IN PRISON TWENTY YEARS, I got out today. No one would have said it was a sentence too lenient or an amnesty too early.
My mama always said a mother would kill for her kids. Should kill for her kids.
One chilly morning, just as I was getting home from work, my anorexic, pathologically thin, model-beautiful preteen daughter rushed to me naked, crying.
What she had been telling me all along and what I had been ignoring—because I trusted too much, leaving no room for doubt—came hurtling back. My self-proclaimed pathological liar-cum-womanizer-morphed-sexual-predator husband had raped her—for the umpteenth time.
I checked my daughter’s insides; she was wet.
My beloved, wretched husband of thirteen years, whom I too had neglected due to my job demands, emerged from our daughter’s room in a post-coital trance, not even caring to spare me the sight of his rumpled pyjamas. What father preys on his daughter despite how immodest she appears?
All my sensei-inculcated tactics and many police-paid-hours in a Japanese dojo came instinctively. A round-house pirouette got him by surprise. Before he hit the ground, I had already put two bullets in his heart with my service revolver.
It was a high-profile case with a high-octane media frenzy. I was now part of statistics of rising cases of police officers killing their spouses. The only twist was that I did not end my life in the process of giving crime reporters a field day.
‘Guilty as Charged’ was my plea.
For twenty years, I have lived with hard, die-hard incorrigible criminals caged like animals at Lang’ata Women’s Maximum Security prison, people I had sworn to hunt.
That love for my Sweet Tracy has kept me alive in prison, but now I am out.
I would be glad to go back there if someone ever laid a finger on my daughter.