26 years later: The unseen scars of the US Embassy bombing survivors
Douglas Sidialo, Violet Musimbi, Julie Stella Ogoe, Edmund Ikutwa and Diana Mutisya survivors of the 1998 bomb blast.
Twenty-six years ago on this day, August 7, terrorists bombed the United States Embassy in Nairobi, leaving 213 people dead and at least 5,000 injured. For many survivors, the scars of that day are not just physical but emotional, etched deeply into their memories. The Nation caught up with a few of the survivors who told of that dark Friday.
Diana Mutisya speaks on what she experienced during the 1998 August 7th bomb blast during the interview at her home on August 5, 2021.
Diana Mutisya
August 7, 1998, marks a profound turning point in my life. It was around 10 am when I walked into the Cooperative Bank Building for a meeting. What should have been an ordinary day took a harrowing turn. Amidst the usual hustle, a sudden commotion erupted, followed by a deafening bang. I noticed teachers, a sign of the ongoing strike, but the noise was far too intense to be that of a mere protest.
The world around me spiralled into darkness in an instant. The pain was excruciating. My colleagues, through sheer courage and determination, found me under the wreckage and rushed me to Mater Hospital. My condition was critical. The treatment was relentless, revealing the harsh reality: I had been paralysed from the waist down.
Six months of intense treatment at Mater Hospital was followed by a year and a half of on-and-off visits to Nairobi Hospital. My ordeal continued as I was sent to South Africa for a major surgery, where 16 metal plates were implanted in my back. At 64 years old, I persevere, clinging to hope and fighting for a brighter future amidst the shadows of my past.
Violet Musimbi, a survivor of the 1998 bomb blast.
Violet Musimbi
I buried my mother last Saturday, and it’s been incredibly hard. She was my rock after the bomb blast incident that changed everything. Since then I've been struggling with health issues. My head was badly injured, and now my vision is impaired. I can only see blurry images, so I’ve had to start wearing glasses.
My aunt, who was also affected by the blast, is in a terrible state — her legs are severely mutilated, and she suffers from nerve problems. Coping with the aftermath of the blast has been financially devastating, especially with the cost of medication.
We have a WhatsApp group for those affected by the blast, and it's heart-wrenching to read the frustration and despair in the messages. People are still waiting for compensation, and it feels like we're just losing hope. We’re desperately praying that the President will come to our aid and that justice will finally prevail.
Julie Stella Ogoe, a survivor of the 1998 bomb blast.
Julie Stella Ogoe
I was working on a floor in a corporate office for the Teachers Service Commission. It was an ordinary day until the first explosion shattered everything. At first, I didn’t know what it was — I thought it might be related to the teachers' strike that was happening at the time. But then the second explosion came; it was deafening. I saw a huge cloud rising from the building Amid the chaos, I struggled to find my way.
My colleague guided me by holding up my hand, leading me to safety. As we descended, I realised my feet were severely burnt. A stranger picked me up and carried me to a vehicle, and as we drove away, there was talk of an attack. Once at the hospital, I was taken to get urgent care.
They worked to stitch my wounds and tried to save my sight. The pain was unbearable. My left eye was completely destroyed, and my right eye, though still functioning, had deteriorated significantly over the years. Eventually, I went through periods of complete blindness before partial vision was restored.
Douglas Sidialo during the interview at Nation Centre on August 4, 2021.
Douglas Sidialo
Life has not been the same since that fateful day on August 7, 1998, when the bomb blast changed everything. I've been drifting through life, haunted by that day, seeking answers and justice. I recall a poignant moment when I met (US President) Joe Biden at the launch of the memorial park during his visit to Kenya.
I shook his hand, my voice trembling as I asked him about the plight of the Kenyan victims. He assured me he would look into the matter. Yet, as time has passed—from the days when Biden was the Vice-President to now, nothing has changed. The American victims received compensation through the US Victims of Terrorism Compensation Fund, a gesture that stands in stark contrast to our ongoing struggle.
Edmund Ikutwa, widowed in the 1998 bomb blast.
Edmund Ikutwa
Losing my wife, Rachel Mboya, during the bomb blast has been an unthinkable and harrowing journey. Rachel was my rock, and the void she left behind was impossible to fill. We had three young children at the time: our firstborn was just five years old, and our two young ones were less than two.
That day, we had planned to meet up, but at the last minute, we decided it was best to return home. If only we had stuck to our original plan. I will never forget the anguish I felt as I lay awake that night, with three children and no idea how to navigate the devastation we were facing because at the time she was the one working and I had been retrenched. It took four long, agonising days before we found Rachel’s body.
My children, struggling to understand their loss, now refer to their grandmother as "mother" because she stepped in as their caregiver and source of comfort. The grief has been compounded by the constant struggle to manage the costs of counselling and the overwhelming lack of support. The absence of help has only deepened our suffering. The pain of losing Rachel is a wound that will never fully heal, and the struggle to support my children and myself amidst this relentless hardship is a burden I carry every day.
