Ransom Theft Love: Journey from Zanzibar to Somalia

By Melita Wade Thorpe

For years, Dr. Anne Wadsworth has led travelers to Africa’s far-reaching plains. Not only does she love the terrain, but she also considers Africa her second home. When she is invited to be the keynote speaker at Zanzibar’s Human Rights Conference, she has no idea that her ideal destination is about to be embroiled in an international nightmare.

Anne is kidnapped by unknown assailants and held captive as they travel from Zanzibar to Somalia. After the horrific experience of crossing from Zanzibar to Mombasa, her life is pitted in the balance of life or death. With little chance to fight back, she finds solace in nightly stargazing with her Sudanese guardian.

When she discovers the chilling truth, Anne realizes that it is no longer about saving herself but also, it’s about saving a country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665717458

Melita Wade Thorpe

Melita Wade Thorpe is a native of Mississippi and a writer who draws on her experience of international travel. Ransom, Theft, Love is her first novel. She grew up in the deep south before moving to California. Her tour operator career included leading astronomers to Africa on twenty-three tours. She is a Fellow Verger of the Episcopal Church Verger’s Guild and has authored 9 liturgical dramas. She lives in Ellisville, Mississippi.

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Copyright © 2022 Melita Wade Thorpe.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-1744-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1745-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022901777

Archway Publishing rev. date: 2/21/2022

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1     Stone Town, Zanzibar

Chapter 2     Dressed And Overdressed

Chapter 3     The Games Begin

Chapter 4     A Deserted Beach

Chapter 5     A Vase Of Flowers

Chapter 6     Catastrophe

Chapter 7     Find Harry

Chapter 8     Missing

Chapter 9     The Chase

Chapter 10   Helpless

Chapter 11   Two Ships Passing

Chapter 12   Conference Hangovers

Chapter 13   Where’s Anne?

Chapter 14   Leaving Zanzibar

Chapter 15   Hakuna Shida

Chapter 16   Somewhere Near Mombasa

Chapter 17   The Chase

Chapter 18   Arriving Kenya

Chapter 19   Mombasa

Chapter 20   A Guardian Angel

Chapter 21   Haraka, Haraka Haina Baraka

Chapter 22   Back In Stone Town

Chapter 23   A Long Dusty Road

Chapter 24   Kenya Highlands

Chapter 25   Finding A Friend

Chapter 26   Their War, Not Ours

Chapter 27   Where Are We?

Chapter 28   A Tower Of Twigas

Chapter 29   Somalia Camp

Chapter 30   Unexplained Cargo

Chapter 31   Not Far Enough

Chapter 32   Secret Lies Of World Powers

Chapter 33   What Was That?

Chapter 34   North And South

Chapter 35   A Dazzle Of Zebras

Chapter 36   No Intel On The Island

Chapter 37   In A Stilly Night

Chapter 38   Evening News From Nairobi

Chapter 39   Another Night In Camp

Chapter 40   Gas Station Illumination

Chapter 41   Darkness Hides A Lot Of Things

Chapter 42   On The Road Again

Chapter 43   The Search Intensifies

Chapter 44   The Bird Has Landed

Chapter 45   Patience For A Pride Of Simbas

Chapter 46   Visitors

Chapter 47   Snacks

Chapter 48   Surprise! Surprise!

Chapter 49   Airport News

Chapter 50   Jambo Masuri Sana

Chapter 51   A Terrible Patience

Chapter 52   On The Road Again

Chapter 53   The Queen Is Coming And Chicken Blood At The Door

Chapter 54   The Cavalry Is Coming

Chapter 55   Impalas Vying For Supremacy

Chapter 56   A Fork In The Road

Chapter 57   Lemons To Lemonade

Chapter 58   Telephone Wire And Automobile Bumpers

Chapter 59   Mogadishu

Chapter 60   The Road Home

Chapter 61   Kwaheri But Not Good-Bye

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

—William Blake, The Tyger

Preface

This is a book of my love for the wonderful people of Africa and the pristine landscape that they daily walk. After twenty-three trips to Africa, it was obvious that these sweet and kind people were being used by foreign governments for profit, by the taking of the land’s minerals, animal poaching, and destruction of the land’s fertile soil. Hopefully, this story will spread awareness of the harm being done to the people and their land. When three know, the world knows.

