A Long Walk Home: One Woman's Story of Kidnap, Hostage, Loss - and Survival (3 page)

‘What’s the first thing you’re going to do?’ he asked me.

I couldn’t honestly say. I had some mixed feelings about where we were going. Kiwayu wasn’t our first choice; still in my mind I felt it ought really to have been Zanzibar. Now I wasn’t sure what to expect, just on the basis of pictures viewed online. The safari had been a lively, busy itinerary. In Kiwayu? David would be
refreshing his sailing skills and catching up with the stack of books he’d brought. I was less certain how I would occupy myself, beyond resting and reading. Perhaps snorkelling, swimming, walking – and of course spending much longed-for time alone with David.

We flew into Wilson, the smaller part of Kenyatta Airport, Nairobi, which was replete with the flavour of Africa – the heat and the colour, sounds and aromas. And I remembered my arrival at Lusaka Airport, Zambia, back in 1976, coming from a small and insular home town: how alien I had felt all of a sudden, wearing a rollneck sweater and cowboy boots in the intense heat, seeing black-skinned men and women for the first time in the flesh. In Africa you had to accustom yourself to a certain rhythm of life, different types of amenities and ways of doing things. I felt very fortunate to be here now, as did David. And slowly my sense of anticipation did build – I wanted to get to Kiwayu. Wherever I was with David I felt safe and happy, sure that he could sort out any problem. And he had imparted at least some of his sense of adventure to me.

David’s and my relationship should never have happened, really, not by most rational analyses. How many people travel five thousand miles from home, meet and fall in love, then live together happily for thirty-three years? It must be a rarity. Things should have gone wrong: we were from quite different backgrounds, my family and David’s very disparate. We had got together on a leap of faith, one could say. But we started to live together immediately, and it just worked.

We had to wait for those six months while David worked out his contract in Zambia. David’s employers would have been glad
to hold onto him for another two-year stint, and I could have gone back there in tow as his girlfriend, but he was ready to call time on an experience he had really enjoyed and felt the benefit of. In those six months we were apart he lived in some style in a beautiful four-bedroomed house with swimming pool. But not everything was idyllic in Chililabombwe: David saw a harsh and brutal side of life too. He had a twenty-year-old houseboy, James, whom he liked and trusted, and who lived in quarters (
kaya
) connected to the main house. One morning David had awakened and been a little perturbed by an unusual silence about the place. He went to James’s
kaya
and found the boy dead by decapitation. The appalling scene shook David badly, and he was further perturbed by the seeming insouciance of the police, who indicated that James’s fate was no great surprise. David found out later through a friend of James that the boy had been killed because of some dispute arising between rival tribes. This horrendous episode didn’t change David’s essentially positive view of his African experience – he saw life more in the round, accepted that bad things could and did happen – but it did make a case for us starting our life together in Suffolk rather than Zambia.

When at last David flew back to the UK in December 1978 I got the overnight train down south to meet him, and from the moment he stepped into the arrivals hall at Heathrow, tanned and smiling, I knew the wait had been worth it. It had been ‘meant to be’; we’d just had to go a long way around it. From there we never looked back.

We started our life together at his parents’ house in Haverhill, me still awaiting the finalisation of divorce proceedings with Peter (‘irreconcilable differences’, readily agreed on both sides), which came in the post to my mum’s house in 1979. Quick as we
could we moved out, set up home together, took the best work that we could find. David’s ambitions led him into publishing, and over the years he would advance steadily from one reputable company to the next. Meantime we moved from house to house as and when we had to, making a home and then trading up. We married, since we thought we ought to, in 1985. Ollie was born the following year.

I would find my own working vocation by a more roundabout means, but a big part of it was down to David’s encouragement. Confidence had always been an issue for me. You can’t really forget where you come from, and I don’t want to, because it’s an integral part of me. But I had grown up a sickly child in a working-class northern household, one that grafted hard for precious little reward. And, just like so many young people in that situation, I slowly became aware that no one had any very high expectations of my being able to make my way in the world. For all that, I always felt there was something inside me that wanted expression – that one should try to change the given, ‘the done thing’ for so many girls I knew, of factory work, marriage, childrearing and nary a thought to realising one’s true potential. And it was David who pushed me, made me believe in myself: ‘You can do this – at least give it a go. If it doesn’t work, do something else. You’ve got it in you.’

