DID YOU GET A PHOTO?
By Mwivanda Gloria
A photographer’s answer to the question “Did you get a photo?” is always yes. Whether it's a wedding, a baby shower, or just everyday life lit by a golden sunset or a blooming flower, of course, I got the photo. I’m always looking out for a photo-worthy moment.
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I got asked that question for the first time on April 12th, 2025, and my answer was a pissed-off, “No, I didn’t.”
Let me paint a picture and give you the context that led to that interaction.
It was a lovely Saturday—a bit cloudy, but not too cold. Perfect hiking weather. My friend and I had planned to hike the 7 Ngong Hills. The morning felt good. We started the hike, ready for a leisurely walk across the hills. It had rained recently, so the grass was green, the flowers blooming. We were excited.
We walked five of the seven hills at a slow pace, chatting lightly, admiring the views, and, of course, I was taking photos of everything. On the fifth hill, we dropped our bags and lay down to look at the sky. We had one of those deep conversations about life. We giggled, touched the grass, and soaked in the view. Everything felt aligned. Still. Safe. This is what Saturday afternoons are meant for: touching grass and holding space.
After about 38 minutes, we got up to complete the hike. I was still snapping pictures as we walked. Then, we spotted a beautiful cow with a striking pattern on her body; she looked like she had vitiligo. We stopped to admire her. A brown cow with vitiligo! What a wonder.
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What we didn’t know was that a man had been watching us. Scheming. Plotting. Creeping up.
We looked up and saw him approaching, walking between two trees. He wore a Maasai shuka and carried a rungu. We assumed he was a herder; common on the hills. But as soon as we made eye contact, he pulled out a machete from behind his back, raised it in the air, and ran toward us shouting, “Put your bags on the ground!”
We were in shock.
We didn’t move. (Later, my friend and I admitted we thought, for a moment, he was joking. Just messing around. Somehow.)
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He was older, and there was something in his face, something evil. If you believe it’s possible to perceive evil from a man’s face, this was it.
He reached us and hit my friend hard on the elbow, repeating his command. She had her hands in the air, frozen in surrender. He struck her again. She dropped her backpack. I was carrying a tote bag, a backpack, and my camera around my neck.
The moment he hit her, I took off running, screaming. This was a busy trail—surely other hikers would hear. He dropped the rungu, picked up my friend’s backpack, and started running after me, machete raised high, ready to strike.
I remember thinking, My legs feel so heavy. Just drop the bags. Give in.
But I was certain—if he caught up to me, he would cut me down without mercy. That fear kept me running. I dropped the tote bag to lighten the load. That distracted him briefly. He picked it up.
Then I heard other hikers responding to my screams. That’s when he ran off into the bushes.
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About thirty minutes later, as I reported the incident to the rangers, who were supposed to be patrolling the hills, one of them asked me:
“Did you get a photo of the man?”
I'm sorry, I didn’t get a photo of the man chasing me with a machete raised to the sky, ready to strike the moment he reached me.
I think of all the times I’ve seen photographers online in supposedly dangerous situations—being chased by lions, dodging car crashes, and still getting the shot. But most of the time, that’s staged.
"In real life, when you’re in it, a photo is the last thing on your mind."
In real life, when you’re in it, a photo is the last thing on your mind.
The incident left me deeply shaken, more aware of how vulnerable I am, both as a woman and as a photographer. I'm lucky to be alive. Even luckier to still have my camera, and a story to tell.
When I got home that evening, I cried buckets, out of sheer relief. Then came the anger. Then sadness.
I am still holding space for myself. Stabilizing my nervous system.
All is well.
