I stopped at the corner that accommodates the Sophia-Stabroek bus park, which as usual, was shadowed in semi-darkness. Motor traffic was stalled because a maniac mini-bus tout was demanding “his space.” With an object in his hand, no one was disputing his claim. But he had the stage and the obviously alcohol-induced imbecile was not ready to take the bow.

Just outside my vehicle’s window a tall, thin man and his female companion whispered conspiratorially pointing at a capacious handbag on a woman’s shoulder. They walked in unison and right away something about the way in which they moved to the crowd and flanked her, signaled that treachery was afoot.
The man was watching the intended victim sideways and the accomplice was swearing and fidgeting unnaturally.

A sliver of some kind of food particle was stuck between two of his teeth and the tip of his tongue was working assiduously to dislodge it. However, he had to resort to an obviously well-used toothpick to complete the job.

Nicotine-stained fingers played with a stringy beard while troubled eyes protruded menacingly. Flared nostrils and a cleft chin completed the foreboding look.
His partner had a perpetually sour expression, and although she appeared too young, the pained look depicted a woman in the throes of some kind of trauma. Unruly hair was held in place by a grimy bandanna; big, protruding ears like sentinels at attention.

She was thin and haggard. Cheekbones that bore evidence of some kind of eczematous scabs, took every opportunity to express their prominence as she fussed and ‘carried on.’
The charade was about to begin. The woman would engineer an argument claiming that the woman with the bag had deliberately ‘mashed’ her foot and damaged her new pair of shoes. In the ensuing ruckus, the slimy companion would intervene in a faked attempt to forestall an altercation. The victim’s bag and/or gold jewelry would then disappear along with the two con artists.

An alarm in the woman’s head seemed to sound, and before the last ring had faded away, she had connected a right fist to the man’s Adam’s apple and registered her right knee onto his private parts.
He grunted in pain, unable to decide which bruised area to clutch in delayed protection. All he could do was fall on his knees then squat gratefully on the wet pavement, his flowered shirt billowing in the sharp night breeze.

The bony vixen in the meantime had rushed forward spitting curses and gobs of saliva which however fell way short of their mark. Kicking and screaming, she attempted to rake the victim’s face with pointed fingernails that had heavy grime around the cuticles.
The victim sidestepped and slapped her hard on the right cheek, before grabbing her behind the neck and effortlessly heaving her into a hillock of industrial garbage that lay scattered and unattended in a gutter.
She heard a noise behind her and spun around to face a new threat, immediately lowering her center of gravity and bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, just in case she had to dodge or move in a hurry.

But she didn’t have to worry. It was Mr. Con scrambling to his feet, beating a hasty retreat unconcerned about his accomplice’s fate.
Capless now, he scratched his bald head, looking like a bemused punter who had just seen a sure winner turn into a certain loser.

The sound of cheers from a small crowd nearby rented the air as the victor used her fingers to brush back into place the few strands of curly brown hair that had strayed from her scalp. Some of the on-lookers were expressing their relief at being rid of the dangerous duo, while others were applauding the ease with which the unflustered young woman had removed an irritant.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” someone intoned.
“You know how many people they set up and rob?” another indignant voice enquired.
“Thank you, Soldier Girl. You’ve done this area a favor.” This from a wizened old woman with a massive reddish-brown wig, balanced precariously on her head.
The mini-bus tout was back to his tugging and pulling.

The female soldier sighed, seeming to accept that some things were unavoidable, even if they demanded a divergence from normative behavior and practice.
She picked up her big bag and a pocket Bible that had fallen out of it.
I was embarrassed. I had done nothing to help the young woman who no doubt would have had sleepless nights while prepared to defend the country and people like the con duo…and me.

I stammered: “Can I offer you a lift?”
A quick once-over and she replied: “No thank you, I’m going to walk.”
She was imbued with confidence. The Bible had lain open at a marked page which began with the words: “Because they trust in Him, He helps them and delivers them from the plots of evil men.”- Psalm 37:40.