Barbara Wolfe-Johnson

The afternoon of August 19th, 2003, was sunny and hot, as usual. I was driving back home along a quiet road in the Tigoni hills, north of Nairobi, Kenya. My trunk was full of flowers for my new garden.​

     My husband, Paul, and I had moved to this rural town just a month ago. I was mesmerized by the beauty of endless tea plantations among the gently rolling hills. Nature had painted every hue of green along the hills—a light green when new tea leaves were sprouting, a rich green when leaves matured, and a greenish brown when leaves were harvested. Shadows from puffy cumulus clouds overhead sprinkled darker hues, adding shade here and there across the valley. At sunrise each morning, hard-working Kenyan women with long, deep baskets on their backs picked the tender tea leaves, a section at a time. I could see them from the road in their bright, colorful kangas.​

     Kenya’s siren song had worked its magic on us. We were enchanted by the friendliness of the Kenyans, the vast beauty of nature, and the amazing wild animals.

     Suddenly, my cell phone rang. I pulled over to the shoulder, reached for the phone, and said, “Hello?”

​     Jenny, an American who worked with Paul, urgently asked, “Where are you?”

​     “I am driving,” I replied.

​     She demanded, “Pull over!”

     The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I turned off the car. “What is wrong?” I implored.

​     “I just heard breaking news on CNN that the United Nations temporary headquarters, located at the Canal Hotel in Baghdad, was just bombed by terrorists. Is that where Paul went on his first security consulting assignment?” she asked.

​     “Yes, it is,” I replied.

​     “I don’t know any details, so just stay by the phone. I will update you as soon as I know more news,” she offered.

​     I thanked her, disconnected the call, then sat frozen in the car for what seemed like several minutes, trying to control my initial panic.

​     Paul was the love of my life. I met him when we were both in our forties. We had been together as friends, lovers, and soulmates for over fourteen years and happily married for nine.

​     I did not know if Paul was even at the Canal Hotel at the time of the bombing. Perhaps he was having coffee with colleagues at a nearby café, I thought optimistically.

     Taking a deep breath, I pushed all emotions aside and searched my heart and my gut for any warning signs. There were none. My focus turned to the Universe to read signs of negative energy.

​     Whenever a crisis occurs, I go into a controlled, non-emotional, almost clinical, survival mode. I rely on my gut to give me the correct insight during a crisis. Within seconds, I got a strong sense that Paul would be fine, though I did not know if he was ‘fine’ at that moment. I needed to stay focused and wait for more information. Starting the car, I continued toward home. There were no tears because there was no reason to cry.

​     Paul had been working in Baghdad at the Canal Hotel for only a few days on a two-week security contract for the International Monetary Fund. A few days ago, he told me that a group of Senior IMF staff members was due to arrive for important meetings. He was looking forward to meeting them.

​     Unwilling to acknowledge the potential crisis, I reflected on our recent move to Tigon and our goal of continuing humanitarian work in Africa for many years.

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Just over a year ago, Paul accepted a one-year contract with the International Rescue Committee as deputy director of the mission in Kenya. We both chose to kiss our successful careers goodbye and flew to Africa. That year was amazing, full of adventures and new friends.

     We traveled to amazing National Wildlife Parks, including Amboseli, Tsavo West, Samburu, Masai Mara, Arusha, and Ngorongoro Crater, witnessing wild animals in their natural environment, unencumbered by fences or enclosures. We learned about the tribes of the Masai and Samburu pastoralists.

     I volunteered for months at “Save the Elephants,” and was lucky enough to witness the elephant GPS collaring, used to monitor their migration.

      With his new private pilot license, Paul flew us to an amazing weekend getaway to the Stone Town of Zanzibar on an island off the coast of Tanzania. We were living life to the fullest, and I looked forward to spending many more years in Africa.

     Then, without warning, Paul received notice that his IRC contract would not be renewed the following year! International politics had caused enough dissent that the current management staff was being replaced. When Paul told me the news, we were both speechless. Our future livelihood in Kenya was gone.

     We both had given up our careers to do humanitarian work. Now, in less than two weeks, Paul had become unemployed. I had taken early retirement so now we were both unemployed.

     Our heads swirled with so many questions, issues, and immediate decisions that were forced upon us, it was hard to focus. Could we sustain ourselves on just Paul’s Army pension and stay in Kenya? I’m sure we could cut back if we were to forgo our favorite restaurants, and instead eat rice and beans, but before long, his work visa would expire. Then, we’d only have limited tourist visas. The clock was ticking.

     IRC staff soon arrived at our home, with a big truck to take all the furniture and appliances they had loaned us. I felt angry and helpless until Paul explained, “The staff are not the enemy. These workers are my friends and are just following orders.”

     I understood but still gritted my teeth as they took our household goods, loaded them on a truck, and left.