Over 30 bodies lay on tables and the floor. While some were horribly mutilated, others were not. On face after face was etched the same look of terror and shock. That was my August 7. It is just one person's account, which cannot do justice to the myriad of experiences and contributions of my colleagues.
Muted pain lingers on.
I will forever feel a hollowness when I remember the friends and colleagues lost. My mind still cannot accept the extra-ordinary and needless suffering that occurred that evil day. I am convinced that a jubilant Satan danced down the streets of Nairobi that evening. And I still sometimes wake up at night, fighting the grip of the same dream, in which I search through endless blasted corridors for the body of my wife. You carry on, absorbed by the kaleidoscope of daily life, but part of you cannot forget.