It must be just before 6 p.m. prayer when Amanda is marched past my door by a number of the boys. The sound of her chains sends a chill up my spine – something is about to happen. Then it hits me between the eyes that we are about to be handed to Al-Shabaab.
It’s been nine days since talking to Sam and any thoughts of freedom have vanished. I begin throwing my things together but I don’t get the chance to finish as Abdullah walks in. He orders me out the door. I try to say, ‘Wait, let me get my things, what’s going on …’but he stops me mid-sentence, barking, ‘Leave them, quickly, go’, as he points to the door.
I feel a great sense of loss as I leave my few possessions behind. Waiting for me in another room is Captain Yahya, and Abdullah tugs on my clothing. ‘Quickly, take off everything, put these on.’ Captain Yahya hands me a new shirt and jeans. Like a stunned rabbit I stand there, Abdullah barking, ‘Quickly, quickly!’
I turn to him. ‘How am I meant to put these on with chains around my ankles? ’ referring to the jeans. He ponders this for a moment before scampering out the door. Mohammad walks in moments later, his AK47 draped across his shoulder. It’s so tense in here. I throw the long-sleeved shirt on, forgetting to take the singlet off but no one seems to notice.
Abdullah comes back with the keys and begins working vigorously at each of the locks on my chains with no success – months of exposure to water has rusted them solid. Captain Yahya tries to force the key and almost snaps it off. Mohammad now yanks at the chains, trying to open them with brute force. Defeated, he dashes out the door, and I use this opportunity to ask Abdullah a barrage of questions. ‘What’s happening? Is everything okay? Where are you taking us? What about my things?’ I’m hoping to quell my ever-growing fear, my head spinning out of control. He answers, ‘No talking’, as he forces me to the ground in a sitting position.
Mohammad returns with a hacksaw blade in hand, and they take turns at sawing off the locks, pulling and twisting each leg into a position so as to get the correct angle. The three of them then begin conversing in Somali.
I disregard his order and say, ‘Please, Abdullah, can I at least have my Qur’an?’ feeling that it is somehow magically going to give me protection for what’s about to take place. He says something to Captain Yahya who shakes his head. He tells me firmly, with his arm raised, ‘Captain says no, no more talking.’ I keep my mouth shut as I watch the sweat run down Mohammad’s face as he furiously works away.
Finally Captain Yahya pulls the first chain from my ankle, but I don’t register this simple freedom as I try to second-guess what the fuck is going on. Abdullah then snaps his fingers, ordering me to put on the jeans. I pull them up under my macawiis. They’re swimming on me, so I tell Abdullah I need my belt, to which he shakes his head no. I drop the macawiis to the floor and show then that the jeans won’t stay up. Abdullah ducks out of the room.
Mohammad orders me to the ground again as he begins working on the other lock, and when Abdullah returns, he tosses me the belt, which I slip around my waist.
After ten minutes they finally remove the second lock, and I’m ordered up and out of the room. I stand, pointing to my feet. ‘Please, what about my shoes?’ Abdullah races next door and brings them back and I just have time to pull them on and lace them up before Mohammad pushes me towards the door. Walking awkwardly down the short hallway, feeling as though I’m still hobbled, my balance is all over the place and my heart hammers away.
I can see Amanda in the courtyard. Some of the boys are working away feverishly at her locks. Abdullah pushes me across the courtyard and into the front passenger seat of a four-wheel drive. As I struggle to get up onto the high seat, I ask Abdullah for my Qur’an again, saying how important it is to me, but he just slams the door. I don’t know why it seems so important, maybe it’s because it has Ahmed’s email contact in it or because it could protect me somehow if we are in fact given to Al-Shabaab.
After a few minutes I’m pulled from the car and forced into the backseat, and Amanda, the chain still around one leg, is ordered into the back with me. They take her leg, pulling it out of the car, and go to work on the lock with the hacksaw, and it seems to take about five minutes before she is finally freed from her chains. The boys rush to get into the car. Nothing makes sense. We’re surrounded by guns feeling like lambs going to slaughter.
