Pushpa and Vijay sat together at the back of the cinema. Not for them was the frenzied snogging, love biting and groping that might have been the norm in Slough or Toronto, for this was suburban Nairobi and they were content to sit in the dark holding hands murmuring occasional sweet nothings into the other's ear. Neither had paid any attention to the film, but there were the occasional noises of gunshots  from the screen, which hardly intruded, but then it dawned on Vijay that machine guns had not been invented by that time and there were definitely bursts of automatic weapons to be heard. His apprehension was confirmed when a figure in army fatigues strode in from the door at the back and fired a Kalashnikov at the projection booth. The film shuddered to a halt and the house lights flickered on.

The gunman shouted in English with what seemed to Pushpa, a thick Birmingham accent.

"All right, any Muslims in here, get out now. The rest of you stay put". As Vijay and Pushpa were already under their seats, this was OK by them. The gunman fired again at the Projection booth. "Move move move", he shouted, just before the lights went out.

"C'mon, Let's go" whispered Vijay urgently pulling at Pushpa's arm. Bending low, they ran as silently as possible to the other back exit and into the dimly lit corridor. There was no one there but the occasional body lying spreadeagled on the floor, pools of blood seeping from them.

"Oh my god, This is serious" they thought,

"Which way now? There was more automatic fire from behind them and then from in front. they ran past Mr Singh's Tutti Fruiti Snack bar where Sanjay, Pushpa's brother, who was meant to be chaperoning her, and his friends used to hang out playing computer games while she was in the cinema. No one there now but ominous pools of dark congealing blood.

"Oh my God, I hope he's OK" fretted Pushpa.

"Psst, In here" hissed someone. It was Mr Malik from his flower shop.

"They're coming back. Get in here you two, hide behind the counter. You're safe in here, I'm a Muslim. He tugged his lacey skull cap over his brow, to make the point."

"What are you doing here?"shouted a rough voice from the pedestrian corridor outside the shop, this time in what sounded like an American accent.

"Have mercy on me," quavered the Florist. "I'm a poor Muslim and I have to water my stock otherwise it will all die and I will be ruined."

"Muslim are you? then what's the name of the Prophet's Mother then?

"Oh, ah 'Hadijah' I think".

"No it isn't. That's the name of his first wife, I asked for the name of his mother. Come on. Any good Muslim could tell you what it is. I don't think you are a Muslim at all. I think you are a Jew and deserve to die."

With all this drama going on above their heads, the two teenagers cowered under the cash counter unable to influence matters but acutely conscious that their lives too were in the balance.

Vijay had a brainwave. He whipped out his mobile phone and tapped in the question,

"Thank God he had persuaded his father to buy him the top model with fast internet connections but was there a wifi connection,under a desk in the Florist's shop? No sound from the machine. Not surprising as Vijay had disabled all noise effects so he could use it illegally at school. But was there wifi? Yes there was, from Tutti Fruiti, just down the Mall. Good Old Mr Singh. And there was the answer. He tugged at Mr Malik's trouser leg.

"Amina".

Mr Malik managed a quick smile. He straightened up.

"Oh yes, I remember now Effendi. It is Amina, who is the prophet's mother, blessed be her name."

"Blessed be her name indeed. And don't forget it. You'd better get the hell outahere as there's going to be one hell of a battle soon."

"Thank you sir, but this is my shop and I'll take my chances here."

"Well don't say I didn't warn you. Here they come". He loosed off a burst from his Kalashnikov outside and received a burst of fire in return, which doubled him up and he crashed down to lie still amidst the shattered glass of Mr Malik's front window.

The three of them cowered out of sight behind the cash counter as a gun battle raged in the Mall outside. The three of them huddled together, acutely aware that the thin ply of the wooden desk front was no protection against a bullet.

"Well at least that guy out the front is dead," said Vijay, but who are they and what do they want.?"

"They'll be Shifta from Somalia, protesting Kenyan army involvement in the Organisation for African Unity, trying to bring peace to their country." said Mr Malik sadly.

"But why the foreign accents?"

"I'm fraid that the call of the Jihad attracts young Muslims from all over the world. It makes a moderate  Muslim like me very sad. All I want is a quiet place to live, work hard and raise my family. That was Nairobi. It isn't any more, thanks to this lot. They talked in whispers for maybe an hour as every now and then here were bursts of gunfire. Pushpa wondered what she would do if she needed a loo?

There was a crescendo of loud bangs some way off that Vijay assumed were grenades. Then there was another hour or so during which things went quiet apart from the noise of helicopters overhead. Then there was a black Kenyan man in blue uniform with a megaphone.

"Listen up everyone, this is Kenyan Special Forces. We have secured the outside of the Mall but not the inside. If there are any civilians inside, get out as soon as you can. Once you are outside you should be safe.

Mr Malik stirred, "there is a shute from my storeroom into the rubbish bins below, we should be OK that way into the courtyard that leads to the car park, let's go.".

