Dear Diary,
My fa and ba have been killed, in front of my very own eyes. How was this possible? My father was the
strongest man in Bayo, and he married Mama for her strength too. I don’t know what to do. Part of me just wants to wake up from this
bad dream. If not, then at least lie down and give up on life. But I’ve been taught better than this; I’ve
been raised with dignity, and as a freeborn Muslim I have the right to live freely!
Sometimes during our never ending
walk, I wonder what fa and ba would say to me…if they were still
here. “Keep walking!” my father would
say, “Don’t fall!” adds Mama. I try to keep their voices in my head. It is the only sense of comfort I have left,
without clothes or food. Or their very
presence. I imagine drinking mint tea
with them, and the sound of Mama’s laughter as my father would tell captivating
stories weaved together with his charm.
But I cannot do it. Each time
they are overtaken by visions of Mama being beaten with that thick, heavy club.
I keep wondering what I could have done, to save her. I feel helpless, and weak at the knees. Father keeps drifting through my thoughts
too, as the memory of life gushing out of his chest replays over and over in my
head. How do I escape from these
captors? Where will they take me? Will I survive whatever they do to me? These are the questions I keep willing myself
to answer.
If I want to make it through the
long and painful journey I sense beginning, I must trust no one but
myself. That’s what my father would have
said. I cannot trust these toubabu men,
with their strange whiskery hair and colorful eyes. I do not trust those
eyes. Not once have I looked into them,
and seen them staring back. Have they
any mercy, pity or shame? No, they do not.
I know this by what they have already done to me. They’ve killed my parents, and taken me away
from my home land. I keep wondering why
no one from Bayo or anyone of my color is doing anything to stop them.
This stupid boy keeps walking beside me, as gleeful as though he’s making
any money out of this. Does he not sense how wrong this is? Does he not see the
irony in helping white men trap his own people? Whether he does or does not, I
at least hope he realizes at some point that he is in danger too, and that he
escapes before harm comes his way.
While we walked through the night, other captives joined us. In the moonlight, I noticed Fomba’s tilted
head. Then I saw Fanta. Her eyes looked panicked but at the sight of
me, it was replaced with loathing. I
wanted to call out to her, and see if she knew anything about this coming
journey, but she had a cloth stuck in her mouth, and she too was bound by the
wrists. I tried to meet her eyes, but
she would not greet my stare. My gaze
fell on her swollen belly. I guessed
that she was halfway through her pregnancy.
We walked as the sun rose, and
finally reached a river. I willed myself
one last time, with the last bit of hope left in me, to wake up. But there was only an unbearable nightmare
that would not end.