We roar through the gates and down the sandy street. My anxiety now has a red lining, made even worse with the realisation that Ahmed isn’t in the car. We come into a market area with people everywhere. The headlights stretch out into the darkness. We drive a few hundred metres along a bitumen road before stopping at what looks like a fuel station, and over my shoulder I notice a car just off to the right with someone getting out of the passenger seat. They walk towards us. I’m twitchy as all fuck. We are completely out in the open and I’m terrified about who is advancing towards us, until I make out Ahmed’s features. He comes to the driver’s window and quickly converses in Somali. He doesn’t acknowledge us and goes back to his car.
Our driver spins the car around and follows Ahmed’s Subaru. We weave down the narrow streets, flying in the air as we slam through each pothole. At some point we pick up another vehicle, our car now in the middle of the convoy as we fly through the night. Finally we come to a stop opposite a petrol depot, and several men from the car behind jump into the Subaru. Ahmed then walks up alongside our windows which are slowly lowered.
He talks quickly in Somali before addressing us. Same shit, different day as he says, ‘Noah, Amina, how is your situation?’ Surely he can see that we are both extremely anxious? We reply in tandem, ‘We’re okay, where are we going? ’
He replies, ‘Everything is okay, don’t worry’, then address me directly, ‘Noah, we talk about these promises you make, do we still have an agreement?’ I look straight into his eyes and lie to his face.
‘Yes, of course, I keep my promises.’ Then he shakes my hand. He asks Amanda the same thing, and she responds exactly the same way. We take off again, ghosting Ahmed’s tail-lights, and it feels like we drive for twenty minutes, again passing through the middle of a market area before hitting dense scrub. I want to believe that we are about to be released, but I trust these pricks about as far as I could kick one of them. It’s quite possible that Ahmed is having one last sick joke with us.
We eventually pull up in the middle of nowhere, and it’s pitch-black. My senses tell me something’s not right. The boys are now outside surrounding us, their weapons drawn as though a firefight is about to erupt. Suddenly we’re pulled from the car then marched across to the Subaru and pushed into the backseat. Two of the boys climb in next to us as the doors slam closed. It feels like my sphincter muscle is about to let go, I’m so terrified – we are now facing two men who I have never seen before. I’m sure we have just been handed over to Al-Shabaab.
The man in the passenger seat turns around and asks me my name. ‘I’m Nigel Brennan,’ I reply. Then he asks Amanda the same thing. ‘I’m Amanda Lindhout,’ she says. He dials a number on his mobile and begins talking in Somali. The boys exit the car, and we interlock our fingers. Amanda’s grasp is so tight it feels like she is about to break my hand. With no one beside us, we start talking, though none of it makes much sense as we’re both almost hysterical with fear. Amanda’s rambling, asking, ‘What’s going on, what’s happening, Nigey, where are we going?’ I try to reassure her but I can’t even do this for myself, and I feel like I’m going to have to slap her before she goes into a panic attack. We both start firing questions to the men in the front but they don’t answer a word, which just makes matters worse.
Suddenly, the door opens beside me, and a book is flung into my lap. I can see that it’s my Qur’an. We’re off, just the four of us now in the car as we speed down the dirty road. We hit a T-intersection, swerving left onto a bitumen road. The driver accelerates harder as we hurtle down the road, both of us clinging to each other in terror. It feels like we travel no more than 2 or 3 kilometres
before a pick-up comes out of nowhere, blocking our path. Our driver slams on the brakes, stopping just metres from impact, and there are gunmen everywhere, it seems like there are about fifty of them, all in civilian clothing, packing enormous amounts of hardware.
Amanda is hysterical, tears flowing, her words no longer computing in my head. Out of nowhere another vehicle appears alongside us, our doors are ripped open, we’re pulled from the car and pushed into the backseat of the four-wheel drive opposite us. People seem to be clambering in on top of us, and we’re both in meltdown, trying desperately to get some clarification about what’s taking place. Amanda is clawing at me, repeatedly crying out my name.
The man beside us talking – I can see his lips moving, but my brain is in shutdown and I can’t understand what he’s saying. Somewhere in the haze I register that he’s the spitting image of Morgan Freeman.