We were two parts of the jigsaw that fitted together, made an entity. At times we had wondered aloud to each other, ‘Do you think it’s fate …?’ For me my life with David was certainly a privilege. At the same time, in some fundamentally superstitious way, I sometimes thought to myself, ‘Perhaps I don’t deserve this. Bad things happen, this can’t last, because it’s just too good.’ I was visited by just such a feeling a few weeks before we left for Kenya. But my life’s experience, also my professional experience,
had taught me not to listen to negative voices, and I put them aside and moved on.

At Nairobi David and I boarded a small ten-seater plane bound for Kiwayu. There was only a handful of other passengers. The two-hour journey passed off without incident, and as the plane started its descent we both were struck by the vivid turquoise of the sea, and the verdant forest with the Kiwayu resort skirting its edge. The lower we got, the more keenly I was looking out for a landing strip of some sort. The plane circled over an opening in the forest then came down to land – in a field, effectively. That felt a little odd.
This is remote
, I thought to myself. It was 4 p.m.

David and I were the only two passengers disembarking at Kiwayu. But as we gathered up our belongings a woman behind us said, ‘You’ll have a wonderful time in Kiwayu!’ As we looked out of the window a flock of bright-plumaged bee-eaters was swooping in front of the stationary plane, miraculously managing to avoid the still rotating propeller blades. I marvelled at their vibrant colours and markings as well as their notable agility. This aerobatic display seemed almost to have been staged just for us, a welcome to the resort.

As we alighted from the plane another couple was waiting to board, and the woman remarked to us that she didn’t want to leave: they’d had such a lovely holiday, David and I were certain to have a wonderful stay … And I did take this as reassurance. After all, the omens seemed to be in our favour.

As we left the plane David and I were greeted by two Kiwayu employees – or, at least, we took them as such, since they had already stashed our luggage in the back of a waiting beach buggy. Then, without saying a word, they drove us a short distance down a sandy lane to the reception area of the resort. A man came out to greet us, cheerfully informal in T-shirt, shorts and bare feet. He introduced himself as George Moorhead, the resort’s owner-manager.

For all George’s evident friendliness I had begun to feel a curious sense of isolation. There was simply
nobody else around:
hence none of the usual pleasant holiday-spot ambience – the sounds of children laughing and playing, of splashing water and hotel staff going about their business. Instead, the silence was very pronounced, a ‘peace and quiet’ that felt just a shade remote, even intimidating. I was well aware that Kiwayu advertised itself as a secluded getaway, but, still, the reality wasn’t quite as I had imagined. I found myself put in mind of the
Marie Celeste.
The ‘exclusivity’ of the place seemed, at least for the moment, to have excluded any other signs of life.

George offered us a bite to eat and escorted us to a restaurant area. I was quite glad to see a waiter appear – another person! – and he brought some pasta and salad for David and tea and cake for me. The refreshments were very welcome, though I was still scrutinising our new surroundings. The restaurant seemed to be constructed from bamboo and thatch, its windows unglazed and hung with roller blinds. A cooling breeze blew through the space and I could hear the rhythmic roll of the sea, a sound I’d
always loved. On this occasion, though, it wasn’t calming me. I couldn’t get over how open and exposed to the elements this resort was.

After we had eaten, David and I browsed a small gift shop, and I was eyeing potential take-home gifts for Ollie and his girlfriend Saz when George reappeared, offering to take us down the beach and show us our
banda
, the rondavel-style cottage where we would be staying.

‘It’s amazingly quiet here,’ I remarked to him. ‘Where’s everybody else?’

He smiled. ‘You’re in luck, as it happens. You’re the only two people here. We’ve got more guests coming in on Monday and Wednesday but as of tonight and tomorrow you’ve got the place all to yourselves …’

I’d suspected as much, but hadn’t really wanted to hear it confirmed. Rather than a perk, it struck me as a slight cause for concern, that we should be so much alone in this rather lonely place.

David and I were still clad in our safari khakis but I took off my boots before we left the restaurant area and walked down onto the beach, which curved away ahead of us in a horseshoe shape. It was pleasantly warm, the sand was firm, and water lapped gently at our feet. George and David strode on a few paces in front of me, chatting the whole time. David was enquiring about the sailing, the local wind conditions, the possibility of taking a Laser dinghy out. I heard George mention that he’d be happy to arrange ‘a romantic dinner’ for us one night on the headland. But the headland seemed to me rather far away. And the longer we walked, the less comfortable I felt. I threw backward glances, the restaurant now seeming quite a ways away. I had begun to wonder how best to convey to David that I was uneasy – if he hadn’t already intuited as much.

We reached a spot where the row of
bandas
stretched out before our eyes around the curve of the bay.

‘Which one’s ours?’ I asked George.

