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The young lady, sat on the edge of the hard-dry bench sobbing. A police officer nervously stood beside her with a nicely rolled police abstract assault forms (P3) in his hands. He appeared a little uneasy as a small crowd form a ring around the girls. The girl half covered her eyes and calmly sobbed as she waited for the doctor to mend her damaged virginity and stigmatized dignity.
Every several good seconds, the girl blinked and grimaced with pain. She also changed her sitting positions and at times she sat on a quarter of her bosom to the side. All appeared raw down-there, necessitated by the obvious tilting of the gluteus bosom as a pointer to the fact. When she tilted and held a position for a little longer time, she changed and she grimaced with pain.
She appeared too disturbed by the pain and the shame of rape. At one point, she blankly started at the crowd with disdained disgust, frowning her facial pained flesh before lapsing into frenzy cries. I could see she stopped short of telling the onlookers to go away, bastards but instead tears rolled down her cheeks like water leaking from a roof.
The lady was in her seventeenish. The place was Wajir, in the far forgotten corner of northern Kenya. The Kenya security forces raped her during one of their operation duped security operation. The year was 1993, September.
To be continued
