GRACE OGOT

Grace Ogot was born in Kenya in 1930 and was educated at Ngiya and Butere Girls’ High Schools. She trained as a nurse in Uganda and England, but also worked as a journalist and tutor before becoming one of the first women in Parliament and the only woman to serve as an assistant minister in the cabinet of President Daniel arap Moi. She was later a founding member of the Writers Association of Kenya. She was a prolific writer, who published several novels and two collections of short stories. Her first novel, The Promised Land (1966), is the powerful story of a family’s decision to emigrate and its tragic consequences. She is well-known for her compelling stories of the challenges that women must overcome in a patriarchal society and often described village life. Among her many works are The Graduate (1980), The Strange Bride (1989), and The Island of Tears (1980). She died in 2010.

The Middle Door

(1976)

It was already 5:30 p.m., but my husband was nowhere to be seen. In sheer panic I called a taxi.

“You can’t catch that train,” the taxi-driver said.

“Please try,” I pleaded. “I just must catch it, please!”

“As you like, madam.” The heavy slamming down of the receiver, and his voice, indicated that it did not matter to him either way. He would be paid whether I missed the train or caught it.

My heart raced—apprehension about my husband’s safety, and the fear of missing the train made my eyes watery as Osanya and I rushed to the yard with the luggage to wait for the taxi. A thought came to me, “Cancel the journey—you cannot go on such a long journey without seeing your husband. How can you tell what has happened to him?” But before I could make up my mind the taxi zoomed in at breakneck speed, stopping just a few inches from my feet. The man flung both doors open. We jumped in without a word, my suitcase propped up beside me, and Osanya sitting with the driver in front.

We wriggled our way between the buses and the large cars, taking narrow chances at every roundabout. At the junction of Jamhuri Avenue and Uhuru Highway we only just missed two pedestrians who had expected the taxi to slow down. We swerved right, left, and then right again, to get out of the way of a Mercedes Benz which was coming at a high speed on the outer lane on the left-hand side. Its throaty hooter nearly blew us off the road. As they passed us, the driver, clad in starched uniform and a peaked hat, gave us a dirty and accusing look while a rotund figure in a black suit and wearing thick rimmed glasses sat in the middle of the back seat holding a strap. Dignity and power distorted what would have been, at first sight, a very handsome face. He eyed us much longer than his driver did, obviously feeling insulted that the rickety taxi did not move out of his way quickly enough.

I clung tight to the back seat. The driver swore under his breath, “Shenzi, we all pay for our licence.” Osanya muttered something about “Bwana mkubwa” but I did not comment. We took another risk at the next roundabout opposite the railway station and stopped the car at the “Staff Only” white lines.

The large clock at the entrance to the station read a minute or so to six o’clock. I rushed through the gate without even showing my ticket. Osanya and the taxi man were running behind me.

My left foot was still on the pavement when the whistle went, announcing the departure of the train. How the taxi-driver and Osanya got my luggage in my compartment, I do not know. I just managed to get the right foot on the train before it moved away. Perspiration ran down freely under my arm and then rolled down along my side. I dashed to the window in compartment D.

“Pesa, mama, pesa.”

“Oh my God,” I gasped. The ten shilling note for the taxi-driver was still in my sweaty hand. The train was already moving, but the two men ran faster. I threw the ten shilling note at them. They caught it in the air, to the laughter of all. Now they waved and I waved back genuinely—to chase away the evil thought which nagged at me.

“All other passengers are seen off by their beloved ones, while all you have is a taxi-driver and a gardener.”

“Tell the Doctor to ring Kisumu, Osanya, eh—don’t forget, or I will have nobody to meet me the other side.”

He said something which I did not hear. The train had gathered momentum and the gap between us widened. I waved till we took a bend and were out of sight.

We entered a tunnel and there was complete temporary darkness. I wondered now why I had decided to travel by train after six years! Suddenly we came out into the open, and the landscape facing Limuru was a magnificent sight. Here and there ridges rose high revealing rich red soil between the shrubs only to taper down gradually into a valley below. The rusty tin-roofed huts standing together marked out a small family homestead on the ridges, leaving the sloping land and the valley below for cultivation. Here and there smoke curled skywards where women were preparing the evening meal. As it was harvesting season, the aroma of the new maize on the cobs, being roasted by the boys on the open fires, filled the air, and sent saliva jetting out from our mouths.

