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It was Zara’s turn to buy the next round of beer. As she got up from the table, she tugged down her long-sleeved t-shirt to make sure she was covered enough. The shirt was plenty long, and she was at the UN base, so she was being overly modest. Still, this was Mog, and it was best to err on the side of caution in a Muslim country. She came here frequently for her job with UNICEF. Despite that, trips here were still a little bit frightening for her. Thankfully, she rarely left the base. Most of the time, anyone she needed to meet with from the Somali government or one of the nongovernment organizations on nearby Airport Road could meet her at the base. Tomorrow would not be one of those times and she was not looking forward to it. Stop thinking about it, she chided herself.
She passed the various sections of tables, each separated by half walls and a few of them tucked into nooks. As usual, the place was packed. Everyone here needed a drink at the end of the day. The work was intense, as was the heat of Somalia. Given that this was a dry country, both in terms of climate as well as the prohibition of alcohol, Tuku, the watering hole for the base, was full every evening. In addition to being the only source of booze, it was the only place to socialize.
Scanning the bar, she couldn’t help but take in how diverse the crowd was. It was a mix of people from all over the world and a wide range of ages. This reminds me of that cantina scene in Star Wars, but without all the riffraff, she thought. She glanced back at her own table. Hmmm...Maybe, without as much riffraff, anyway. Weaving around a few more tables and half-wall partitions, she reached the bar—the only part of Tuku with a full wall—and ordered.
“Six Tuskers, please,” she said to the bartender, one of the three men who rotated shifts at Tuku.
“Yes, madam.”
“Thank you.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York,” she answered, surprised he engaged her in conversation. This was the first time he did that, and she had been coming to Mog almost every week for the last fourteen months.
“Yes. But where are you from really?”
She fought off the urge to roll her eyes. She got this a lot. Both sides of her family had been in the United States for generations, longer than many others. However, being half Asian American, her looks were neither fully Caucasian nor Asian. The combination of her golden amber, almond-shaped eyes, aquiline nose, and straight, black hair frequently confused people. They found her ethnically ambiguous and often tried to guess what she might be. She had been mistaken for Hispanic, Middle Eastern, and even Native American. Usually, saying she was from New York, which was the truth, would suffice. Unfortunately, this time, it would not. At least he didn’t ask, “What are you?” That would be worse.
“I am really from New York,” she said as politely as possible. “I was born and raised there, the same as both of my parents.”
The bartender stared at her with a blank expression on his face. He wasn’t satisfied with her answer. He wouldn’t press the issue any farther, but Zara knew it was in her best interest to give him her full background. She needed to remain friendly with the bartender of the only bar on the base—possibly the only one in the country.
“The first of my dad’s family came to the US from China in 1840,” she said. “The rest came in 1898. My mother’s family came from Germany in 1910. My family, both sides, have been in America for over 100 years. My family has been American for longer than many other Americans.”
“Ah, yes,” he said nodding. “You are Chinese.”
This was typical. People rarely guessed she was Chinese. But then, once they learned she was half Chinese, they fixated on it. She was not about to argue with him. He could think whatever he wanted. She paid for the beer and carried the bottles back over to the table.
#
“Tuskers all around,” she said, handing out the beer. She sat down in her chair and took a long swig.
“Hey, Zara, your assignment ends in, what, three months? Do you have a plan for what comes next?” asked Sebastian, one of her colleagues at UNICEF.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. Ideally, my next job will be something long term. I want to stay in one place for a while. Hopping between year-long temporary assignments is getting old.”
“We could try to get you an extension if you want. I’m sure I can get you another three months, maybe six months.”
“Thanks, but that’s okay. I have a few leads. I’m optimistic that one of them will come through. There’s an NGO in Uganda—”
“Stop right there. Please don’t tell me you’re going to Entebbe.”
“No, it’s in Kampala—so, yeah, a real city—and this is only for the interview. They’re opening up an office in Nairobi. They need someone to manage that and then head up the office. Most of their work is in child labor and uprooted children. This is the lead I like best. It would keep me in Nairobi and it would be a great career move. It looks like it might happen. But it’s not a done deal yet.”
“That would work out well for you, Desmond,” he said, looking at the man sitting to the left of Zara.
She and Desmond—Des as she and several others called him—had been involved for about six months. He was perfect for her. Tall, with a runner’s build, sandy hair, and blue eyes, he was totally her type. On top of that, she could keep him at arm’s length. He wasn’t needy or clingy. She had worried he might do something sappy yesterday, Valentine’s Day. To her relief, he didn’t notice the date. That would piss off most women, but, for Zara, it was a good thing. She wanted to keep things light.
