Prisoner number one sang like a bird, he sang until he was hoarse; confessing things he had done, terror cells he had created and other made up stuff he thought would spare him further torture. He confessed and confessed then corporal Oloo took him behind the tent and shot him in the head, the echo reverberating throughout the vast dry valley. Oloo, satisfied by his handiwork, holstered his gun like the cowboy he fancied himself to be and circled back into the tent. A group of privates got to work burying the pathetic body of the former jihadi.
Inside the tent, a dozen Kenya Army men and women strived in intense silence-barely flinching even when prisoner number two started screaming. The women at the radio kept transcribing, the men with the field computers kept typing and three privates helping captain Francis Mwenda torture, kept torturing. Such was the daily life in one of the far flung outposts of the main occupier force of the AU mandate in Somalia. A place so far from civilization it was called jehanam-meaning hell in Arabic.
The demon in Jehanam was our captain; Frank as he was known to all was the wolf, the epitomy of brutality and wartime charisma. He was also the second highest ranking officer in the camp. He had prisoner number two tied to a mean-looking metallic chair, his naked brown body glittering with sweat, blood, vomit and tears. His three helpers kept hitting him mercilessly with leather saps filled with stones. He kept calling to Allah in the most earnest and husky voice, like an imam preaching on Friday, his hands open to the heavens and his eyes gleaming with inner peace.
"….Mohammed rasoola Allah," the captain did not let him finish, he pulled out his ceremonial sword, a long, menacing blade, sharpened everyday with painstaking precision and waxed to a gleaming finish by the captain himself. With an enchanting swish he brought the sword to a precise arc over his head and deftly beheaded the prisoner, the prisoner's body slumped to the ground and blood copiously flowed onto the earthen floor, developing a growing pool of black-red blood that terrified anyone who saw it.
Prisoners number three, four and five were so terrified one of them soiled his pants, not that anyone noticed, they were too busy smelling blood and worrying about their own lives. Even the soldiers inside the tent were scared, one female soldier tried for a few seconds to compose herself then jumped outside to vomit her guts out.
Captain Frank turned to the last three prisoners. They were kneeling, their hands trussed behind their backs, none of the religious fanatic's courage and valor visible on their faces, just pure terror and self pity. The captain on the other hand looked crazed, his eyes so wild they ate up anything he saw. His mouth twitched with bloodlust and his right hand held his sword so tightly that his veins seemed ready to pop.That or they would crush the sword's hilt to dust. Everyone waited for his proclamation because whatever he was going to say next was going to be gospel.
He did not get a chance to do this because a second later four soldiers marched with the sureness of authority into the tent. Two had their guns at the ready and just to demonstrate their seriousness, they knelt and cocked them. Captain Frank turned around slowly and came face to face with his commanding officer, flanked by the highest ranking NCO in the camp. The two guns were aimed at him causing a great deal of confusion and dismay.
"Captain Francis Mwenda of the Kenya Defence Forces, 10th brigade of the land forces are hereby placed under arrest. Your court martial date will be communicated to you when the army deems necessary. You are accused of the following crimes; torture, murder...…."
Captain Frank could no longer hear what was being said, he suddenly felt an acute pain in his left ear, so acute he sat on the black blood on the floor and droppes his sword carelessly beside him. It was oh so painful! It took him a full second to realize he had been slapped with so much force and speed that his brain had not registered. The CO, the one who had slapped him senseless-looked him in the eye and shouted, he was so angry, why is colonel George so angry? He wondered. Was he not doing the man's bidding? Had he not personally ordered the tortures and executions? But immediately he started to even doubt his sanity because the colonel was so earnest, he was so righteously angry. He even said something about the KDF's standards, about how they respected human rights and treated prisoners, even Al Shabaab prisoners like brothers. Can you believe this shit! After his prolonged pontification captain Frank was lifted off the ground and half dragged to a waiting jeep! A jeep from headquarters, they had planned this all along!