They looked at the chute, covered by a thick rubber flap, from which wafted a foul, ripe odour. 

"Better let me go first" said Vijay. "I'm thin and if there's a drop, I'll land better. Poooh, but the smell of last week's rubbish is a bit high." He slithered in feet first, the smell got worse, but there was enough room to move in. Pushpa followed him in and Mr Malik brought up the rear. Then whoops they were all falling, thump into a large iron rubbish skip full of ripe vegetation and cardboard boxes, but it was quite soft and there were no injuries.

"Help" called Vijay softly, a dozen eager hands pulled him out of the skip and onto the concrete. Then the other two. The worst of the vegetation was brushed off them and more burly men in blue flak jackets and helmets hustled them across an open space to a wall. On the other side of the wall sat a stern faced Asian woman in white with a stethoscope round her neck.

What are your names?" she barked.

"We'd rather remain anonymous.You see our families don't know we are here", the two teenagers said, the Doctor scowled.

Mr  Malik once again came to the rescue. "My name is Mahomed Malik, I own the florist's shop in the Mall and these are my two children, Ali and Amina (named after the Prophet's mother, you know)".

"I couldn't care less after whom she was named" the Doctor barked, "Are any of you injured?”

"A few bruises and scrapes," said Pushpa, "but nothing serious."

"Right, I'll put you down for shock and an anti tetanus shot, go with this nurse." A kindly, black lady in a blue uniform led them to an ambulance, wrapped them in a blanket, sat them down and brought them a cup of tea each. After which she gave them an anti tetanus injection

"Hey thanks Mr Malik." said Pushpa. "Not only have you saved our lives, but also our reputations. I'd be glad to be your honorary daughter, whatever she's called". "Yeah, so far so good but we need to get back to our homes pronto." said Vijay, "And find your brother. I suggest we start walking and find a taxi."

So when the nurse's back was turned, they snuck off up the road towards home. There was no need for a taxi, every Kenyan, black, white, or brown for miles around wanted to do their bit to erase this blot from their country's history and was either queueing to give blood or offering a lift to the stranded. They were in a very posh new Mercedes on the road outside Brooklands school when they passed a blue VW Beatle.

"Stop", yelled Pushpa. She leapt out and flagged it down, as in it were the family driver Johnson and (praise be) her brother Sanjay.

Thanking their lift profusely, they transferred, drove Vijay to his road and then went home.

Pushpa had hoped to sneak quietly in and upstairs to her room but the large figure of Mrs Malhotra was blocking the hall.  All her resolve melted as she could see her mother had been crying. They fell into each others' arms and the tears then really flowed. A parent's first instincts on being reunited with a missing child is often to smack them with relief. This was not Mrs Malhotra's way. The two of them just clung together crying. Vijay could do nothing more than carefully circumvent them and help Johnson carry the shopping through, ostensibly the reason for their outing in the first place, and put it on the kitchen table.

"Pooh, you stink of rotten fruit my girl" she said.

"Yes, I fell onto a pile of it in the market, and when Vijay hurried to help, like the gentleman he is, he fell in it too." she fibbed easily.

"Well both of you, go and get showered, then put your clothes outside for the dhobi and tell him,'pesi pesi'. And you two as well, pesi pesi, time for dinner. Thank God you're both all right."

"Why, what's happened Mum?

"You don't know? You must be the last people on the planet. We've had BBC, CNN and goodness who else flying overhead. Somali terrorists attacked our Westlands shopping centre, hundreds killed. That's why I was so worried, in case you were in there"

"They sent in the Special Services Anti terrorist squad.Two floors of Nakumatt supermarket collapsed, Chaos, bloody chaos.!" chimed in Mr Malhotra from the doorway to the living room where the television flickered.

"Wow," exclaimed Vijay. "We saw the smoke and stayed away, which is why we haven't got quite everything on the list, sorry Mum.

"I really don't mind if you're back empty handed, as long as you're back. Oh Kenya, Kenya, what's happening to you? "

"You're right my dear, we were just recovering from the bombings of that hotel in Mombasa and the American Embassy here, and now this! My God what a body blow! Well, as Kipling says. 'We build it up again with worn out tools'. No damn Somali Shifta band gets away with this. I may not be young enough to fight the bastards, but I have my ways, I have my ways. " He rumbled menacingly into his luxuriant moustache. Mrs Malhotra shooed her children off to get showered and rushed to get a meal onto the table. 

Next morning, still bristling with indignation, Mr Malhotra drove the BMW down to Westlands with his two (clean) children in the back seat.

The Westlands centre had indeed taken a pasting and looked like a building in Beirut, pockmarked by bullets, littered with rubbish and charred with burning. No problem with parking today, the lot was empty but nevertheless, the guards saluted smartly and cheerfully.

