I was once a pencil sharpener
I told everyone who cared to ask, or did not that I wanted to become a police woman. I was 10 years old. I went to this small public school called Shimoni—it was originally built for the Indian upper-middle class population in the years leading up to Amin. It was grand in a way, with white and dark blue walls, high ceilings, and cracked floors. It was right in the middle of the capital city, Kampala, in the heart of all of the traffic. Someone clever had decided to place a policewoman right outside on the streets that separated the school gate from the rest of the world. She wore a khaki dress, a black belt at her midriff, and a small twist rope thrown casually over her shoulder. Her job was to authoritatively stop cars and order us to march across in perfectly straight cues, all of which she managed to do with utmost grace. We respected her. We feared her. We obeyed her. Everyone did. And I wanted to be her every single evening of my life, that is, until one day when I had anothe