The driver was so clean and stank of perfume he could only be a headquarters man. Behind him was a small man, a very small man, captain Frank suddenly found the strength to stand ramrod straight, even trying to smooth his hair and wipe the dust off his fatigues. His captors let him stand, even gave him space to salute brilliantly. Behind him came the resounding echo of a high-powered pistol, twice! They had killed two prisoners! The same crime they were going to charge him with. A second later sergeant major John Kipyator got out of the tent holstering his desert eagle while dragging the remaining prisoner in his wake like a sack of potatoes. Colonel George Gacharo followed close behind, polishing his designer sunglasses with a silk handkerchief like he had all the time in the world.
They then led the prisoner into colonel George's jeep, parked a discreet distance away, watched over by a private with a sub machine gun strapped over his narrow shoulders. For his part, captain Frank was pushed into the first Jeep, beside the tiny brigadier, the most famous and beloved army officer in the drawn out Somalia operation. The general did not say a word or even show any hint of surprise.
He was immaculate in his perfectly ironed combat greens, a matching baseball hat, brown ray barns sunglasses, brown combat boots and a spanking new Rolex that could blind anyone who stared for more than a minute, this was nothing compared to his winning smile and demeanor-they said it was enough to rouse even the hungriest and most tired men back into action. Frank could believe this, he had suddenly felt hopeful with this man, he felt all will be well. The general's rank insignias were on both his shoulders; a golden wreath and three stars. On his surprisingly massive chest were red senior officer lanyards with golden laurels. All these proclamed his hallowed place in the pecking order of both Somalia and Kenya's food chain. The driver, also in sunglasses was an army sergeant, a show horse rather than a work horse. He expertly put the jeep into first gear and off they drove towards Kismayu, his fate already sealed-jailtime probably awaited, along with a humiliating stripping of his hard earned rank.
Chris Ngure was sanguine as the the twelve-passenger prop plane screeched onto the newly renovated Kismayu international airport. The nausea he had felt dissipated as he smelt the hot and harsh Somali air press on him. He missed the place-to many it was hell, a place to kill or be killed, butcher or be butchered, to him and a few choice men it was the place to be, a place to have all the fun with none of the rules. It was a place where the only judge was your God and your enemy's gun. Many had met their end here but many more had thrived despite earning deep cuts for their trouble. Chris was one of them.
He had started out as a field agent in Somalia's Hargeisa station after the wars and massacres of the nineties, he had seen some shit, done some too and could now tolerate almost anything. He had been in many hairy situations where capture meant torture, public lynching or beheading, he had survived them all, most of his fellow agents had not. He had smelt fear, lived with it and slept with it for weeks on end. After ten years in the business he had lost all his abilities to be afraid or surprised. Nowadays he simply acted surprised, or feigned horror. Nothing horrified him, he had seen whole villages tortured, maimed and raped. He had seen their pain and heard their cries until he was mute with feelings of nothing…just nothing.
His only joy was executing terrorists, sending them to jail or disrupting their plans, truth be told-he preferred holding a gun to a terrorist's head and making a hole through their skulls. He also liked alcohol, cigarettes, a bit of weed and working out-he had the abs to prove it. Women found him attractive, he only had sex with them for the hell of it, he had lost his earlier taste for it; that was after he had found his young Somali bride raped and her throat slit, their baby a collection of mush against a rock they had bashed him on. They had been heading for the Kenyan border where Chris had been waiting, his decision to quit his job already made. He no longer wept or felt any self pity, he just winced a little, parted his hand over his hair and adjusted his sunglasses. The pain was too much to handle, if he focused on it he would be finished, best to leave it alone.
He breezed through customs with a wave of his infamous National Intelligence Agency (NIA) I.D card. A Ugandan army sergeant waved him through; the Ugandans ran the airports, the Kenyans ran the ports and the telecoms. The Somalis collected the taxes and blamed the African Union forces for all their miseries. The diaspora Somalis ran the businesses and provided the relief funds. In the countryside, warlords reigned supreme, allying and betraying whoever they felt like according to their mood swings. The Al Shabaab terror group ran most of the countryside and carried out regular and bloody suicide bombings in the cities of both Kenya and Somalia. Al Shabaab had however lost a lot of their territories to Kenyan forces and their main ally, General Mahmud Mohammed, the most competent of south Somalia's war lords. He and the senior-most Kenyan general in Somalia shared a close friendship that had turned Mahmud into a hero in the Kenyan press.