The only downside was that Des was a bit of a Peter Pan—never growing up—and that could be annoying. Regardless, for now, he was exactly what Zara needed: easy, not a lot of thinking, and mind-blowing sex. He was the perfect fuck buddy.
That man knows his way around a woman’s body, she thought, then quickly pulled back to the present conversation.
“We’ll see what happens,” Zara replied, her voice coming out huskier than she had intended.
“You two are perfect for each other,” said Brenda, one of Des’s colleagues. “Neither of you want anything remotely serious.”
Zara shrugged. Real relationships would be fine down the road. For now, her focus was 100 percent professional. She didn’t have the energy for much else. Working as a child protection officer was rewarding but it was also draining. Her leads for work in Nairobi were still in child protection, but along the lines of policy and oversight. She had years of field experience and was well-positioned to lead efforts to strengthen child protection systems. Plus, she craved something less grueling and with less field work.
She also would like to be someplace where her office wasn’t crammed into the same twenty-foot, modified shipping container as her sleeping quarters. She didn’t even have her own container. Although she was in Mog nearly every week, she wasn’t officially stationed there. Hence, she had no assigned container. She had to use whatever was vacant due to some other person’s temporary absence from the base.
This wasn’t how the assignment was described when she applied for the job. She was meant to be in Nairobi full time with only a few trips to Mog. She was told the frequency of the trips would be at most once a quarter. The situation changed but the details of the assignment, such as the location of the official duty station, could not be changed. It was typical bureaucracy. As a result, she found herself bouncing back and forth between Nairobi and Mog.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of one of the UN’s Russian-made Mil MI-17 helicopters landing. The noise was so loud no one could hear anything else for about thirty seconds. It was annoying and happened frequently, most often in the early evening, before dark, when all the helicopters needed to land. She had grown used to it, but she didn’t like it. She also didn’t like all the sand.
The base, adjacent to Mog’s Aden Adde International Airport, was right next to the beach and the sand got stuck onto everything. Every time she got back to Nairobi, her housemates insisted she leave most of her belongings outside until she could shake out and then hose off everything. It usually took more than one round of cleaning to remove all the sand and grime. She could feel the grit on her skin for days after returning to Nairobi. It took several showers and vigorous scrubbing to finally get clean. I am so ready for a desk job.
“I’m calling it a night,” she said as she left the table.
“Hey, I’ll walk you back,” said Des, also getting up to leave the table.
It was an obvious ploy and everyone at the table smirked. Des was not known for subtlety. Zara didn’t care. Nonstop, intense work was no way to live. It was important to have a little fun on the side to keep her sane.
#
At a quarter to two the next afternoon, Zara was dressed and almost ready to go. She was struggling with her personal protective equipment vest. She had the smallest size available, but it was still too large. As a petite woman who barely reached five foot two inches in shoes, a lot of things were too big on her. The vest, however, wasn’t merely too big. It was gigantic. She worried she might slide right out of it. On top of that, the weight of the vest was cumbersome on her slight frame. I’ll need to have Sebastian help me fix this before we get onto the convoy. At least my helmet fits, she thought as she secured it on her head and then headed out of the container.
She gave herself a pep talk as she walked toward the security check. She had done this before. She knew the drill. She had taken the Safe and Secure Approaches in Field Environments training, SSAFE for short. The four intense days of that training covered hostage survival, active shooter response, personal security, weapon awareness, and a hell of a lot more. She was never going to like leaving the base, but she could do it.
She caught her colleague’s eye as she reached the group of people gathered at the security check. She waved to him and gestured at her vest. Sebastian understood immediately. He was her go-to for fixing the vest. After Sebastian adjusted the vest to his satisfaction, another man approached Zara from behind and tweaked the vest some more. She sucked in a mouthful of air at the unexpected tightening. She was about to shout a few choice words when she saw the man was one of the UN Department of Safety and Security staff. Okay, you’re UNDSS. My life is in your hands and this is part of your job. But, come on! Give me a heads up next time.
The man gave a short briefing that consisted of a quick reminder of the security training followed by information on how the convoy would move. “We’ll follow standard protocol. The security escort trucks will be at the lead and at the tail end of the convoy. We’ll have three cars in the middle, each with a UNDSS driver. We’ll make three stops. Stay in your vehicle until we’re at your stop.” He finished his briefing by making sure everybody had his contact information and their satellite phones in tow.