I would like to thank East Africa’s safari guides and drivers, especially Jakob, Amos, and Tomas, who lovingly shared their wonderful country. I would also like thank the late John Glen, a Kenyan tour operator who struggled with the US Government to take down unnecessary travel warnings, and my good friend and guide, Duncan Mitchell. I would also like to thank the Governor’s Camp staff members, the Zanzibar police, UN representatives in Somalia and South Sudan, and the Sudanese refugees, especially Ajeck, Angel, Samuel, and Thon. I owe a deep gratitude to those who work diligently each day to bring peace, safety, and a better life to their country.

This book could not have been written without the support of my family and friends, who pushed me to tell this story: Martha Dunn, whose sharp eye kept me on point, my son, Daniel, daughter, Zita, and grandchildren Ella and Jack, whose support and encouragement fed my soul.

For

Beatrice and Vardaman

Chapter One

STONE TOWN,

ZANZIBAR

▼ Monday afternoon

Madam, said a voice as soft as the mist, another G&T?

Looking out at the harbor, she replied, No thanks. I’m fine. Her body was still unwinding from the long flights she had been on, which had left from San Francisco on the previous Friday. Even though the lounge was accommodating, the five-hour delay at Heathrow seemed endless. Her anxiety was high, and her mind kept racing over what might happen in Zanzibar. Her sleep had been fitful on the flight from London to Nairobi. Little did she know the seriousness that her life would suddenly take on in Zanzibar’s island paradise.

An exotic symphony of rain playing overhead on the tin roof diverted her emotions from that day’s turn of events. Relishing the last of the cool juniper-scented liquid, she was only slightly aware of the Swahili chatter that drifted into her thoughts. The voices of those sitting at the bar seemed to crescendo around her. Even though Sunday evening’s reception at the Sultan’s palace had been buoyed with conversation and flowed with eighteen-year-old, single-malt Glenfiddich and correctly chilled champagne, the night’s tension had been palpable. Her job now was the most complex that she had ever been assigned. It was only day three since her arrival, and already, the swords were drawn at the human rights’ conference on this faraway island.

Who will judge us in five thousand years? the sultan of a little-known Arab state had once asked. And even tomorrow?

Anne wondered, Can the West always decide the fates of families, governments, and nations? The human rights’ questions had always been fraught with age-old traditions and customs.

Yesterday, a still jet-lagged Anne had attended services at Christ Church Cathedral. Stepping from her hotel into the already eighty-degree, humid weather at nine in the morning, she met her driver, Mohammed, and asked him to take her to the Anglican landmark.

Smiling, he opened the door for her. The windows are stuck on that side, so you sit here, behind me, he said as he pushed and pulled the back seat’s window with some force. It finally slid halfway down. Ah, natural air-conditioning, he remarked, gesturing for her to get inside. Auto repair shops are few on the island, and there’s always a long wait.

She knew that the still, hot air was going to get even hotter. She had packed only cottons to help her stay fresh. She would wear the safari gear, which was in a separate bag, if she was unable to get her clothes laundered.

How much do you charge if you wait for me to attend the service? Anne asked.

He smiled again. Madam, for you, twenty-five US dollars. I will wait. Then you go on the tour. Afterward, I will take you to the plantations—

No, no, I do not want a tour. Just bring me back to the hotel.

But, madam, most people come to visit the plantations, Mohammed said quietly, obviously disappointed.

Later, she replied. Thank you, Mohammed. I will take the tour later. Disinterested, she looked away. Adjusting his traditional pillbox hat, which was white with brown stitching, he got in the car and wondered why she had even bothered to come to Zanzibar.

After a short ride, Mohammed stopped at a small fountain in front of the cathedral, which was located in the central area of Stone Town.

You enter here, said Mohamed as he pointed to the side door. Many years ago, an Anglican bishop to Zanzibar, Edward Steere, contributed to the building. He wanted it to have both Gothic and Islamic design.

Anne peered out the window at the cathedral built of coral stone. It was a large, plain, gray structure with no opulent front entrance and simple by comparison to the mother structure in Canterbury.

I will wait at the front of that building by my car. I see the guide across the street is gathering a group for the tour. Mohammed gestured toward the tourists. If you decide to take the tour, you enter the cells from there.

Stepping out of the taxi, Anne started to reply, I don’t want … Their eyes met. Instead, she asked, Cells?

Oh, madam, isn’t this what you came here to see? The place where they kept everyone before the auction. His dark eyes watched her closely for a reaction as she turned and looked in the direction that he had pointed in. They’re underground, Mohammed continued. You must not leave without seeing them. That’s why the church is here. In 1879, it was built on top of the largest slave market in the world to celebrate the end of slavery.

