A Tale Of Choice

by Alexa Stewart

  A YOUNG MARINE, standing next to the shack, observed a dirty, tired and wounded woman getting out of a Kenyan Army vehicle with two young, dusty, children. He noticed that her head was wrapped in gauze, a horrible bruise covered half of her face, and her arm was bound in a cast. In the last week, he had seen all kinds of American refugees fleeing the war that was raging in this land, so many stories of hardships, fear and death. Watching them join the end of his line, he was sure that their saga would be just one more story to add to the rest.

  Shelly and the children waited in the hot African sun, as she tried to take out the passports from her fanny pack with one hand. Tom saw that she struggled, so he gently walked up and helped her bring out the slightly crumpled, dusty, dark blue books from her pouch. As she held them in her hand, her heart swelled with pride as she observed the American Seal prominently displayed on the cover, along with the words “United States of America” boldly printed in gold letters. How differently she viewed her country now with all its privileges, laws, safety and prosperity.

  Home… how she longed to be there with Jim and leave this war torn place on the next flight out. She wanted the life back that she had known just a short while ago.

  “Thank you, Tom.”

  Tom smiled and then leaned against her for comfort. He was so far from home and his own way of life. He missed his parents terribly. He was glad that Shelly was here. She felt so safe and comforting. But, what was going to happen to them now? Would they be separated? Would he be left alone with some stranger who might not care what happened to him and his sister? He said a silent prayed for help, closed his eyes and accepted the comfort of this woman’s protection… for now.

  Shelly stepped up to the Marine, when it was her turn. She handed her own and Jim’s dusty passports to the young sergeant. She could see the name ‘Jefferson’ stitched in bold letters on his uniform. She told him, “My name is Shelly Ferguson. I’m from America. My husband was taken captive by terrorist I think, about six days ago in Mombasa. I need help finding him, getting these children to the states and going home with my husband, if I can,” she said. “What do I do?”

  He took a look at the passports, and then examined them with a jeweler’s eyepiece for authenticity and responded, “Wait here, please.”

  He walked about ten feet to the opening of the barricade, passed armed guards and into a booth that was tucked behind the left side of the wall of sand bags.

  Shelly stood holding Faith’s hand, with Tom close beside her. They watched the soldier step inside and pick up a phone. Shelly could hear his voice, but not the words he spoke. She knew they were all tired, dirty, hungry and thirsty, but she needed to get the wheels moving to find Jim, and the paperwork for the children started.

  Presently, he returned and said, “This way please.”

  The wounded American, with the children, followed the Marine through the opening in the barricade. Inside the temporary wall of war, stood a tall, permanent, stone wall, about fifteen feet away. This stone edifice surrounded the five story building of the embassy. Huge, heavy, double iron gates barred the way into the embassy grounds. The gate entrance was offset from the barricade opening by about thirty feet to the right. Probably to prevent direct access to the gates, if an attack should occur. Camouflaged trucks were parked in concealment between the temporary and stone walls. A jeep carrying men drove down the alleyway and disappeared around the corner. Shelly and the children walked among Marines going about their business, protecting this small piece of American property in a foreign land.

  As they approached the gates, they were met by another group of Marines standing guard. Their guide escorted them past the gates and onto the embassy grounds. They could see benches strategically placed in and among a lush garden along the inner wall. A wide, paved sidewalk negotiated its way through a lush lawn that encircled the building. Shelly stayed close to their chaperone, following him along the hot pavement of the driveway toward the front entrance.

  As they walked up the wide, shallow steps and passed into the embassy, they entered a large, cool and airy lobby. They could see an open balcony, overlooking the lobby from the second floor, on three sides of the great chamber. Noises and echoes reverberated across the stone floors and walls. This huge room encased numerous refugees in various stages of aid. Some sat on chairs or couches. Others followed staff members into the bowels of the building. Near the front desk, a short line of evacuees stood, presumably being aided in one form or another. But they didn’t stop there. They continued through double doors at the back of the cavernous room. The doors opened onto a wide hall with offices on either side. They entered the second door on the right, finding themselves in a small office.

  “This is Mrs. Amanda Bruna. She will help you,” was all that Sergeant Jefferson said as he handed the passports to the embassy official. Then he turned and walked out of the room.

  “Mrs. Ferguson?” asked an African woman of about 40, who stood behind her desk as the small group entered her office. She was of slender build and possessed intelligent and compassionate eyes.

  “Yes,” Shelly replied, as she sat in the chair offered to her.

  “Why don’t you children sit on the couch over there,” Mrs. Bruna offered as she pointed out the leather sofa against the wall. Shelly wondered how many others had been offered this couch in the last couple of days.

  Mrs. Bruna sat down in her chair and examined the passports. “I understand that you were separated from your husband in Mombasa. What was it… five days ago now?” she asked.

  “No, it was actually six days ago. We were just about to leave the “Mombasa Imperial Hotel”, when it was attacked. I would have been captured with the rest, if I hadn’t forgotten something in our room,” she said as she placed her hand on her shirt, feeling the presence of the cross lying there.

