I had never met this fella, Martin Wanjala Khaemba ; but we shared some similarities; we both came from the same region in the country- Lunjes, the people of Mulembe from western Kenya . At some point we packed our few belongings and headed up Kenya’s north into South Sudan to forage for greener pastures. We were not oblivious to the ever present risk whenever one leaves home for other places; the vulnerability where your underbelly is exposed as a foreigner and you stick out, like a pig amongst monkeys. You are ready to turn the other cheek and sometimes get villified. If you are lucky, there will be spontaneous random acts of kindness from strangers during the foray, but preparation demands you mentally anticipate the worst possible scenerios.
The courageous Wanjala probably got into a bus on some random day in 2007 and endured the long journey through Uganda and Gulu, at a time that Joseph Kony and his deputy Vincent Oti were making their indelible evil mark in History with numerous killings and decapitations. Wanjala drove past Nimule into what was then the greater Sudan bedeviled in conflict before it was collapsed into two countries, the North and what is now the world’s newest nation, South Sudan. He cared less about the Sudanese Antonov bombers at the time- leaking bombs, and what were at the time considered hardened rebels from the South, unafraid of death as they roamed the forests and swamps.
All Wanjala wanted was a better life- Deo volente
Talk was rife then that probably dollars grow on trees in South Sudan, apparently the chicken there had feathers made of crispy US dollars and people sneezed and probably farted in dollars. What an enchanting prospect, Sudan was the place to be, and Wanjala made sure that he made it there as part of the gravy train.
He stayed on, working under the harsh heat. This year, all he wanted to do was to be home for Christmas and see his kids. He would probably tell the eldest:
“ Junior ulikuwa number gani this term, ama bado unacheza na masomo?”
He would then proceed to study the school term report, and probe him to put more efforts in his studies.
This mason had toiled in South Sudan since 2007, before the referendum and the separation of the North from the South and cthe chant of “Freedom! Nhomlau! ” way before I went there for the first time in 2009.
Wanjala had his plans laid out, he had saved enough money to enable him buy a car he intended to use for business. His plan was to permanently relocate back home this December- but they remain just that, plans.
The single father of three was shot dead in South Sudan and the family is now appealing to the government to have the body brought home due to fears that the body has already been buried miles away from from home.
I made a similar trip too in such for greener pastures. It was a sunny morning in mid 2009 that I made my way to the Wilson Airport’s, ALS air services terminal with a magnanimous British lady, my new boss. My brand new passport was in hand and my few worldly possessions were in tow, I was venturing into the unknown as I made my maiden trip to South Sudan to work on the Humanitarian sector. I landed somewhere on a dusty runway in Rumbek and briefly gallivanted in the Afex camp there amongst expatriates from the world over. All I knew about South Sudan was based on media reports.
Then it struck me, my dad always feared for my safety and my mum kept praying. Whenever there was any news report about trouble in South Sudan, it would give them sleepless nights fearing about the worst, I could sense almost overwhelming relief on the other end of the line whenever I called home.
Every day, every year hundreds of Kenyans and thousands other people the world over venture away from home into what are considered troubled countries in Africa and beyond, be it troubled by war, conflict or disease. Bottom line sometimes veiled as ‘passion’ is often times a quest in search for greener pastures. For the cluster I belong, the humanitarians who take up NGO assignments- they are sometimes the envy of peers and friends alike, who only factor in the sense of adventure, travel and expatriate salaries.
The truth however is one may never get back home alive. You may be shot, die of disease, variants of Malaria et al. It is a sad, painful thing; sometimes even shameful to die so far away from home. Bizzare for your remains to be the object of a simmering diplomatic row, while you lie there lifeless. Your inconsolable family making incessant appeals for your body to be shipped back home, if you are in a troubled state- you probably went down by the bullet and you are already decomposing. If its an advanced bout of Ebola that nicks you, then your family will take eons to recover from the devastation as you have to be disposed off immediately.
I met her in Leer, South Sudan- a young French lady full of life. She landed there on a photography assignment, ‘Canon-ed’ ( the brand) with her photography artillery. The first thing she told me soon as we met is she had forgotten her passport on the plane. She lived in the room next to mine, oh they were only two rooms in the compound anyways. We went to the market, she wanted to take photos.
Camille fell ill, she cringed about a stinging pain in her tummy.
“ It always comes and really hurts, all I need to do is lie down somewhere and I will be well.” She said.
That was the case, in under two hours she was on her feet.
We spoke for a couple of hours at night, under the moon in Leer; kids dancing around fires could be heard singing in nearby compounds before we retreated into our respective rooms. Early morning I was playing Khadija Nin’s ‘ Sina Mali, Sina Deni (Free)’, Camille enquired of the artiste. Little did I know that the answer I gave her was the final conversation that I would ever have with her.
Camille was killed while on assignment in the Central African Republic where she had gone to take pictures at the height of fighting. She got in the heat of the action and paid with her life.
If perchance you are considering taking up an assignment is what is potentially a high risk area, sift through the perks. Nothing wrong with greener pastures, but be alive to the reality of any inevitability; you could be skirting around remote parts of a country dropping food aid and a rocket propelled grenade in the hands of guerrillas can hit that plane, the last earthly sound you may probably here is Boom or Bang! A bizarre sniper might narrow you down on the potshot as a practice target and plop out your brains.
Death is inevitable to humankind but you might inch closer to the grim reaper in environments of civil unrest, disease, war and terrorist activity, that bullet might catch up with you.
The deal is though, someone has to do the job somehow in whatever part of the world- just in the same way you might be hit, you may just make it out alive. No one wishes to die early; exposed but maybe there should be a new fundamental human right, that people should die closer home. Near their loved ones
No one should die away from home.
BwanaSagala 