it comes back. Mostly, the native people don’t seem to notice the flies and Iben doesn’t want to disturb the intimacy with Omoro by waving her arms about.

Omoro is silent for quite a while. Finally he speaks. ‘You saw Ojiji too.’

‘Yes.’ Iben knows that Omoro’s friend, the dead driver, was called Ojiji.

Omoro sits quietly for a little longer, before saying the same thing again. ‘You saw him too.’

‘Yes. I did.’

‘You saw him in the car with me.’

‘Yes.’ She tries to come across as gentle and friendly. The fly investigates her ear. ‘Omoro, it was dreadful.’

Once more he seems not to know what to say.

Iben mumbles to show her sympathy. Even though she can glimpse his face in the darkness, she cannot distinguish the expression on it. She feels rather than sees that he is crying soundlessly. His breathing is irregular.

Then Omoro tells her about a choir that many of the men here belong to. With the support of a Christian aid organisation, they went on tour around Kenya. In addition to the choir, Omoro and Ojiji also sang in a quartet together. Once, all four of them had travelled to Mombasa to sing at an event in the town council building. The Mayor of Mombasa was in the audience. They saw the sea. At night they slept in a park, even though it was forbidden.

She has already heard many stories about Ojiji after the service this morning. All the men seem to feel that his death was the most important event of the last twenty-four hours. They mourn Ojiji in a different way from the other dead man, with more sorrow.

Omoro speaks again: ‘We should never have made him drive the car.’

‘Omoro, you believed that it was more dangerous to sit next to the driver, holding a machine gun. No one could have known that it was the driver they …’

They talk together for a while longer, speaking into the darkness. Then someone outside the hut calls to Omoro.

When he has left, Cathy stirs. ‘You’re good at this, Iben.’

‘Thank you. It’s harder with the rest of them. I think Omoro and I get along well because we sat together in the truck’s cab.’ Iben feels worn out. She lies down before speaking again. ‘It can only be to everyone’s advantage if I manage to get along with at least some of them.’