  A dark sadness covered Mrs. Bruna’s eyes when the hotel was mentioned. “Oh,” was all that she said for a second, then she took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry Mrs. Ferguson, but from what we’ve learned, none of the hostages survived that day.”

  “No…” Shelly softly said in shock, as her face turned white, her heart seemed to stop beating and she turned cold, so very cold. Tears fill her eyes as she asked, “What happened? Are you sure?”

  “We know that two trucks carrying men in one and women and children in the other left the hotel for the Makupa Causeway, presumably toward the airport, which the attackers had stormed earlier that morning and held. But, just before they reached the causeway, local police and some soldiers met the vehicles with gunfire. They didn’t know hostages were on board, so in the subsequent fighting some of the terrorists started to kill their hostages. In the mayhem there was no distinction between hostage and militant. All we know is that all the women and children were killed in the back of the truck, probably by the terrorists.”

  “Once the fighting was over, the police found the bodies of the male hostages in and among the militants that were killed. I’m sorry Mrs. Ferguson, but if your husband was on that truck…” she left the rest unsaid.

  “Isn’t there a chance that he could have survived?” she asked in anguish.

  “There were no survivors found,” she added in a grave voice. “We don’t know how many were originally on the trucks, or even who they are. The hotel was destroyed by fire along with all its records. We were told about the tragedy by the people who were able to escape the island that day. A few of them were the very police that had opened fire on the trucks,” she said remorsefully. “Yours is just one small piece of the puzzle to that event. Small reports are trickling in on the missing from that hotel, but there are so many more that are still lost and unaccounted for in this war, Mrs. Ferguson. So, many…” she said unhappily. “A lot of people died that first day in Mombasa. It was one of the worst this country has ever seen. So much hate, so many dead, so little left of the city.”

  Shelly sat there with her grief running down her face.

  “Now, no one can
get on or off the island. It’s completely held by Major General Ben Adeen’s Army. He was a high ranking official in our military before he announced his intentions of creating a new government in Mombasa and what he calls the new future for Kenya. We are pretty sure he has made an alliance with al-Qaeda. We think the hostages were taken by them for political leverage and maybe for ransom. We will never know for sure, now. Civil war is tearing this country apart, Mrs. Ferguson, and there is no way we can verify that your husband is alive or dead. But, it would seem to me that he is most likely dead, I am sorry to say,” she ended despondently.

  Shelly sat there devastated.

  This can’t be happening! Oh, Jim, you can’t be gone. How am I going to go on without you? Lord, is this really what you wanted? She asked in her pain. No… I know it isn’t. You’re kind and loving. It was evil and hate that took him, she thought as sobs escaped her. I won’t add to this worlds anguish with more hate. I choose to love, Lord, but it’s so hard.

  I guess others have lost loved ones unfairly, she thought as she turned and looked at the children sitting on the couch.

  She was brought out of her thoughts by Mrs. Bruna’s next question, “Do you have your children’s passports?”

  Shelly wiped the tears from her dusty face as she looked at the woman behind the desk. Then she looked back at the two little ones sitting on the couch, so quiet, so worried, and so in need of her. She turned and looked Mrs. Bruna in the eyes as she said firmly, “I wish they were mine. I found them near Tsavo. Their mother and father are… gone,” she said quietly.

  Now it was Mrs. Bruna’s turn to say, “Oh.” The sadness of it all, the waste, Mrs. Bruna thought as she shook her head sadly and said, “I’ll take them over to Children’s Services. They’ll be well looked after there.”

  “Please, don’t misunderstand me, Mrs. Bruna. I don’t want you to take them off my hands. We have been through a lot together. I promised them I would see that they got home to America. I plan on delivering them to their grandmother in Portland, Oregon myself and I’m not leaving them. They are staying with me and we are going home to America together,” she said resolutely.

  “Don’t you realize you can leave right now? Your passport is in order and I can have you at the airport in twenty minutes. You could be on a military flight home within the hour, away from this dangerous place, and be home within the next day or so,” she stated. “It could take weeks, even months before we can get the paper work together for the children,” she informed the American, knowing that Shelly most likely wouldn’t go without them. “We don’t know how long this city will last. Major General Adeen’s Army seems to be large and well-armed.”

  “No. I’m not leaving them. I can’t believe my husband is dead, and there isn’t anything I can do about my hope in that. But, I can be sure that Tom and Faith are safe, and deliver them out of harm's way to their grandmother in the states, if possible.”

  Mrs. Bruna smiled a knowing, maternal smile. She liked this brave, compassionate woman. “Very well,” she said. “Tell me all about you and your trip here, Mrs. Ferguson and then we will gather as much information as we can about the children. We’ll see what we can do.”

  For the next hour or so, Mrs. Bruna recorded all that she could find out about the Ferguson and Madison families. Then plans were made to house, feed and take care of the small group until they all could leave together, as soon as possible, out of the war that raged on African soil.

 

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