Suddenly it’s like cotton wool has been pulled from my ears, and I begin to hear his words: ‘You are safe, everything is okay, please calm down.’ Before I can say anything, the car lurches forward, the pick-up truck is now out in front of us with one man anchored to the massive machine-gun hanging off the back. This man continues to talk to us.
‘My name is Nur. I am a Somali MP. Please, calm down, you are safe, you are free.’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing, those three simple words I have waited to hear for 462 days: you are free. Tears start pouring from my eyes and I’m a blubbering mess – much to Nur’s displeasure – as I let myself believe a little bit that it’s actually true.
Amanda is in much the same state, in complete shock that we will no longer be treated like someone’s slave, chained like an animal. Nur then says, ‘Please, stop crying, you should be happy. I will try to connect you with your families.’ He now has his mobile phone in hand, punching in the numbers.
He hands the phone over to Amanda, and I hear her say, ‘Hello, Mum.’ Lorinda’s voice is just audible and my doubt vanishes – tears of joy flow freely. I try to listen to what Amanda is saying, but it’s impossible. I ask Nur where they’re taking us. He tells me there is a team waiting for us at the airport. Ah, that must be where Sam is. We suddenly stop, and all my anxiety returns instantly. I notice a massive fortified entrance, razor wire spread in all directions and guards on sentry duty looking towards us over their weapons. I get the feeling that they could open fire on us at any moment, but then I see we’re in front of the Burundi AMISOM base.
We don’t stop long before travelling in convoy, making our way into Mogadishu. As we go past the feeding station I point out to Amanda that we’d been there on our third day, and we also pass the road leading to the Shamo Hotel. We finally grind to a halt in K4. Everyone gets out of the car except the driver, and I feel incredibly exposed. I try to get Amanda to stay calm. As I look around to see what they’re doing, gunfire suddenly erupts and bullets whiz by, and I’m so startled I almost hit the floor – I can’t tell if it’s our guys shooting or someone shooting at us. Everyone jumps back in the car, we do a quick U-turn, and drive about 50 metres to the doors of the Sahafi Hotel, where Nur tells us to get out. It seems we’re going to have to stay here the night.
I start to tell Nur it’s imperative we get to the airport, but he shakes his head and explains, ‘It is not possible tonight; it is too dangerous.’ I can’t believe it, we’re so fucking close. Is the hotel safe?
I drag my sorry arse out of the car and run through the gates. It’s like being in a time warp, entering a large courtyard filled with people sitting around drinking tea and coffee. We’re quickly ushered past reception and into a large formal living room. The room quickly fills up with people, and I’m on edge as I clock each of them, terrified that someone will pull a weapon. Everyone tries to talk with us at once and my head feels like it’s about to pop. My throat is bone-dry making it almost impossible to speak.
Finally Nur shoos the crowd away, telling them to give us some space as he can clearly see that we’re not comfortable. I ask for water and Coke, anything to relieve my parched throat. Nur explains that there are twelve or fifteen Somali MPs staying in the hotel tonight and that it is surrounded by security and that we should feel safe, but it doesn’t ease my anxiety.
Then the reality of what has just occurred slowly begins to sink in. Having Amanda next to me after thirteen months of separation is momentous and I can’t stop reaching out and touching her, but I’m terrified I’m going to wake up from a dream and discover that none of this is real. We talk to each other. There’s so much to say but now isn’t the time for details, I’m just so happy to hold her hand. I can’t help thinking how bad our speech is, we’re stumbling over words as we try to answer each other’s questions.
After we field questions from Nur and some of the others, they finally make arrangements for a room. We are given the option of staying in the same room, but we decide not to. We don’t want to upset the apple cart, so we ask for two rooms next to each other. But the hotel is fully booked. So, not wanting to let Amanda out of my sight, we agree that I will just use my room to shower then we will reconvene in hers. We have an entourage of people escort us upstairs to the rooms, and I can’t help feeling claustrophobic with all these strangers around me. I just need some space to absorb everything and have some time alone with Amanda but it looks as though that will have to wait.