Anne’s now small voice was barely audible. I did not know. The air had become heavy and suffocating like steaming towels.

Anne prided herself on thoroughly researching an area before traveling there. Her friends sought her out as a companion because of the historic and cultural background she would share. Anne, jetting off with you is like reliving the country’s past, her good friend Margaret would say. She had meant to read up on Zanzibar’s history, but this time, readying for the conference played havoc with her usual organization for a tour. She now regretted the neglect. Deciding not to show her ignorance, she let Mohammed continue.

When you go up for the Eucharist, madam, be aware that the altar was purposely built over the whipping block and auction. Adjusting his hat, Mohammed smiled and wondered who this serious woman traveling alone in Zanzibar was. I’ll be waiting for you.

Smiling back at Mohammed, she said, Yes, I will find time to visit the cells. The chill on her back belied the outside air as her labored footsteps moved her slowly toward the cathedral’s entrance.

Inside, the cathedral offered a pleasant cool nave with a high-vaulted ceiling. It was like a ship turned upside down and facing east. Thick white walls were adorned with the necessary Anglican trimmings and led to the traditional high altar, with stained-glass windows that looked dark and neglected.

The service was in Swahili, but at least, she could sing the hymns. The Book of Common Prayer that she used back in San Francisco had the same recognizable liturgical rhythm. The familiar hymns were easily sung phonetically with the beautiful high-pitched voices of the Tanzanian choir. Smiling, she thought, Anglican communion, half a world away in a foreign land with an unknown language, is the leveler. Even without translation, the priest’s fiery sermon was fascinating.

As she knelt at the altar during Eucharist, Anne could see the bishop’s throne, which was with twelve other seats. They were all decorated with copper panels of biblical figures, and their names were written in Swahili. The window behind the altar was decorated with African saints from Carthage, Egypt, and Ethiopia. Inside, the church seemed ornate for being located on such a small island. The memory of David Livingston was visible everywhere around the island and especially in the cathedral. He was credited for the group of early missionaries who arrived in East Africa in the 1860s. Looking up at the crucifix, Anne was transfixed. Later, she learned that it was made from the tree that marks the place where Livingston’s heart was buried in Zambia. Tradition seemed important in Africa.

The heat, the lack of sleep, and the musical Swahili were mesmerizing. She had been brought to this place for a purpose, and now, she was beginning to understand the magnetic force that tugged at her. There was no letting go or turning back.

At the end of the service, Anne followed the Tanzanians out the side door. Many of the women were dressed in colorful fabrics, with their babies strapped to their backs. Anne’s tall presence, pale skin, and bright red hair must have been jarring to the African flock. Some smiled and nodded to her.

One younger woman came up to and welcomed her warmly. "Are you here for the conference?’’

Yes, I am, Anne replied.

I’m Leah Mazuri. I will be representing the Women’s Council of Africa. Are you settled in at your hotel?

Nice to meet you. I’m Anne Wadsworth from the United States. Yes, thank you. I arrived yesterday.

Do come back while you are here. I’m due for a meeting, but I will look you up at the conference. Excuse me but have to run. Meetings And she was off with others deep in conversation.

As Anne stepped into the sunshine, she spotted Mohammed standing by his well-driven Toyota and chatting with another driver. A guide had gathered up a small crowd at the place where Mohammed had indicated the cells were. He had a clear Oxford-English mixed with melodic-Swahili accent. She stood for a moment to catch his dialogue, thinking this would be the usual tourist patter: a smattering of incorrect description followed by an invitation to purchase local souvenirs in the gift shop.

As many as one hundred slaves at a time coming through the old trading routes of Senegal, Sierra Leon, Gambia, Zaire, and Tanzania were held in each cell. Many had to stand in the salt water that seeped in, if there was no room on the slabs. Sometimes, they sat and slept in their own feces. Those who survived were premium stock, brought the owners a high price, and continued on the trading route from Zanzibar. We will enter the cells now. Watch your step and your head. The ceiling is low.

Startled by his information, she watched with curiosity as the crowd filed inside. From across the street, the guide caught her eye and asked, Are you joining our group, madam?

I came for the … She hesitated, looking back across the square at Mohammed, who smiled and nodded at her. Yes. Yes, I am. Is it too late?

Well, too late for my discourse, but no, you have not missed the main event. That will be five hundred shillings, he said, gesturing for her to come across the street.