Heavy footsteps at my door drew my attention from the beautiful scenery. My eyes rested on a woman carrying a huge kikapu. She was trying to push her way through my compartment door. Behind her a porter whose khaki uniform carried the letters E.A.R. & H. also entered the room carrying a big red cock and a three-foot bunch of unripe bananas. He dumped the bananas and the cock on the floor and, completely ignoring me, said to the woman, “I hope you will now feel comfortable.”

The cock, with legs tied and wings left free, flapped dangerously towards me. I moved my legs in haste to protect my new pair of stockings. The woman pulled the cock away. She then rearranged the kikapu and the bunch of bananas in the small space between us, and made herself comfortable next to me. She broke the silence.

“Misawa,” she said.

“Misawa,” I replied coldly.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To Kisumu,” I said half in a temper.

“Oh, we have the same destination,” she said politely.

The train rocked away, and my stomach churned. Anger welled up in me. Could this be true? I pay sh 128 for a firstclass compartment, only to land with that amount of luggage and a squawking cock on top of it. No, this could only be a big joke. I threw a side-glance at the newcomer. Her face was slightly turned towards the door, so that I could clearly see her without her knowing. She was perhaps younger than I. Her dark face was smooth and without any wrinkles or sordid makeup. Her dress with simple gathers, as was worn in the village, hung just below her knees. Her head-cloth was a bright multicolour print. She was fat, but was somewhat heavily built, revealing the comfortable life she led.

Many thoughts raced through my mind—“Tell her to move from here at once, this is a first class compartment. This is not your place, not your place, not with a cock anyway. Tell her I paid sh 128 to be alone.”

But then I could not summon up enough courage. The words “independence,” “equal rights for all” were written everywhere I looked. Did equality mean inconvenience? Did freedom give licence for chickens to travel first class? I got really annoyed, yet I could not pull myself together to throw this woman out of my room. Then a thought came to me which cooled me down a little. I got out my writing case and sorted out the papers which I wanted to work on—and piled them between the woman and myself. Now I turned to the woman whose eyes were fixed on the papers, out of curiosity.

“I was thinking that perhaps they could get you a different compartment,” I told her.

“Why?” she asked politely. “There are two beds here.”

Her well-mannered attitude annoyed me. I was in for a quarrel. I wanted an excuse to have a row, an excuse to tell her what was in my mind. I cleared my throat and then said, “I write books you see, that’s why I travel by train. I have urgent work here which I must finish tonight, so I shall be keeping all the lights on. You will not be able to sleep.” She hesitated, and I thought her temper was rising. But I was wrong. She eyed me from head to foot and then said:

“You write books for children, do you?”

“For everyone,” I said, wondering if she could tell the difference between children’s and adults’ books.

“That is very important,” she said in a matter-of-fact way.

I was furious with her. I was expecting her to be impressed and to say something like, “Oh you are so clever to be writing books.” But instead, she continued in her indifferent style, “Children of today need good books to read, they are no longer listening to their parents.”

At that point, a forced smile crept to my lips. The lady obviously had assumed that I was employed by the government to write books on delinquency. That, of course, was an important aspect of nation-building, and one did not have to be clever to be able to do it.

Now she eyed me closely and said, “Don’t worry about me, madam. Lights don’t worry me once I have slept. But even if they did, in public transport one has to dispense with the comforts of one’s own house.”

I looked at this woman unbelievingly. Our eyes met. Her eyes were soft and calm while mine were a flame of bewilderment. It was I who in the end had to look away. I could not stand the self-confidence of this simple village woman whose place with her crazy luggage was in the third class.

I took a piece of paper and started scribbling what I could not really follow. I could feel the woman’s eyes on me. Eyes not full of hatred like mine, but eyes full of pity. She regarded me as a young woman who through luck or historical accident had managed to get education from the tax she paid. I had managed to marry some lucky man holding a big position in government where he sat on money and wielded undreamt-of power.

I felt her eyes accusing me. “Do you know who I am, you rich woman, eh? Where were you at the time when I and my kind nursed the wounded men during the struggle for independence? Where were you when we went without food and water? You, rich woman, when we carried the little food we could steal to feed our men, where were you? And what do you know about dying or sacrificing for a nation? Now you are proud because you are educated. You can write books. You have good clothes. Yes, you are very proud. But it is not my choice that I am the village woman, it is fate. It was just two weeks before our examination when the war broke out. The Mzungu seized our school and turned it into an army camp. That day we left the school and ran for our lives. The few girls they caught were tortured to death—we too were caught later. We were beaten and stripped naked before our families. We were tortured to reveal where our men were—but we would not give in. We looked at the soil our forefathers had fought for and weighed this against the reward the Mzungu would give us if we would betray our men, our own brothers and fathers. Ah, it was better and sweeter to die rather than hold hands with a Mzungu, a visitor who had now turned a ruler and a killer.

