At 2:30pm, on the afternoon of January 15th, 2019, a group of three men, later found to be operating as part of the Al-Shabaab militant group, the same organization responsible for the Westgate Shopping Mall attack in 2014, broke through the gates of the Dusit Complex at 14 Riverside Drive in downtown Nairobi. 

It was a Tuesday, so Riverside was full of people shuffling along the dirt path that functioned as a sidewalk. Full of cars stopped in traffic, their windows up to keep the heat and dust out. Full of motor bikes, weaving around the cars and pedestrians. Full of women carrying fruit. Full of men sitting on milk crates. Full of little boys selling god knows what. 

Riverside was in the Westlands district of Nairobi. It acted as a sort of through street. On one end was a series of embassies and high end hotels, and at the other it connected to the main road through the city, Waiyaki Way, which was a sort of highway, except when it rained, when hundreds of cars stopped moving for no reason whatsoever. 

But that day there was no rain. It was hot. The Dusit complex, like most other gated compounds in the city, had an office building, a hotel, and a restaurant. The three men broke through the gates, passed the guards, and then one of them blew himself up. That was what we heard. The first explosion. From our office building just down the street. A loud bang, and we all ran upstairs to the roof. 

–

His name was Bigo. 

His first name was Geoffrey, but no one called him that. 

“Good morning Bigo.”

“Sir. How ah youuu?” then he’d start laughing self-consciously.

Bigo was always late. He’d arrive at our office, flustered, apologizing, telling me that the bus wasn’t on time, so he had to take a bodaboda all the way from Ruaka. Laughter. 

For as long as I knew him, Bigo wore the same three dress shirts on rotation. He had these big, round glasses that were held together by tape, and one side of his afro was always flat, like he’d just woken up. 

He was a salesman. Our company was selling technology to restaurants, and Bigo used to run his own restaurant, so I thought he’d be good. But he was always behind on his targets. Panicking at the end of the month, trying to hit quota. “How ah youuu?” Laughter. 

After work, Bigo would bring us to these bars, inside a mall, or on the rooftop of a hotel. He always wanted to go out. He’d make me taste different types of beer, and teach me dance moves.

I remember during my first month, he asked me to come to a meeting with him. We were sitting outside the restaurant, Bigo checking his watch every few minutes, asking when the owner would be back. And while we waited he told me about his life. How he had a son who was one year old. He showed me a picture. Then he showed me a picture with his baby mama. Laughter. He wasn’t married yet because he was still saving up money for a dowry. 

When the owner finally arrived, an Indian man, it seemed like he knew Bigo. Like he’d seen him several times before and was already sick of him. But this time was different. He had a Mzungu with him. A white man. 

–

From the rooftop of our office, we could see smoke rising above the trees. People running along Riverside Drive below. We could hear gunshots. Even with everything going on, it was hard to not notice how lush the city was. How much green there was everywhere. 

Do we have everyone? Is everyone here? I looked around and started counting. Sally, Andrew, Kevin, Bigo. Bigo? Where’s Bigo?

Another explosion. 

I took out my phone and tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail. Tried calling him again. He never had any call time. 

We got a message from the security team. We were instructed to stay in the office and lower the blinds. Stay away from windows and doors. No one was allowed to leave. 

While we sat there in the dark, my colleagues started calling people. Checking to make sure their family and friends were safe. Checking twitter for updates. Every now and then we’d hear more gunshots. 

–

The morning of the explosion, Bigo came into the office late. “Sir, how ah youuu?” Laughter. 

When we had our weekly meeting, he was flipping through his notebook, trying to give me updates, struggling to read his own writing. Put it in the computer, Bigo. You have to put it in the computer. Otherwise it doesn’t count. 

I kept thinking he would improve at his job. He knew everyone. The bodaboda drivers, the shop owners. We’d go to local markets and he’d talk to the people selling, to make sure I didn’t get ripped off too badly. But he was behind target again. I told him that if he didn’t improve soon, we would need to make a change. 

Bigo kept apologizing. Saying he would make sure things were recorded. After lunch he told me he was going back out again to try to meet with some more businesses. 

–

It wasn’t until midnight that we were finally allowed to leave the office. The Kenyan military had been called in and were stationed along the street. Men in green vests and helmets and machine guns hanging from their necks. We walked outside, and my colleagues all turned left out to the main road to catch the bus, and I went right, walking back towards the hotel I’d been staying at for the last several months.

I’d never seen Riverside Drive so empty. It was normally full of crowds, of people bumping into you every few minutes. But now it was quiet. I made eye contact with a man in a vest, I smiled and nodded, but he just stared back at me blankly. 

When I reached my hotel, there were more guards stationed outside. Lots of Americans were staying there, so the consulate must’ve sent them. As the gate closed behind me, I thought about Bigo. 

He’d finally called me back in the evening. He said he was safe, in another part of the city. He was laughing on the phone. 

I thought about how I would have felt if I found his name in the list of casualties a week later. One of dozens of Kenyans that died, though the news networks would focus on the one American citizen. I thought about our company offering their deepest condolences, then going right back to work. I thought about his child. 

I walked through the main entrance of the building, with the perfectly clean floors, and the pool that no one used, and far too many staff for the amount of people staying there, and I realized I would fly back home at some point. In a few months maybe, or a year. Eventually, Bigo’s contract would end and he would have to find another job. Still trying to save up for a dowry. He’d call me every now and then, a grainy WhatsApp call in the middle of the night. Checking in, telling me about his life, seeing if I wouldn’t mind sending him some money. How ah youuu? Laughter. And I’d entertain him at first. Try to stay in touch. But eventually I’d stop answering. I’d let it ring, then message him back days later. He would fade from my life. The only thing left would be some pictures of us at a bar, or riding ATVs, or smiling just outside our office on Riverside Drive. 

Read another of Glen’s stories on Common Measure:

The Prologue by Glen Bullock

Torben Robertson · Mar 6

The Prologue

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