Zara and the other UN staff members who were venturing outside the base moved past a gate to a secured area positioned between the base and Airport Road. It was closed off from the base itself but still shielded from the road. As the man from UNDSS had explained, the flatbed trucks from a local security service were positioned at the start and end of the convoy. Each truck carried a team of six armed guards, all Somalis, in the back.
She, Sebastian, and one other UNICEF colleague entered the armored Toyota Land Cruiser designated for them. The cars were safe and could withstand fire from an AK-47, the most common street weapon in Mog. However, the cars could not withstand an improvised explosive device, but Zara tried to not think about that. Don’t worry about IEDs. We’ll be fine.
“No offense, but I’m not going to miss this,” Zara said to Sebastian as they left the base and rode along Airport Road.
“None taken,” Sebastian said. “It’s surreal being here and it’s not for everyone. I wouldn’t say I enjoy it, but I think I mind it less than other people do.
“It’s not bad that you want to move on, given how things are headed. The Mog work is probably going to get more intense. I think we’ll be going outside of the base a lot in the future.”
“What do you mean?” Asked one of their colleagues, a man whose name Zara could never remember. She secretly referred to him as Keg Stand because of how much he drank at Tuku. His sunburnt skin, youthful face, and doughy physique—no doubt a result of all the beer—added to the college party boy image Zara had of him. The man grew concerned, “Will we need more security training on top of SSAFE training, or have to meet fitness requirements?”
“Possibly, but that’s not what I meant,” Sebastian explained. “I meant that—and I hate to sound like a pessimist—but the world is getting tougher, not easier. Anything can happen. There could be another drought or some other disaster. Who knows when the next bug decides to jump from an animal to us? Things like that will require us to go more into the field if we’re going to help people.”
“Maybe you should lay off the Netflix,” Zara joked.
Keg Stand shuddered. “You guys are creeping me out. Can we go over the talking points for this meeting instead?”
Sebastian gave an overview of the meeting, which was about how to best use upcoming funding from Japan. UNICEF, along with a local NGO and the Somali government were creating a package for prevention and response services. As Sebastian finished speaking, the convoy reached the compound of their partner NGO.
“All right, let’s do this!” Zara said. Sebastian’s overview had psyched her up and reminded her of why she did all this. She cared about her work. She wanted to make a difference. Since she also wanted to move into policy and prevention, a meeting like this was exactly the type of experience she wanted.
#
The meeting went well. There was a lot of work to do, but all parties were on the same page regarding an approach. That didn’t always happen, and Zara was sometimes disappointed by the direction partnerships took. She often thought of the adage: A camel is a horse created by committee. This time, there was more collaboration and less compromise. She was optimistic that the programs discussed would come to fruition and make a positive impact. She even felt relaxed as they drove back to the base.
She was usually tense and kept her gaze inside the vehicle, but this afternoon she felt comfortable enough to leisurely look out the window. With the road closed off as a safety protocol for the convoy, there were no other vehicles in the vicinity. The only people out were on foot. Locals, non-UN aid workers, journalists, and others were standing by buildings or walking along the side of the road. She did a double take as she saw what appeared to be Des talking to a couple of men.
That’s strange, she thought, but then immediately dismissed what she saw. He’s not the only tall, white guy out and about on Airport Road. Besides, as UN staff he would not be allowed to be out in the open like that. She couldn’t think of any way for him to get out of the base or one of the other compounds. Everywhere they went had security detail and he would not have been permitted to leave any organization’s compound. That person could not have been Des. She must have been mistaken.
#
Later that night, back at the borrowed container, Zara sat on the bed and commenced her nightly ritual of WhatsApp messaging. At the top of the list was her father. He was concerned about her being in Mog given the al-Shabaab attack on the base six weeks ago. The group had launched seven mortar shells into the base on New Year’s Day. There was damage, and three people were injured, but there were no deaths. Zara understood her father’s concern, but she also wanted him to understand that life went on, especially at aid missions like this one. She took a quick minute to gather her thoughts, and then wrote:
Hi, Dad. Thanks for checking on me. I’m fine. Yes, it is okay for me to be here so soon after the attack. The work here continues. We can’t stop because of terrorists. Children need help. Their mothers need help. None of that stops.
I know you don’t like that I’m on the front lines. You know I’m looking for opportunities in Nairobi. At some point, I’ll find something that doesn’t require posts like Mog. But for now, please know that I’m okay.
