The visitors were divided up into three groups and driven into different galleries after they'd been relieved of their mobile devices.

The group Aishatu Ewaso was in consisted of eight people, plus herself. 

The foreign couple who were clutching onto each other, the husband with his arm wrapped protectively around his wife; a woman in a stylish, purple tracksuit; three tall, slender young people all on the verge of tears, boys as well as girls; and a greying, older gentleman in a slightly worn suit who looked as if he was internally preparing to die.  

They were not commanded to sit on the floor, but were kept close together in a small group in the middle of the gallery.

Aishatu observed and logged every move the men with guns made. 

They were all young. Very young. Their movements betrayed that. But none of them carried their guns as if they were extra limbs. That told Aishatu that they had not lived with them for very long, and if surprised, would possibly not react appropriately. 

The second gallery was short with a central free-standing exhibit piece surrounded by low, glass vitrines. None of them would provide good cover if the man started shooting. The lighting was bright, but indirect. The only exits were the doorway they had come in, and the entrance to the next gallery.

There would be no quiet museum visit today and not in the days following, either. Perhaps even never again. Aishatu shook her head ever so slightly in irritation.  

Yells came from other galleries, and the bark of an occasional gunshot. The hostages jumped at every noise, huddling closer together. Except for Aishatu, who stayed where she was, quietly observing the exhibit pieces in the vitrines nearest to her. 

Or, at least that's what it looked like. 

The man who was guarding them was standing too close. He was nervous, his eyes constantly scanning the small group for signs of defiance, of challenges to his armed authority. 

Suddenly, he seemed to draw back into himself.  Reaching up and touching something hidden in his clothing with his left hand, he said "good" and then returned the hand to his gun. 

He's wired, Aishatu thought, and expected for her group to be ordered to do or go somewhere.  

Nothing happened. 

While the thumping of boots echoed in to where they were, the men seemed in no hurry to do anything with the hostages. 

Why aren't we sitting?  wondered Aishatu. 

She looked down at her watch. 10:05. 

Still nothing happened. The young man with the gun continued to scan his small group of terrified visitors, but Aishatu could see that the waiting was beginning to wear on him and his concentration was waning.  

"You, woman!" The nose of the assault rifle turned in Aishatu's direction, as did the eyes of the group. "Closer to the rest." The rifle jerked left, indicating the direction she should go. 

At that moment, she saw the opportunity the ancestors wanted her to see unfold in front of her. 

Aishatu took a few, calm steps towards the older man in the suit who was on the edge of the hostage group. Without warning, she lunged forward and violently shoved him. The man let out a shout of surprise as he stumbled forward and sideways, tackling  the central display and tipping over with it. 

Following right behind the stumbling man, Aishatu used him to keep out of sight until the very last moment. As he fell, she raced forward and delivered a strong chop with the side of her right hand to the neck of the armed man. Seconds later the central exhibit hit the floor with a crash.  

Aishatu ripped the assault rifle away from the man, who was taken by surprise and clutching at his damaged windpipe, and body checked him into the shattered remains of the display. 

Flipping the gun around, she smashed the butt of it down three times into the man's face, pulverising his nose and splintering his skull between the eyes.