The deputy head of mission in Somalia was Kenyan-Somali, of course. Kenyan-Somalis are a fast growing ethnic group in Kenya, guaranteed to be the largest ethnic group in Kenya in thirty years. Their influence in Kenya is oversized, especially in the business sector. His family had served in diplomatic posts since the days of colonial East Africa. His father had been an ambassador to Turkey in the previous administration, his brother was the current Wajir county senator and his other brother was a Nairobi city county office of budget and appropriations chairperson. His family was the right kind of Kenyan Somali, the ones from the choicest of sub-clans-ones who looked slightly more Arab than Afro Asiatic. Only difference is, they are usually taller and more graceful.
Ali Abbas Aden saw his man almost immediately. He came out of a large glass door marked VIP, away from the mass of average Joes, businessmen, pirates, bandits, terrorists, camel thieves, housewives, rich diaspora kids and cutthroats who used the main airport exit. He was about forty, bulky, ruggedly good-looking and as cool as they came. He was a man at home anywhere, he loooked like he answered to no one but himself. His glasses were extra dark, designer probably, one needed glasses in Kismayoo, it is unbearably hot and the sun bright. His man took seconds to locate him among a squeeze of taxi drivers, tuk tuk drivers, carts, rows of hijab-clad women and dozens of fast food vendors, all crowing for attention in volumes that most people would find intimidating.
"Good morning, I am Ali Abbas, " he shook the other man's hand firmly. They were the same height, something Abbas rarely experienced with non-Somalis.
"Name's Chris, I work for the interior ministry."
"Yes, I got the call straight from the interior ministry. Follow me, " he led him to a waiting taxi. He only had his backpack, it remained with him throughout the whole journey to the suburbs of downtown Kismayu, a place with sumptous views of the Indian Ocean-beyond a steep rocky side and constant patrols of soldiers and private security contractors.
They stopped almost two hundred metres from one of the larger buildings set deep in the suburban enclave. Huge golden letters on top of a whitewashed wall announced that it was the Kenyan consulate in Jubaland. The writings were in English, Arabic and Somali, languages Chris was fluent in. The gate outside had three mobile barriers and retractible spikes, the men guarding the premises were five, all Kenya army special operators. Two guard towers stood inside the compound, each with a sniper and a machine-gunner. They alighted a whole hundred meters from the gate. Ali paid up and they started walking towards the gates. Even from that distance Chris could see a sniper inspecting them through binoculars.
One soldier broke off from the barrier and rushed to their side.
"Corporal Tim Weru, good to see you sirs, " he shook their hands, he was surprised by the genuine knowing look from the soldier.
"Have we met corporal?" Chris asked as they walked towards the fortress.
"A while back, you saved my platoon's lives, " he was an old bird. A Kenya army lifer. The kind that never get promoted despite their hard work, dedication and battle scars. Men who told officers off and feared no one.
"You boys did most of the work, I simply advised and guided."
"Not how I remember it sir, " he was adamant, "you rushed towards a burning armored car, dragged five men out and killed four Al Shabaab fighters with nothing but your knife and fists. You then rallied fractured groups of my platoon to launch a counter-offensive, killing ten fighters and capturing seven. Your absolute fearlessness and expertise inspired us. We all got medals for 'bravery in the face of danger.' Medals you should get instead. We didn't do shit, it is a shame your role in the fight was classified. You are a legend and anyone serving in my platoon is and will always be grateful. Most of us think you NIA agents are assholes but we now believe there are some good men left."
Ali Abbas looked stunned, no one ever referred to senior NIA agents as NIA. They were simply called 'Interior ministry officials.' No one ever called them assholes too. No wonder the man was still a corporal. Chris on the other hand bowed slightly and kept walking.
In the guest wing of the Kenyan Kismayoo consulate, captain Frank Mwenda still in limbo and waiting for the axe to fall, heard a knock on the door. His guard gave him a reptilian look then headed for the door. He was a young private, fresh from Kenya by the looks of it. He still had the fresh face, optimism and gusto of many fresh soldiers from across the border. He was in clean and well pressed fatigues, a black armor vest and green helmet. Over his shoulder was an M16 rifle, in his holster was a new Beretta pistol. By the looks of it, he knew how to use them and use them well.