“For four years we knew nothing but hunger and death—and the smell of blood. Hope had gone. Schools and exams were soon forgotten, and sorrow quickly turned us into old women. The only thing we were longing for was the comfort and protection of a man which alone was capable of restoring the beauty of our womanhood which had been defiled by the white man. But men were rounded up daily and shot with big guns at night. We knew then that we would never know the worth of a man. The world was coming to an end.”

I felt her anger was mounting and she was asking me threateningly, “Why, then, rich woman, can’t I also enjoy the comforts of the freedom which the black man fought for, the fight which turned us into old women at a tender age? Eh? Tell me . . . I see your long pink nails, your powdered face and your prickly false hairpiece. You look much younger than you really are. You write books too, that is good. But now you leave me alone, you rich woman. Write your books till morning. I will sleep, I will not complain of the bright lights.”

As I put my writing down and turned to admire the landscape, the woman’s pitying eyes were still fixed on me. The sun was setting and the entire landscape was bathed in its delicate rays. At a sharp bend, the full length of the passenger train slid along the winding hills like a snake among rocks. My tricks had failed and short of creating a scene, the woman had no intention of moving.

At that point the gong went, very musically.

“What is that gong for?” my companion asked innocently.

“For food,” I said curtly.

“I see,” she said. Then silence.

The restaurant car was already full when I went for supper. Then I noticed the Ticket Examiner sitting at the snack bar on the left.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said humbly.

“Yes, madam.” He put down his knife and fork and got up.

“Sorry, sir, may I sit by you a minute while I wait for a table?”

“Sure, madam, and please sit down.”

He pulled the chair out for me. I thanked him, then sat down.

“Eh . . . I thoroughly enjoyed your last book about a man with four wives. My favourite chapter is where the man orders his wives to work together, cook together, as one family, and they swear before him that the first one to break the rule must go. It is a great book. It is . . . we men love it.”

He swallowed a mouthful of egg sandwich, and then faced me, half whispering like a person who is uncertain of his statement.

“Now your hand has been strengthened, my dear. The government has gone ahead and legalised polygamy. All women married to one man are to be equal in status. That combined with the sort of teamwork you advocate in your book—eh! For once, the men have a very fair deal! Just like it used to be during our grandmothers’ days when polygamy was accepted as part of life, our heritage. In those days polygamy was a sign of dignity and wealth and the elder wife brought a girl of her own choice for her husband to marry. Eh!” He laughed loudly.

“In your next book, tell these educated, selfish and headstrong women who want to monopolise a man for themselves that a man is a dynamic being capable of caring for more than one wife.”

“I am glad you enjoyed the book,” I lied. I had no courage to tell him that I believed neither in polygamy nor in the misguided government law which recognised polygamy and demanded that the co-wives be treated as equals. I was not the author of the terrible anthropological book which had caused so much controversy in the country.

Anyway for the time being it did not pay to contradict the Ticket Examiner. His alleged interest in my books had broken the ice.

“Are you writing anything at the moment?” He pushed aside his empty cup.

“Oh yes,” I said with a smile, “I’m always scribbling. This one is about urban life. I will send you a copy when it comes out.”

“I would be delighted,” he said after swallowing the last crust of bread.

I cleared my throat and then faced him.

“Sir, kindly do me a favour.” A wicked smile played on my lips, for I never call anybody “sir,” unless I am about to act devilishly.

“Most obliged,” he said, wiping his mouth with a starched table napkin.

“I know I am asking too much, sir, but then the Bible says, ‘Knock and it shall be opened unto you; ask and you shall receive.’ I do write books and that is why I prefer travelling by train. Unfortunately tonight when I have very urgent work to finish, I am supposed to share a compartment with a lady who has a very noisy cock. Besides she has a large bunch of bananas and a big kikapu made of papyrus, and these, as you can imagine, don’t leave me much room to work in. If it were possible, sir, I would greatly appreciate it if I could be moved to another compartment, so that I can concentrate.”

