I want to sleep, but it’s cold in here. I can’t stop shivering. I wish I had a blanket. I wish I was back home. It’s never cold there; the sun is so big that it fills the sky and you can barely breathe in the heat. I don’t like it here in the dark – it scares me.

When I’m afraid, I think of the beach at Grand-Bassam, playing on the sand with my brothers. We spent the summer there with Grandpa. He loved my dancing. He said it wore him out just watching me. We danced every night to reggae on the radio, me and the boys. I don’t think I can dance now. I can barely walk, my legs are so stiff.

The boys didn’t want to go back to school, but I didn’t mind, not really. I liked my teacher; she called me her ‘little star’. Mamma, you were so proud, you tied ribbons in my hair to match my school dress. I used to play skipping games with my friends, where we’d sing along and take turns. And hopscotch in the dirt; we did that for hours. I don’t play much anymore.

In November Aunt Marie came. I remember her smart clothes; Papa said she was rich. She wanted to take one of us to France. We could go to school there, have a better life. We all wanted to go. We put up our hands, all seven of us, even my baby sister. Aunt laughed and picked me. She liked me; she said I was clever and full of life.  

I was so excited. We went to the hairdresser’s Mamma, just you and I. They braided my hair with coloured threads. You hugged me for a long time and told me I was beautiful. You said that people were chic in Paris so I wore my favourite dress. Papa said that Abidjan was ‘the Paris of West Africa’ so I’d feel at home there. I smiled when I waved good-bye. She promised to bring me
home next Summer and I knew it wouldn’t be long.
 
She lied Mamma. She shaved off all my hair. I cried but she wouldn’t stop. She made me wear a wig to hide the scars from the cigarettes. She burns me and beats me, hits my toes with a hammer. I can’t feel them any more. I try to be good, but she says I’m a wicked girl.

I’m very thin now Mamma, I don’t get much food. She’s tied up my hands so I have to eat like a dog. The food sticks to my face, but she never washes it off. She calls me a filthy sinner. I think of all the nice things you cooked for my birthday; maquis with attieke, I can smell it now. And my favourite, aloco; I can taste the spices and I feel that you are near. I know you pray for me
Mamma, but God can’t hear you. Perhaps he can’t see me here in the dark.

She says I am the Devil. She locks me up and I can’t go to school because she has thrown away my clothes. I’m so scared of her that I mess myself. I‘m ashamed Mamma. She makes me lie in a bin-bag like rubbish. She keeps me in the bath because I’m dirty, but it hurts my back to lie here all the time.

A lady came round here this morning; she shouted through the letter box, but I was too afraid to shout back in case Aunt heard me. She‘s been here before. She asked Aunt a lot of questions, but she didn’t ask me. I had to put on a pretty dress and play with some toys; I’d never seen them before. Aunt took away my dolly, the one you gave me. I don’t know where she put her.

I thought the lady would fetch you Mamma, but you never came. She didn’t notice my bruises or my punched-out teeth. I think she is blind. Perhaps you are looking for me, but I am so different now. I’m not pretty like I was in the photos we sent you last Spring. I hope the lady comes back soon.

Grandpa told me a story that when someone dies their spirit returns to their family. Maybe I will be home in Abobo soon. I will play in the dirt with my brothers and sisters, but I will leave no footprints.

Quote: “Death is not darkness, but a light which is switched off because there is a daybreak.”

 Berthe and Francis Climbie.