I COULD HAVE DIED THAT DAY

It was my first ever visit to Nairobi and to Africa. Till the job was offered to me at the end of the second day’s interview, I did not know in which part of the globe Kenya was, or how its capital city, Nairobi, was for a longish stay. I came home from the interview and traced Nairobi with the help of a school Atlas. Internet revealed precious little information except the fact that the city was situated at an altitude of 5,500 feet, almost on the Equator, and that the highway from the airport to the city proper actually passed through Nairobi National Park. One could see animals roaming around as one drove along the motorway.

The year was 1998, and it was the first week of March when I joined my new assignment in a completely new city, in a new country/continent. I had no idea whatsoever about the topography, the people or the culture of the place. Thankfully I was joining a commercial bank, a business that I happened to know well. The weather was brilliant, the sky as blue as one could ever find at 5,500 feet above the sea level. The temperature rarely strayed beyond 22 degrees, I was told. Modern, tall buildings dotted the cityscape. I felt great. I formally joined the bank the next day.

Not more than 20 days had passed since my arrival in Nairobi, Kenya, when my world turned upside down. Of course, during the course of those 20 days I had been initiated into some of the security aspects (euphemism for the lack of security, actually) prevailing in the city. For example, one day when I was about to leave office with some papers in a brown envelope my secretary suggested that I carry them in a plastic folder instead (‘people’ would know that I was carrying only documents, not anything of value).

Another day when I was about to leave for lunch I was advised to take off all items of value on my person and leave them in my office drawer, lock it, and just carry the minimum cash required to pay for lunch. Mugging was common, they said; particularly so when people see you coming out of a bank. So I took off my wrist watch, my pen, the ring on my finger, and left them along with the wallet before I stepped out of the building.

The fancy leather brief case that I had purchased in Bombay just prior to my flight to Nairobi was also a strict ‘no no’. It could be snatched very easily. If left on the seat of my car, it would be visible, and serve as an open invitation to a break-in and theft. For, a briefcase conveyed the intention to keep (valuable) articles inside, out of sight. So, no briefcase, no opaque carry cases, no item of value on your person. The simple message was: carry nothing that you do not wish to lose. Incidentally, imitation jewellery was all that the ladies there wore, fashion or status be damned.

(I learned a lot more as days went by. Read them in my booklet Destination Africa.)

The unlearning and re-learning process was a torture for someone like me. Many a times I had enjoyed sitting on the promenade at Bombay’s Worli Sea Face at 1.30 am in the morning, not a soul in sight, totally at peace with the world, watching the white foam and hearing the sounds of the crashing waves, the sea breeze blowing against my face. I relished the solitude but suffered no apprehension. Carrying a briefcase with substantial sums in it was common in Bombay or Bangalore. Taking out your wallet in public, or counting the cash received before stuffing it in your pocket was something very normal. The transition from Bombay to Nairobi, therefore, was quite a culture shock. For the uninitiated, it does take a while to get used to the security concerns one has to contend with. It was still far too early for me to make the habits a part of my routine when the real thing actually hit me – brutally, with full force – within 20 days of my touching down in Kenya, East Africa.

It was 2.10 p.m. and the lunch hour was on. Several of the bank’s staff had gone home for lunch – a normal practice there. The office was nearly empty. I had finished the sandwiches I had brought with me to the office (my wife was yet to join me from India) and had left my chair to visit the wash-room. As I got out of my cabin I came face to face with a tall African man (another was right behind the first), carrying guns. The one near me asked if I was the senior most officer in the bank. I nodded my head, said that indeed I was (I was the MD!) and asked if I could help him. I did not notice a member of my staff frantically signalling to me from behind the two tall gentlemen.

“Then you have the keys to the vault?” asked the man nearest to me.

I said that I did not, that it was with the head cashier who had gone home for lunch. “No, you are lying. You are the senior most; you hold the keys,” insisted the man with the gun. He gave me a rough push towards the vault. It was quite an umbrage being pushed around by an unknown person, that too in my own office where I was the CEO. I was not used to such behaviour and protested immediately. Again I noticed the frantic gestures from one of my staff, but didn’t catch the meaning.

The man said something in Swahili which I failed to understand. Seeing the blank look on my face the guy switched to English. He said, “No, you are the senior most. We know you have the keys to the vault. Give it to me or I shoot”. Once again he gave me a rough push with the gun towards the vault (he seemed to know its location!).

It took quite a while for the penny to drop. With total disbelief and shock it dawned on me that my bank was actually being raided by dacoits, that the gun pointed at my chest was real, it was an AK-47 meant for robbery and not for protection, that the men were live dacoits. They meant business, were serious about their demands and also were in a hurry. As a few other staff members and I were herded towards the vault, I tried to put it across to them that I really did not have the keys, that I was the managing director and MDs did not hold cash or vault keys, that the cashiers held them.

By that time we were inside the vault. I did not know from where they had received their information, but they insisted that I must be having the keys, and that if I did not give them the keys they’d shoot. The AK-47 pointed straight at me, the business end of the barrel touching my chest. One of the girls started to weep (out of fear or apprehending my impending death, I did not know). Another joined her. I did not know what to do or how best to react to the situation. How could I produce the keys if I did not have them in the first place, even if it was to save my own life! Once again I tried to tell them that the key was not with me.