“A lady with a cock and a bunch of bananas in a first class compartment? You can’t be serious.” He pulled out a small board from under his table on which he had the names of passengers. All compartments were fully booked. There were only three women in the first class coaches. That was me, a Mrs. Smith, and a Miss Larina Patel.

“I did not see Mrs. Smith with a cock or bananas, nor did Miss Patel carry these items!” He looked at me in utter disbelief.

“The lady is in my compartment right now as I speak to you. I don’t really mind her staying if she can find another place for the cock and at least remove either the kikapu or the banana bunch. It is true that in an independent country we are all equal, and should learn to share facilities and amenities.” I was trying to be sarcastic, but he was too shocked to notice it. His reaction to my report was quite violent.

“There cannot be a cock crowing in a first class compartment, independence or not. The East African Community has spent a fortune to make those places comfortable since the fare was doubled last September. I can’t allow anybody to mess them up with chicken droppings simply because we are now independent.

“Look here, madam.” He leaned forward. “In any country there are small people, middle people and big people. Community Ministers were not fools to create first class, second class and third class on these trains. This law is not peculiar to Kenya. It is practised in every country from the time of Jesus. Give honour to those who are in high positions. There must be a mistake somewhere. While you are having food, I will investigate this matter and deal with it accordingly.”

“But please don’t give the lady the impression that I am discriminating against her because of her class. This is not India where you have a class of untouchables. I would hate to feel that I am using my position to deny her the comfort she is entitled to.”

“Don’t waste your energy.” The Ticket Examiner waved his hand in the air. “Leave it to me. You paid for a first class compartment. You must get your comfort.” Then he left.

When I came back from supper, I could not believe my eyes. The woman, the cock, the banana bunch and the kikapu were no longer there. The compartment had been tidied and my bed made. Only traces of fine flour dotted the floor where the kikapu containing maize flour had rested. This is one thing my husband would not have accepted. A film of sadness blotted my eyes, making them moist. It was a pity to live with and love a man whose attitude to life was so different from one’s own. Muga strongly believed in suffering with or without bitterness, while I avoided suffering of any sort.

I was working on chapter eleven of my next novel, Thorns Among Flesh, when I heard a squeaking noise. I quickly looked at the door—the bolt was in its place. My eyes moved slowly—and as they did, I saw the middle door which separated me from the next compartment starting to bulge inwards. For a moment I went stiff with fear. I had already changed into a thin transparent cotton nightdress because the evening was hot and oppressive. The bulge got bigger towards me, knocking down the suitcase which rested against the door. Instinctively, I jumped up from the lower seat where I was going to sleep, pushed the door with all my might, and then twiddled the bolt in its place. Was somebody trying to open the door from the other side? Now I stood with my back against the door, barefooted. My eyes darted around my compartment. The first thing that caught my eye was the notice—“ALARM SIGNAL: To stop the train pull the chain downwards.” The chain glared at me, but my eyes moved away from it quickly. Then my eyes rested on the £200 fine or six months imprisonment or both, should you touch that chain without a grave reason. The other sign below the alarm signal was “It is dangerous to lean out of the window.” That had nothing to do with me at night. The third sign was “IMPORTANT,” written in red capital letters, followed with “BOLT FIRMLY the door of your compartment before you retire for the night.” That was important. I had done that as soon as I came from supper. Still I checked on the main door again and made doubly sure that it was bolted—the middle door, too, was locked and then I made sure the window had been pulled to the very top.

Was somebody really trying to open the door from the other side? It could not be. There were two policemen next door. I had seen them there when I entered the train, heard them talking, saw them walking up and down the corridors. Then later on when I came from supper, they were sitting there with their door wide open. In fact I had felt quite happy and safe to have the police next door. I had not travelled by train for six years and had many hidden fears until I saw these policemen and my fears vanished. Now no drunk would wander along our corridor. Next to me on the other side was a couple with one son but there was no door between us.

I decided that I was imagining things. I had heard stories of cowards who, at night, would mistake trees for night-runners! Surely policemen would not open my door? My conclusion was that the apparent bulging of the door had been caused by the rocking of the train. But how could I be sure? I decided to go and inform the Ticket Examiner of my suspicion. But when I looked at my watch, it was past midnight. I had no idea where he slept, and, having thrown one passenger out of my compartment, I was scared of possible repercussions if my accusation of the policemen proved false. At best I would be dismissed as a persecution maniac or a person suffering from hysteria or hallucinations. At worst I could be charged with imputing improper motives in public servants engaged in their duty. I therefore decided to remove my bedding to the upper bed which was near the chain. That took me quite some time. After climbing onto the upper bed, I pushed the ladder away from it, and rested it instead against the door where it stood precariously. But it was better there.