‘Just a bit further down. We’ve put you in Banda Zero …’

As we passed the other
bandas
I could see the privacy they offered, set back from the beach, secluded from prying eyes. But then there was no one around from whom one’s privacy needed shielding. The cove was picture-postcard beautiful, but quite deserted apart from the three of us.

We came to the end of the line. ‘This is yours,’ said George. We struggled up a soft sand slope, and there George introduced a waiting employee who would be ‘looking after us’. I was more concerned with looking about for a door to the
banda
– in fact, we entered through another doorway with nothing more than a blind rolled up over it.

Inside, blinds were also rolled above the unglazed windows. George guided us through a big, handsomely furnished space. In the living area were two slung hammocks, a bookcase, a huge chair, a dark wood chest strewn with books and magazines. The sleeping area offered a big bed with white linen sheets, bedside lamps, and a mosquito net neatly and protectively folded all around the bed frame. Then there was a dressing area with wardrobes and hanging for clothes, where our luggage sat waiting for us. And behind that was yet another lounge-type area with day beds and hammocks. Anyone would call it well appointed. I was less certain whether other guests would be more relaxed than me about sleeping in a room where one couldn’t turn a key in any sort of a lock.

In the dressing area was a fixed mirror over his-and-hers sinks, and a small wooden box sat between the sink bowls. As I inspected this more closely, George piped up.

‘If you’ve got any valuables, jewellery, watches? Just pop them in the box overnight. There are monkeys around, they’ll take anything …’

At some other time that idea could have amused me. Now the thought of monkeys creeping in and picking through our belongings while we slept only riled my nerves a little more.

George left us to it. David looked at me, smiling, solicitous – he must have read my expression.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m not sure, David. I just feel a bit uneasy, being in a place that has no doors or windows …’

‘Chill,’ he said cheerily – the first time I’d heard him try out that particular expression. ‘This’ll be our Robinson Crusoe experience. It’s going to be great, trust me.’

I wasn’t convinced that playing castaways would give us the ‘chill-out’ holiday we’d planned for. But, as always, I had to love David’s unflappable can-do attitude, and I really wanted to share in it with him.

We unpacked, showered, lounged around our new habitat awhile, had some fun trying to negotiate the his-and-hers hammocks. But even the shower stall managed to spook me slightly, since it was external to the
banda
, accessible through another doorway and down a slatted path, with nothing but dense foliage at either side.

Around 7 p.m. we dressed and left the
banda
in the fading light, retracing our route back down the beach to the restaurant. Dinner was simple, grilled fish and potatoes. Curiously, a man whom we assumed to be staff sat at an adjacent table, saying not a word, only looking at us, and in a not especially friendly fashion. Afterwards we decided to have a nightcap and wandered over to a bar area. In short order George Moorhead reappeared
and pulled up a stool beside us. We sipped gin and tonics and he told us keenly about Kiwayu, how it was a family business originally set up by the father of his Italian wife. We learned about his schooling, his second marriage, how his wife and child had just been staying but had now returned to Nairobi … David did most of the talking for our side, me chipping in here and there. Though George was good company I wondered if he had sensed my unease, and felt himself somehow obliged – ‘part of the service’ – to spend his evening with us in this fashion.

We had a second round of drinks, then, unusually for us, a third. I was more than ready for bed, but outside it was dark, and I was feeling a bit daunted by the thought of the trek back down the beach to the
banda
, though I assumed there would be security guards round and about. In time, though, there was really nothing for it but to say our goodnights and, leaving George at the bar, we headed out, armed with a wind-up torch to help us find our way.

Outside the moonlight danced on the sea’s surface and aided the general visibility. All was still and peaceful. The tide was coursing in, wetting our feet as we walked. Flicking our torch beam hither and thither we spotted crabs, evidently disturbed by the light, emerging from the sand and scurrying away – quite a comical sight. We smiled at one another, and I took David’s hand.

‘So what do you fancy doing tomorrow?’ he asked. I had no idea.

‘Let’s just relax. You can do your thing. I’ll be happy just to have a swim, read my book …’

‘We’re going to have a great time, I promise. Tomorrow I’ll take the Laser out. George says the snorkelling is brilliant. We can take a walk into the village …’

I knew David was genuinely in no way put off by the sparseness of our surroundings. I could also tell that he appreciated my
anxiety, and was trying to overcompensate, to lift my spirits with the tonic of his own enthusiasm.