Time was getting on. They were getting delayed. The dacoits normally do not take more than five minutes to finish their act and be on their way in their getaway vehicle. And here they were, facing an obstinate, thick-headed, dumb banker. They got fed up, got anxious about the delay, and said, “Fine, no keys, we shoot”, and again pushed the gun against my chest, ready to pull the trigger and make his point.

From all the horror stories I had heard during the past 20 days, I knew that killing came to the dacoits and car-jackers as a matter of routine. To me, it was my life. But for them, it was only another bullet spent in the course of business. I realised that this was it. Let me tell you that no one who has not faced such a situation would ever realise what it feels to be seconds away from certain death. Nothing, but nothing, can describe that feeling. For a fleeting second I wondered, after the bullet hit me, how long the pain was going to last, if I would suffer for long. I said a quick good bye to my worldly relations, and steeled myself for the bullet that was sure to follow. It was over for me. I felt a strange emptiness inside me. Time stood still. It was a matter of seconds now.

Just then, one of the members of staff chimed in from behind, “Sir, I have the keys”. He produced a set of keys from somewhere, gave them to the dacoits, and guided them to the cash ‘vault’. A couple of robbers busied themselves emptying the safe of cash. Others ordered us in Swahili to lie face down on the floor of the strong room. The command being in Swahili, it failed to register with me. Someone translated it in English for my benefit. But the robbers had no time for such niceties. One of them gave me a mighty push and in no time I was face down, flat on the floor in my suit and tie. Everyone was similarly ordered to lie down and not move an inch.

The ‘vault’ (actually it was the hand safe) was cleaned out. As I lay flat on the floor, one of the robbers noticed my raised hip pocket and took out the wallet. It had all the money that I had carried from India (about $1,100). It also had my driving licence and my Rotary club ID card. The wallet was taken. The diamond marriage ring, and another precious ring of considerable value, were snatched from my fingers. Others were similarly robbed of their valuables.

I learned later that a few of the gang members with guns were watching over some of the other staff in another wing of the office. They were also robbed of their belongings. All the while the robbers were in continuous touch on their walky-talkies with their counterparts somewhere outside. (Later one of my staff told me that they were continuously being informed if any alarm had been sounded from our office. Our office was connected by an alarm system with the local police station. The attack had been sudden. The alarm had not been activated.) Before departing, they warned that they were leaving a guard behind to watch us. None of us was to get up or alert anyone. Then, all of a sudden, the entire office went absolutely quiet.

The girls kept on weeping as softly as possible. Silence continued to prevail. None dared to move.

After quite some time – no idea how long – someone murmured that the dacoits had probably gone. We turned our heads sideways very slowly and carefully, peeped through our half-closed eyes, shifted our hands and feet, felt no resistance or the prodding of guns, and slowly stood up. Thereafter it was total chaos.

The cries and the weeping got louder. Voices were raised, people started talking all at once. Everyone had some story to tell. Someone informed the police. Another informed the chairman. We tried to assess the damage.

There were personal losses. Fortunately, no one had been hurt. More fortunately, the main vault had remained untouched. In banks, a common practice is to keep the operating cash in a steel safe called the ‘hand safe’. This safe, placed within the strong room but outside the vault, is used during the day for frequent operations. Excess cash from the cash counters is stored in the ‘hand safe’, shortfalls were met from it too. However, the bulk of the stock of cash is always kept inside the vault, in a reinforced concrete room protected by massive steel doors. It is opened once in the morning and once at the close of the day (unless a major demand or supply situation arises, or cash remittance is effected).

Possibly because the dacoits were getting late, or because they did not know the difference between a hand safe and a cash vault, or both, they had left with the money they looted from the hand safe. The major stock had been left untouched.

Losses suffered by the staff and the bank were compensated later by the insurance company. Realising that I would be ‘upset’, one of the directors took me out for dinner in a lovely Italian restaurant which had a live band playing golden oldies. I went home very late at night.

The after-effects of the attack and the near-death experience hit me only the next day. At office someone came to me with a few words of platitude, saying that such things were routine there. ‘It is Africa, after all, you know!’ I erupted, and told him that he did not know what he was talking about. I pushed him out of the cabin, locked the door. Then the dam burst. I cried my heart out for the next 60 minutes till I had no more tears left. My secretary understood. She kept everyone away till I opened my cabin door once again more than an hour later.

I remained in shock for a long time thereafter. I almost made up my mind to leave Africa. (I had heard that a few days earlier three software professionals from a reputed company in India had been mugged in broad day light in the city centre. They had caught the flight back home the same evening.) It took all the persuasive powers of the chairman and some of the board members to keep me back in East Africa. However, for the next 12 months I practically stopped stepping out of my office building, using the basement car park for all arrivals and departures. If I happened to suddenly brush against any local person while walking along the pavement, a chill used to run down my spine. Perspiration used to break out all over me, my entire being gearing up for another round of terror. The experience at the bank had left a deep scar in my psyche. For the first time in my life, I learned the real meaning of fear.

Something strange happened two months after this traumatic incident. Through ordinary mail, a badly addressed envelope sporting a ten-shilling stamp landed on my table. I was puzzled, since I was new in Africa and expected no letter from any local source. I wondered who could have sent it, and cautiously opened the envelope.

Inside, I found my Indian driving licence and the Rotary Club ID that were in the wallet when it was taken away by the bank robbers. The robbers had been kind enough to return them to me, that too at their own expense.

Hakuna matata.

(Disclaimer: Every word of the above narrative is true.)