Now I could not concentrate on anything. I decided to stay awake and watch that door. For a long time I watched while the train stopped at, and started from, several stations, but nothing happened beside the normal squeaking noises and rocking movement of a fast-moving train. It must have been my imagination, I concluded. I looked at my watch and it was 2:00 a.m. and my eyes could not stay open any more. I switched all the lights off and immediately fell asleep.

It was not a dream—in my sleep I could hear a squeaking noise coming from the same direction as before. I shook myself up and put on the lights above my head. But there was nothing unusual. The suspected door stood still with the bolt in its place and my suitcase against it. I must be crazy or sick, I blamed myself. A crazy woman. Everyone in the first class berth must have slept long ago while only one hysterical woman was still awake imagining things. I was being stupid.

I switched off the lights and slept, cursing myself for acting like a child. My mind was tired and the sleep was sweet. I heard squeaking noises for a long time—but because I was perhaps too tired, I did not bother any more, until the suitcase fell down with a big bang and the small wooden ladder standing against the door followed suit with a loud crash on the floor. I sat up instinctively and blasted on the main switch at the door. And there, wedged in the doorway in full uniform, all buttons down, were the two policemen, to whom I had entrusted my life. I felt sick, and numb. But the confusion left me quickly. These policemen no longer looked like friends. My eyes fixed on them, I moved upwards as I asked them in a trembling voice: “What do you two want, eh? . . . What do you want?” My thin nightdress left all the upper part of my chest bare. I had no sleeves except for a narrow strap that held the nightdress onto my body. The two men did not see me move towards the chain as their eyes were glued on the soft skin just above my breasts where the sun never reaches.

“We want you,” one of the policemen answered, and his voice was cold, confident with an air of “there is nothing you can do about it, we get what we want.”

“I don’t understand you,” I said.

“Alright, Kisura (Beautiful Face), maybe our English is not as good as yours. We don’t write books as you do—we are saying, we both want you. You know, the way a man wants a woman. If you are not difficult, we are both experienced men just as you are. We will be quick, just the two of us.”

I think it was their smile that sent me wild. “You are out of your mind,” I shouted. “Completely out of your mind to think that I came here to be wanted by the police!” I spat on the clean floor just to emphasise the degree of contempt I had for them which I could not put into words. The spittle narrowly missed the black boots of the policeman on the right.

“Now, baby,” the younger one said coldly. “There is no need to be rude, eh? I don’t think you know us. You are new in your game, we are experienced in ours. Just give us what we want and you will come to no harm.”

“You get out of here, or I will shout!”

“You can’t shout,” he said—and I saw his hand moving towards the unwieldy gun standing just by the doorway.

“You can’t shout,” he said. “You give it to other men—who give you money. We must have it too, with or without money. Look at your painted nails. Look at your hair and polished face. You are not married to one man, we know it. The type married to one man are the ones like the woman you chased away from your compartment. The simple housewife. Not you.”

Now my heartbeat accelerated. Whichever way I looked, death stared me in the face.

“If you touch that gun,” I swore, “I will pull the chain and stop the train.” My eyes had turned red and my breathing was fast. All along then these men had assumed that I simply came to this train to look for men. What did they mean by saying that I didn’t look like a simple housewife?

“You are acting stupid,” the older policeman told me. “It would be all over by now if you behaved like a good girl. Nobody need ever know.”

“Don’t waste your time,” I thundered. “I love my husband. He is the father of my three children.”

They looked at one another and laughed. It was a kind of mocking laughter that was meant to remind me that as far as they were concerned, a woman was a woman.

“Alright,” the younger policeman said, dropping his pants on the floor. “I am going to have it when you are dead. You don’t think a policeman is as important as the men you lure to take you in their arms.”

He grabbed the gun and sure enough dug his hands into the jacket pocket to pull out the bullets.

“If you take your hand out of your pocket I will shoot.” In a split second I had pulled out a pistol from under the pillow and was pointing at the policeman with the gun.