Handing him US dollars, she said, I haven’t visited an Exchange yet. Will these do?

He nodded. "Of course, madam, shukran." He politely stepped aside for her to follow the tourists into the building.

The group slowly walked single file down the aged granite steps, which were smoothly concave from decades of use. The center of each step held a history of well-worn characters and weights, where long ago a different world had passed. In her previous travels, Anne had had many extraordinary experiences standing where history had been made and envisioning Alexander, Caesar, or Mark Antony passing by, but this one was markedly different. It was more intense and real.

Madam, the guide said, gently putting his hand on the small of her back, please enter.

Her eyes snapped back to the present as she continued down toward the narrow opening. The dark, dank odor rose to meet her. Anne could imagine the clanging of chains as lines of men, women, and children slowly walked to their imprisonment and to await a fate that was even worse. The cells were small low-ceilinged rooms. Even now with the openings, she felt a shortage of air. The group became quiet and tried to fight back the reality that once living flesh had been herded into these quarters and left to die or be sold.

After our African ancestors chased, captured, and sold other Africans, this is where the captives were brought and held until they were auctioned. When the tide came in, there was two feet of sea water in here. Those who were captured had to drink the salt water to survive. The guide looked at a couple from the cruise ship, which was docked in the harbor, and said, There was no desalination plant like you have on your lovely ship. The smartly dressed cruise passengers tried to smile, but the images were too real.

The suffocating heat was smothering. Anne’s mind filled with vivid images. Somewhere, she thought she could hear low wailing. Looking around, she wondered if anyone else had heard it. She tried to make eye contact with other people, but everyone seemed buried in his or her own thoughts. The past was so near and yet so far away. Could there be a correlation? What she was witnessing was a vivid reminder of her task ahead. It was like a stacking totem: Inhumanity was always building on the inhumanity of those who came before. If a man abused his family, in turn, the next generation was set to carry it forward.

Her mind was transported. The auctioneer shouted, Do I hear twenty shillings for this real beauty? Nine years of age. Already, the nipples are arched. He turned her around to reveal a perfect back. His rough, hard hand cupped her naked buttock. See this shapely back, smooth as silk? His ringed fingers played through her beginning pubic hair. A virgin, gentlemen. Who’ll pay—

Twenty-five. Thirty. A cacophony of voices eagerly bid higher. The short, fat merchant smiled with satisfaction.

He passed his dirty fingers under his beaked nose for a breath of youth and said, Sold. The gavel pounded hard. Sold for forty shillings to the gentleman in the front row.

Anne was startled back to reality as the guide announced, You may go outside to the museum and gardens for the remainder of the tour. Dazed, she trudged back up the well-worn steps to cooler air. An invisible breeze was gently ruffling the palm fronds as a few clouds began to shadow the sun. Vivid thoughts of what had happened in the cells swam in her mind.

Mohammed waited for her at the entrance. His quiet voice jolted her as she looked around. Are you finished, madam? I have a surprise for you.

Anne thought she had had surprise enough for her entire trip, but she responded, Yes, thank you. Let’s go.

Before we set off, you must try our soap nut from the soapberry tree. Mohammed led her back to the little fountain where he dipped his hands into a water bucket and rubbed a nut until his hands were lathered. He offered it to her. Although at first she hesitated, she quickly laughed as her hands also foamed with soap-like lather. She kept scrubbing as if she might wash away the sins of ancestors from her own personal responsibility. Gently smiling at her, Mohammed knew that the experience in the cells had moved her. Anne stopped her washing and returned his smile as he handed her a small towel. They walked back to the car in silence. Mohammed opened the door for her, but he could see that her mind was far away.

As he drove to the hotel, he said, You can always tell who appreciates the tour of the cells. I offered you the opportunity to wash your hands afterward to let you know that those times are over. They’ve been washed over time like you just washed your hands. We do not sell our own people anymore. Looking at her, he continued, We can forgive the past, but we must never, never forget it. Mohammed decided to drive along the beach past the spice-growing grounds and bordering palms before returning to the hotel. The air was now cooler with the breeze and the rain clouds forming. He did not speak because he knew that her mind was far away. As tears came into her eyes, he wondered what deep hurt had been reopened by the morning’s experience. He quietly asked, Would you like to visit a spice plantation now?

Thank you, but not today, she whispered. "Maybe tomorrow afternoon or later. How do you say it, inshallah?"

Oh, madam, you are becoming one of us.

"Shukran, Mohammed, but I must get a nap before