I head back to Nairobi tomorrow morning. I’ll be safe and sound in Kenya. Love you.
She checked what she wrote to make sure it provided adequate assurance. Who am I kidding? He’s my dad and he’s always going to worry, she thought. At least he keeps the worrying limited to Mog and hasn’t mentioned the attack at the Dusit. She hit send and moved on to the next message.
Her friend Tilly invited her to a girls’ weekend in Naivasha. A weekend up country—a term used for any area outside of Nairobi, regardless of direction—would be fun. She accepted the invitation and added a thumbs-up emoji for good measure.
The last unread message was from her friend Julia in Amman, Jordan, who, like Zara’s father, was checking in on Zara’s safety. Zara wrote back to Julia, stating that she was fine and not to worry. She saw three dots and the word “typing” appear at the top of her phone screen. Julia was online and was responding:
You don’t have to go outside the base, do you?
Zara wrote back to her:
Usually, I don’t need to leave the base all that much. We don’t have a ton of mobility because of security, which is fine by me. I did go outside the wire today. It went smoothly. No issues at all. But I’ve had a long ass day. I better call it a night. I have an early flight back tomorrow.
Zara didn’t have the energy to further reassure her friend on top of already managing her father. She closed the app and tucked herself into bed. She was exhausted from the day outside the base and she was asleep in under a minute.
#
The next morning, the UN Humanitarian Air Service plane, often referred to as UNHAS, made its compulsory stop in Wajir, Kenya, roughly forty-five minutes out from Mog. Every flight from Somalia had this security and immigration check, which happened here before the flight could continue the remaining two hours of the journey to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. Every person and every bag came off the plane. After immigration, Zara waited in line on the tarmac to identify her bags before they could be reloaded onto the plane. She stretched a bit, extending her arms and turning her head from side to side, and noticed Des in the distance talking to someone, most likely someone from one of the other flights.
Wearing a well-tailored suit, the other man was dressed more for the boardroom than for the heat and extreme conditions of Wajir and Mogadishu. No way. He’s even wearing a pocket square, Zara said to herself. Fascinated by the man’s out-of-place attire, she kept watching him.
He was holding something about the size of a phone. Its metal casing glinted in the sun. He handed it to Des, who then tucked it into his pocket. Zara shook her head. Whatever Des was doing was not her business. Sure, it was shifty, but a lot of people had side hustles. One of her housemates freelanced for an NGO on top of her UN job. It was against the terms of contract with the UN, but it seemed harmless enough to Zara. It was too hot outside in the scorching sun to think about what Des might be up to, and so she moved on.
Thankfully, security, while rigorous, moved fast in Wajir. Zara pointed out her bag and got back onto the plane. Keg Stand was a few steps behind her. He sat next to her on the first leg of the flight, and that was the first time Zara spent time with him outside of work. She learned he was not at all the party boy she had envisioned. The beer guzzling was to take the edge off while in Mog. In Nairobi, he rarely went out, let alone drank. I underestimated him, she thought. He’s actually sweet. He’s just trying to calm his nerves the same way we all do. I should know better than to jump to conclusions. I should also really learn his name.
He was about to sit in his seat next to Zara when Des appeared.
“Hey, buddy,” Des said. “That’s my seat.”
“What do you mean?” Keg Stand was confused. “I was here on the way—“
“It’s my seat now.”
Keg Stand shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll find another seat.”
After he left and Des seated himself beside her, Zara chastised Des. “That was mean. He’s a nice guy and didn’t deserve that.”
“He’ll get over it.” Des was not concerned. “Besides, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah?” Zara wondered if he would say something about her seeing him talking to the man on the tarmac.
“How would you feel about a weekend in Diani? We work hard. We deserve a break. I figure it would be fun to hang out on a nice beach instead of our usual one.”
The waters outside Mog were chummed by butchers dumping entrails and by garbage coming out of the city. Not only was this unpleasant, but it also attracted sharks. After several deaths and a helicopter pilot losing his leg in a shark attack, the beach was closed off for swimming. Meanwhile, about 750 miles south, Diani beach in Kenya was paradise with soft, white sand and clear, clean, turquoise water. It was Zara’s favorite beach in the whole world, and she had seen a lot of beaches in her travels. A weekend in Diani would be the perfect break between Mog and heading into interviews. Besides, she hadn’t had holiday sex in ages and Des would be sure to please.
“Not what I was expecting you to say. But, yes, that sounds good.”
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“It’s not important. Just say when and I’ll pack my bags.”