“No jokes now, Mr. Policeman.” My voice was coarse and sure. “I will kill both of you in cold blood. The gun is fully loaded.”

My body was nothing but sweat. The strap on my right shoulder had fallen below my elbow revealing the rounded part of my right breast. But I did not care any more. Soon I would be dead and completely naked before these bastards.

“Take your hand off that chain,” the older policeman ordered me.

“I will not,” I answered rudely. “And unless that man lets go that gun, I am shooting both of you.”

“So you harlots walk with pistols, eh? And automatic ones too?”

“I am not your wife,” I said. “Only my husband tells me what to do.”

Before I knew where I was, I saw a big white spittle flying towards me from the old policeman’s mouth. The thick coughed-up sputum landed on my chest just above my breast. I felt the slimy stuff roll under my nightdress, over my breast and then on to my belly, but I did not move.

“You stupid whore,” he said. “You will soon know who is stronger.”

Then they retreated and slammed the door shut.

I mopped the sputum from my stomach with a towel. My hand remained on the gun till morning.

I dressed clumsily just before we got to Kisumu Station and flung my door open. My head was light and the near tragedy of the previous night still haunted me. Those men could have done anything to me!

Kisumu Station came into view and I got my luggage ready. As we entered the station, I saw my brother Jemka and his wife waiting for me. It was then that my tears ran freely. Jemka was four years older than I. He would know how to help me put my case to the stationmaster, and if possible to the police.

I jumped out immediately the train came to a halt.

But I had no chance to greet my people. Four policemen stood before me. One with several medals on his chest took his identity card out and showed it to me.

“Do you mind coming with us to the police station? We have a few things to ask you.”

“What things?” I asked in surprise.

“You just come with us.” I broke through their grip and fell into the arms of my brother. But they followed me there and said forcefully, “We have no time to waste.”

As the police led me away, my brother Jemka and his wife, both speechless, followed me. I insisted that my brother must come with me in the Black Maria. At first the police refused but then, when I would not enter into the car, they allowed him to come. His wife followed us in their own car.

Unbelievingly, I found the two men who had terrorised me during the night already standing behind the counter at the police station. Their eyes were hostile when I was pushed into a corner away from my brother. It was clear that they were saying—“You know now who is stronger.”

Without any formality, the fat senior superintendent looked at me critically and said: “I am told you are Mrs. Muga—wife of a Doctor practising in Nairobi?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Mrs. Muga, could you please hand me the pistol you were seen with in the train?”

“Who saw me with a gun in the train?” I asked sulkily. And all of a sudden, I saw my sister-in-law leaning against the wall. She felt faint at the thought that I had a gun! “Let me put it this way, Mrs. Muga, and remember you are talking to the police, not a lawyer: have you got a gun in your possession?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.

“Abura!” my brother shouted, almost in a fit. He opened his mouth to say more but then closed it again.

“Hand me the gun, will you.”

The senior policeman got up from his chair. And, before I knew where I was, two men had jumped forward and handcuffed me. They were rough and my precious watch went flying on the cement floor, breaking into two pieces.

“Officer,” I said, with tears in my eyes, “I paid a lot of money for that watch. I hope your men will put it together again.” Instead of replying, he looked at me defiantly and asked: “Show me where the gun is.”

“You can see the gun, Officer, but you cannot have it. I bought it for my brother’s son. It is mine.” Now I looked at the policeman defiantly—then I kicked the suitcase towards him.

“The gun is in that suitcase. You can have a look at it, if you like. But be careful! I have dirty pants in the suitcase.”

Hate flamed in the officer’s eyes as he flung the suitcase open. I heard the policeman who had spat on my breast whisper to the officer: “Be careful. The gun is loaded.”

The officer forced the suitcase open. The gun was lying on top of my clothes. He looked at it suspiciously and then carefully picked it up.

First I fixed my eyes on the officer and then turned them to my molesters. I would have loved to have shouted at them that “Power and wisdom are two different things.” Instead I said quietly: “You don’t need my nephew’s toy gun, Officer, do you?”

Instead of kicking me, the officer threw the toy gun back into the suitcase and kicked it shut.

I picked up my broken watch and my suitcase and walked out of the police station to narrate the incredible story to my stunned brother and sister-in-law.

Up to this day, my husband teases me to tears whenever there is a rowdy party at home.

“Eh,” he will say. “Watch out for that devil—she held two policemen at gunpoint.”