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Priscilla Oyas
Andrea Vasconcellos
English 100H
07 October 2014
The Open Window
In June 2007, I went on holiday to Nairobi with my mother to celebrate my twelfth
birthday. I was really excited because each summer brought an unforgettable new experience and
that year was no exception. My mother and I had already been in Kenya for two months, and it
was amazing. Each event was like a picture from a postcard, with the hot summer days spent
visiting old friends or lounging by a pool and the cool nights filled with laughter at a different
family affair. Understandably so, it was no surprise that I was the first to jump in the car with my
mother, expecting nothing short of yet another adventure. After all, what was the worst that could
happen? Little did I know that it would turn out to be the most dramatic summer yet; I caught a
thief for the first time.
It was a Friday afternoon, my mother and I had just had lunch at the country club and we
were in the car on our way to my aunts house. I was sitting in the backseat of the silver BMW,
losing myself in the blur of the greenery whizzing by and the suns yellow rays bathing them in
warmth. My stupor was cut short when I heard my mother instruct the driver to stop in town
on the way to my aunts house. In that moment, my heart stopped as I recalled every story I had
been told of little children being snatched up like meat by the evil people who roamed around the
inner city. I began to feel a chill creeping in and I knew I had to act fast. Mom, do we have to

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go? I asked. She responded with a smile. I turned to the driver and pleaded with my eyes that he
intervene and suggest another time for this exploit. My efforts were useless, and so we drove on.
I mourned my perfect afternoon as I watched the beautiful trees and lush gardens outside
of town be replaced by dust covered, rain stained buildings and abandoned museums. We were
approaching the border. The streets changed and began getting saturated with people from all
walks of life. In my panic, it dawned on me that we did not have any extra security with us that
day except the driver. Most days we would have, especially venturing into town, but my
mother felt it was not necessary as the original plan involved walking in familiar areas.
Overcome with terrifying scenarios, I closed my eyes as tight as I could to try and ground
myself.
All of my senses were heightened and I was very much aware when the car stopped. I
knew we had arrived when there was a loud click as the key was removed from the ignition. The
drivers door opened and closed ten seconds later signalling, in my mind, the beginning of the
end.
In my pink and white polka-dot dress with white embellished sandals, I commenced my
watch around the vicinity. I made note of every possible entryway into the car, paying close
attention to the unlocked doors. We were at the end of a parking row with the car unconcealed
and facing a city market. To the back was a shopping complex where people walked past, casting
curious glances into the car. Some looks lingered more than others, which made me even more
aware of our unprotected state.
Approximately twenty minutes passed with nothing eventful happening. My mother had
taken up a conversation on her cell phone and I had used that opportunity to try and relax. As I

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sat back in my seat, I watched my mother place her fire orange, leather Hermes bag on the
drivers vacated seat, allowing the suns rays to bounce off the shiny buckle. The drivers
window was still open.
Suddenly, a man in a faded red shirt that had a hole the size of a tennis ball under his
right arm startled us by knocking on the window on my mothers side of the car. Knock-knockknock. He stood, frantically striking the glass, giving the impression that he needed assistance
with an emergency. She rolled her window down approximately 4 inches and tried to engage in a
conversation. Much of the mans speech was muffled and his hands were moving above his head
in wide, uncoordinated motions. I could not comprehend what he was saying but I assumed he
was describing the emergency in an effort to obtain help. Hindered by my lack of understanding,
I left the man to my mother and turned my head towards the drivers seat.
In an instant, everything slowed down and I watched frozen, as a pair of long dark hands
without a body made their way into the car through the drivers window towards my mothers
bag. They clasped across the width of the zipper, covering the designers name. Like a lever, the
hands lifted the bag effortlessly and pulled it towards the window. Driven by a surge of
adrenaline or a death wish, I lunged forward with both my hands, grabbing one of the arms
sticking in through the drivers window with all my strength. My movement startled my mother
and drew her attention from the man in the red shirt, to the commotion on the drivers side.
Suddenly, the body that owned the hands appeared, revealing a tall dark man with eyes so cold
and hard, they pierced through me. He wore an old, oversized, stained pale green shirt that
looked white in the sunlight. His appearance knew no care and his slender frame, though
obviously strong, had only just enough meat.

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A loud cry from a man in the middle of the road broke our wordless exchange and the
man in the pale green shirt dropped the bag back onto the seat. I loosened my grip and he
instantly grabbed my hand. He began to twist my wrist and the pain elicited a broken scream
from my dry throat. My mother grabbed me by the shoulder and threw me back into the backseat
and the man turned to ran away. I sat down, oblivious to the audience we had and watched
through the windshield as a flash of red and pale green disappeared into the market. Minutes
later, as I sat in the emergency room while my mother and the nurse checked me frantically from
head to toe for any injuries, I could not help but smile. I had accomplished something that only
existed in novels I had read. Not only had I gone into town and lived to talk about it, but I had
bagged myself a real thief, well, almost bagged.
The few times that this event comes to mind, I remember it as the moment I began to
grow up. This is not to say that I have completely lost the sense of accomplishment that I had
then, but I do have a greater understanding of what was happening. I am more aware of my
surroundings. I now see the danger my mother and I were in and more importantly, how the
situation could have ended differently. Nonetheless, this understanding only helps me better
appreciate my thinking on the event; each time I close a car window, I consider it my way of
polishing my trophy for being the thief catcher of the day on that Friday afternoon, a feat not
easily accomplished I might add.