As soon as we make it to Amanda’s room, a phone call comes through from Sam. I tell him that we are okay and explain what happened outside the hotel. He says that they can’t get to the hotel – no one is willing to take them as it is too dangerous to travel the short distance at night, but he assures me that there is plenty of security surrounding the building, and that they will be here at six in the morning to pick us up. It would be nice to have Sam here as an extra security blanket but it looks like we are just going to have to bunker down for the night.
We ask everyone to leave and give us some space. I shut the door so that it’s now just the two of us, and I embrace Amanda. She seems to melt into my arms as I pull her to my chest, our emotions finally boil over as both of us begin to cry.
Amanda repeatedly says, ‘We’re free, Nigey, we’re free.’ I never want to let go. I’ve been longing for the touch of another human being and it warms my heart that it’s Amanda. I can’t believe we have both made it out alive, hand in hand just as I had envisaged all along.
The first twenty minutes together is strange; it’s kind of appropriate that the two of us are locked in a small room, but I’m so happy to share this space with her. I feel like a frigid teenager, awkward and withdrawn. For so long now having been told to keep my eyes to the floor, I now find it hard to meet hers. This shyness has been forced onto me, for so long I’ve walked on eggshells, my self-confidence stripped from me.
Once we both feel comfortable, we give each other some time to freshen up. I head back to my room, desperate for a shower and hoping for some peaceful reflection time but it’s not forthcoming. As soon as I step out of the shower there’s a knock at the door.
I’m handed a phone and told that it’s for me, it’s Fox News and a woman asks if I know anything about the two journalists who have just been released. Stunned, I explain that I am one of them, but before she gets the chance to ask anything more I’m handed another phone. It’s another media outlet wanting information, which I deflect saying I don’t wish to say anything.
I’m then passed another phone, and expecting a journalist, I say hello and then hear Nicky’s voice. She sounds ecstatic and it’s so amazing to finally talk with her, but she puts the fear of god into me.
‘You’re not completely safe, not until you’re out of the country, and just so you know, two French journalists were kidnapped from the hotel where you are.’ I almost go into a panic attack, realising that Amanda is downstairs alone. Nic manages to calm me down by the time I hang up, but I know there’s little I can do except wait. I race back down to Amanda’s room.
The calls don’t stop coming as the media goes into overdrive. Amanda
does an interview with CTV in Canada, while I stupidly speak with a Reuters journalist from Nairobi, neither of us thinking about the consequences. Just after this Amanda speaks with her mother, who tells us to stop talking with the media, reiterating what Nicky said, that we’re not safe yet and speaking out could compromise our position. Ahmed’s promises come back to haunt me, and I’m sure the media will know where we are and how quickly this will transmitted around the globe. Our captors will have an ear to the radio.
It’s a long night watching the clock, it seems like the longest night of my life as the minutes tick by. I’m on guard the whole time, jumpy at the slightest sound. I take two more phone calls during the night: the first from a friend in Bundaberg, which is slightly unsettling as I haven’t even had the chance to speak with any of my family yet. I ask how they got this number and they tell me the ABC handed it over.
The second call I’m ecstatic to get. Talking with my brother-in-law Simon and my niece and nephews brings tears to my eyes. I have missed them all so much and the thought that I will be back with them soon is overwhelming. I’m on edge and running on pure adrenaline, I don’t seem to need sleep. I watch over Amanda as she tries to get a few hours’ kip.
Finally dawn breaks, and I’m desperate to get on that plane as soon as possible. It’s a huge relief when Sam finally arrives with Jack. Both, I would learn, are ex-SAS and look like guys you wouldn’t want to fuck with down a dark alley. Sam takes the piss out of me straightaway saying, ‘I’ve got a can of Fosters waiting for you in the plane, mate.’ I smile at the thought. They’ve both obviously met Nicky in Nairobi: ‘Your sister is a feral bitch; shit, she can drink.’ I can tell immediately it’s affectionate and that they have got to know her well in a short time. They then get down to the serious side of business, explaining that the prime minister and president of Somalia have requested a meeting at Villa Somalia before we fly out. They explain that it’s up to us whether we want to do it, and that there have been many people involved on the ground with our release who will be there.
The Price of Life Page 39