As we neared our destination, the guards, safely ensconced behind a secure door at the front of the bus, insisted on quiet. Bryah hadn’t spoken for some time. An unceasing tremor vibrated throughout her body. Otherwise, her glassy eyes just gazed forward. The bus rolled up to a set of large, ornate gates, built in a bygone era. From a small booth raised ten feet off the ground, like a tollbooth on stilts, a prison guard nodded at the driver and punched a button that opened the gates. I watched them close behind us as we entered the facility. I was now in prison. The bus passed an open area that you’d call a prison yard, if a yard consisted solely of asphalt. It was like a sidewalk the size of half a football field. About a hundred women, most huddling in groups, most smoking cigarettes. Some were kicking around a soccer ball. Others strolled the perimeter, next to the twenty-foot fences. The prison was mostly brick, five stories high, the top four of which housed the inmates. It was divided into four blocks—A through D—one of which we approached as the bus came to a stop.
