THE NIGHT I WAS ATTACKED, while a strange man had me pinned down and was fumbling with the button on my pants, I had an image pop into my head: The River Tana in Kenya. Crocodiles. I had read somewhere that when villagers are fetching water and they are attacked, they should go for the croc’s eyes. Hopefully it will let go.
So I went for his face, his glazed-over eyes. I fought back with all the strength I could muster, and felt layers of his skin gather beneath my nails. I scraped lines across his face, his mouth, his eyes. I clawed at him ferociously like an angry wild cat.