"Jambo jambo" They chorussed. And "Asante sana, bwana mokubwa." as Mr Malhotra grossly over tipped them. The Malhotras walked slowly up the concrete stairs to Mr Singh's Tutti Fruiti bar, scrunching through a layer of broken glass underfoot, noting that the escalator had not yet been coaxed into action.

"G'Morning Singh Sahib", Mr Malhotra called. For a Punjabi, you do a good dosa. Three Massala dosa, a capuchino for me and whatever these two want.

"Morning Malhotra Sahib, first customers of the day, you bring me luck."

"Don't worry Old Chap, business will pick up, we're hardy folk in Kenya, you'll see. 

"I say, Odhiambo, Is that you?". Mr Malhotra called to a large black gentleman walking along the corridor, inspecting the ceiling, who answered the call by walking over and warmly shaking his hand..

"Hello Mr Malhotra, I hope you haven't come to tell me you're not interested in the Workshop concession after all?.

"Not at all, not at all, quite the contrary," beamed Mr Malhotra. I wasn't sure yesterday but those bloody Shifta made up my mind, then coming in here this morning I had a brainwave." Mr Odhiambo sat down in the proffered chair, all ears, and Mr Singh cruised up to take his order.

"Yes if I open a workshop here in Westlands, I will transfer the brightest mechanic from my workshop downtown to be Chief Mechanic. That is Mr Singh's son Talwant, and ask my two children to manage the customer relations and business side of things. They're finished at school and Uni in a month or two. What would you like to eat and drink Mr Odhiambo?  when you've broken your fast, we'll go down to your office and sign papers." Mr Malhotra was enjoying himself and took a large bite out of his dosa. Pushpa took out a tissue from her handbag solicitously wiped off the layer of coconut chutney which had adhered to his moustache.

Along the corridor a group of cleaners approached in a line, sweeping the broken glass before them. Another detail was scrubbing at what looked like bloodstains on the wall. An Asian man of about twenty sauntered past.

"Hello, young man, you' re AM Patel's son aren't you?" Pushpa's head snapped up and then snapped down again.

"Yes sir, My name's Sanjay, my Dad's a surgeon at Nairobi General and we use your workshop down town for servicing the car. Good Morning Mr Malhotra, What a terrible tragedy. I hope you were no way involved."

"No thank God, no involvement yesterday but today, that's different. Today we start again and get this place going again to show these dam' Shifta, they can't shake the resolve of us Kenyans, eh Odhiambo?"

"Well, count me in," said Sanjay stoutly, "I'm on the editorial board of the student newspaper and I'll make sure that any activity here at Westlands gets full support and publicity."

"Good man, good man, that's the spirit," chuckled Mr Malhotra."Dear me, dear me, where are my manners? Will you take something to eat and drink young Sanjay, This is my daughter Pushpa and my son Vijay." Sanjay made the polite 'namaste gesture'. "Good Morning Miss Pushpa, Hiya Vijay, what's news?"

"And that goes for the School as well." said a tall passing white man.

"I do beg your pardon for butting in, but I wanted to greet Mr Odhiambo and ask what news of his daughter Priscilla, last year's Head Girl who got a scholarship to Oxford.

"Don't apologise, Mr Rodgers, this is a council of war and the school has an important part to play. Priscilla is fine, missing family and friends and the taste of ugali, but she's in the varsity netball squad and enjoying her studies. We rang her this morning to assure her that the family was safe and she tells us that Westlands was in all the UKTV news programmes last night, but as yet she doesn't have a boyfriend"

"Well, that won't take long," teased Pushpa, "Priscilla's a beautiful girl. Hey Dad, what about involving Mr Malik, the Florist? They smashed his front window and it would look good to involve moderate Muslims in any show of Kenyan solidarity."

"Out of the young comes forth wisdom. Good idea Pushpa," said Mr Rodgers

"Dad, it's Mum's hirthday next week. Give me a hundred shillings, I'll order the flowers and invite him to join you at the same time, he's just one floor down.

So a grand reopening one month hence was agreed when the whole centre would be tidied up, local and foreign press invited, The President would come or at least drop in as he had lost family in the catastrophe, all theUN agencies, Embassies and high Commissions as well. Five percent discount in all the shops, special food on offer at Tutti Fruiti which would rebrand itself as an internet cafe, and of course the opening of a car maintenance club at the latest Malhotra garages outlet in Westlands.

As they drove home in the BMW, Mr Malhotra said to no one in particular, "Nice boy, that Sanjay Patel, what's he doing at Uni, Vijay?

"Electrical Engineering, they say he's pretty good, he always has the latest gadget, and knows how to use it. They also say he's got a scholarship to MIT next year, replied Vijay.

"Hmm," said Mr Malhotra, "I think we need to know him a bit better. Invite him round for dinner some time, will you Vijay? "

Vijay winked at his sister, who squeezed his hand in return.

Francis King,

Oxford

Oct 2013