Up ahead we saw a light that could only be our
banda
and we clambered back up the sandy slope, pushed the door’s roller blind aside and went in. Whoever had pulled down the door blind had also lit a lantern for us, turned down our bed’s sheets and closed the mosquito net around it. David inspected the net quite closely: ‘This is really good quality, I’m impressed …’ My heart went out to him – always accentuating the positive. I was still thinking vaguely of monkeys – even about what day our flight home to the UK was.

I changed into pyjama bottoms and a vest top. David undressed to his underwear. We washed, brushed our teeth, and I availed myself of the wooden ‘strongbox’, where I carefully placed my jewellery, my hearing aids and the wristwatch I used to operate them. With my aids removed, the ambient sound of the world around me became just a shade muted.

Hearing difficulties run in my family, and I hadn’t been able to escape my share of them. It was David who first brought me to the realisation that I was losing some hearing: ‘Did you hear what I said, Jude?’ Though my left ear functions fairly well, in my right I am effectively deaf, and since 2007 I’d been wearing aids – not at home, where the doorbell or the telephone or TV were perfectly audible, but always for out-of-doors activity.

David and I parted the mosquito net and climbed into bed, David switched off the light, and the room was profoundly dark. I was much too tired for any more misgivings. Now I just looked forward to sleep and its unravelling of all the day’s cares. We drifted off together just as we always did – lightly holding each other’s hand as we lay there.

A shout startled me out of sleep. It had to have been a shout, since I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids – and it could only have been David. What I heard was: ‘What the fuck is going on!?’

Groggily I looked over to David’s side of the bed. The light was on – and in an instant it was as if I had been slapped awake. His sheets were empty and crumpled. Then I realised he was out of the bed, standing at the foot of it, inside the mosquito net. But someone else was there too – someone I couldn’t see clearly.

What I could make out was that David was standing with his feet planted, arms outstretched above his shoulders, his left hand lower than the right – as though he were locked in a tussle with someone taller than him. He didn’t notice me because he was looking rigidly up and ahead, wide-eyed, wholly focused – and clearly alarmed.

I felt a prod, as if from a stubby finger – but harder, metallic – and then I realised the sheets had been pulled off the bed. I looked left and made out two more figures standing within the net – two black men, one in a black jacket, the other in a white vest, both holding rifles. In the turmoil of the moment I thought they must be Kiwayu security guards: some emergency had arisen, they’d come to ensure we were safe. But then why was David shouting – and struggling?

In the next instant these two men seized me tightly by my upper arms, wrenched me out of bed and through the mosquito net, and began to haul me towards the doorway. I heard myself shout: ‘What’s happening!? What’s happening!?’ Yet the voice didn’t seem to issue from my throat, constricted as it was by terror.

I looked back and saw David, still locked in his grapple with the shadowy assailant. Then I was tugged out of the doorway, and I felt sand and twigs under my bare feet as I was bustled sideways down the incline and onto the firmer sand of the beach.

The two men started running and dragging me along between them. I was screaming, trying to impede our progress by digging my heels into the sand. I had to get back to David – if he wasn’t being hauled off too. But my resistance was useless: these men were just too strong for me.

I could feel the wind on my face, could see the moon above, nightmarishly full and bright – and heard the crash of the sea’s waves, louder than my screams. Onward they dragged me, following the curve of the beach, towards the headland still off in the distance, jutting from the sea and silhouetted by moonlight. In the melee I thought one thing clearly:
Footprints – we’re leaving footprints in the sand. When people come after me they’ll know which way to go – David will know.

The forced pace was so hectic that I was quickly out of breath. I fell over my own feet, only to feel one of the men seizing me by my hair and pulling me to my feet. I reached behind me, dug my nails into the offending hand, but then I felt a brutal jab – the butt of a rifle – in the small of my back, followed hard by two smarting slaps about my head. My knees buckled but I managed to keep upright.

We splashed in and out of the shallow tidewaters, soaking the legs of my pyjamas. Still I pleaded with them: ‘What are you doing? Where are you taking me? Stop it, take me back, I won’t say anything …’ But they stayed grimly silent. The sheer force of their manhandling me ever further away from the
banda
was its own chilling response. I struggled to comprehend why I couldn’t see any security guards, why it appeared that nobody else could see or hear what was happening to me.

Then I was being turned, sharply, into the sea. For a moment I feared I was to be drowned, my head thrust under the waves … Instead I realised that something was coming over the water
towards us. Without my hearing aids I couldn’t hear an engine – but in that horrible stillness I saw a fisherman’s skiff gliding ever closer. I could make out the dusky figure of a man sitting at the stern by the engine – a navigator, his hand on a rudder. Then my kidnappers started pulling me through the knee-deep water towards this boat.