Frank was in comfortable clothes, had a balcony to enjoy the sun on, sumptuous views of the Indian Ocean and had his meals delivered on time, all very good meals, not like the filth he ate out in the badlands of river Juba. The wing had three rooms and a modern bathroom, the curtains and carpets were persian, very high quality stuff. Three days later he was starting to feel comfortable, they had a plan for him, he now knew, the big men, the chess players had decided to play him somewhere else.
The door was opened and the private saluted. Three men entered; one was his resident handler, the fox himself, ambassador Ali Abbas, the second he had never seen before and the third was a beefy corporal with a face that could give nightmares. The second man was bulky and good-looking, a feature Frank loathed in men, or women for that matter. He was in a suit with no tie, he seemed at ease. The three took their places before him across a table with blue glass that had his ashtray on top. The ashtray had no ash but a pack of cigarettes and a lighter were laid neatly beside it. The arrivals looked him in the eye for a few seconds before Abbas broke the silence, the stranger was eyeing him with armor piercing eyes-Frank concluded he was a man he wouldn't want to get in a fight with.
"You are accused of many crimes, even rape as some officers from Jehanam have testified, " Ali Abbas was a smooth talker.
"Never!" Frank barked.
"Several witnesses in fact. They are many other crimes too, these will get you ripped of your officer rank and guarantee you prison time. Many years by the looks of it."
"What do you want?" He hated foreplay.
"Total cooperation."
"Cooperation?"
"You are going to train fighters, you and several other men in your…..difficult situation. Our friend here will brief you."
"Let him brief me."
"No, " Abbas smiled a bit, "he will brief you on the way there."
"What about my career."
"If you play ball, you will get your pay according to your rank and further allowances down the road. If you survive you will come back to your job and resume as before….like nothing happened."
"Survive?"
"It's a big If. Pack up, say your goodbyes, you're flying tonight."
The plane was army, used mostly for cargo and paratroopers. Tonight it was ferrying the latter, they were all in green, they were lean as they were mean. They moved with the sureness of death, their gear carried like it was just paper. Onto the plane they walked, a pilot was on hand, in the dim lights he was a red dot as he raised and lowered his cigarette like a ceremonial sword. As they approached the man, he transformed into a giant white woman with tousled blond hair on top of her massive head. She whipped out a cap and put it on the head.
"Get strapped in boys, it's going to be a rough ride, " her voice was feminine but loud, and threatening. She disappeared behind cargo and opened a metallic door into her cockpit. They sat on the uncomfortable floor and waited as the cargo plane powered to life. The rear hydraulic full-width doors hummed and slowly closed as the rickety C-23 Sherpa taxied and whined, picking up speed slowly but surely.
"Once we reach jump altitude, a green light will go on above you, be ready because I will open the doors and you will have a two-minute window, " the booming voice of captain Christine Oludhe instructed.
Lieutenant Derrick Masaku, sergeant Leonard and eight of their best were too cold and high on adrenaline to acknowledge. They could only focus on the mission ahead, a daring feat most likely to end in failure. A feat dreamt up by colonel Bill Rono to endear himself to his new crowd. It was be a feat that could set the colonel on a path to brigadier. They flew north east towards Mogadishu, using nothing but compass and stars, their pilot was a pro, she was avoiding detection, both by Kenyan and Ugandan radar. Their mission was illegal by the skies and naval laws of the unity forces that ruled that battle-worn nation. Over the dark skies and sea they flew, sometimes the fuselage of the C-23 so close to the ground they could almost brush the palm trees and villas overlooking the mystic Indian Ocean.
They gained altitude suddenly, a fast and desperate gain, they were vulnerable being as close to Mogadishu as they were. Radar screens would be going red somewhere, fighter pilots would be awoken and MIGs would be scrambled. Being buzzed and ordered to land was not an option. The captain's voice over the intercom ordered, urgently and without fear.
"Our two minute window begins now. Get ready to jump." They had probably flown to thirteen thousand feet the perfect jump altitude.
The alarm blared and a green light came on….It was time to jump. Ten men rose and headed for the rear. The large door opened like a monster's jaws, Mogadishu beckoned…come If you dare. Sergeant Leonard Ole Kulet whispered a prayer. He was an atheist.