M.'s story
Sharing this story is like showing myself to the world.
Most people don’t know what I’ve been through; they see me as a different person than the girl in this story. So I’d rather keep my name to myself.
You can call me M.
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Editor’s note: The following story is based on conversations with M. from April 2019. It reflects her views and life at the time, much of which has changed since. The text was edited and collaboratively re-written for clarity with her complete involvement and approval. Most importantly, this remains her story, told in his words.
I lost both my parents when I was young, so I never really knew either of them.
I’m not very close with my family in Nigeria. When my father died, my aunt took my sister and me to Abuja, where my sister stayed with her and I moved in with my aunt’s friend. We’d see each other once every three or four months. I hated being apart.
Then, my aunt’s husband died, and she decided to take my sister back to Delta State, where our family is originally from, to live with our grandparents. I didn’t want to leave my sister alone, so I followed.
When we arrived, they told us that they would only take one of us in. I didn’t want to leave my sister again, let alone with my grandparents. I don’t think our grandparents ever really cared about us they never showed us the affection we deserved as grandchildren – especially my grandmother. I guess it’s because we remind her of my mother. My sister and I refused to be separated again, and we argued with my grandparents. Seeing this, my stepbrother intervened and volunteered to take care of both of us in Benin city.
I had just turned 16 and my younger sister was about 14.
My brother’s wife despised us; she was awful and especially cruel to my sister, which I couldn’t tolerate. We would constantly argue, as I tried to protect her as best I could.
That’s when my stepbrother began to pressure us into travelling to Italy. He told us that he couldn’t afford to take care of us, but that he knew a woman that could arrange work for us in Europe.
At first, I was excited; I thought that it was an amazing opportunity for my younger sister and me to start over and build a new life. But then I heard rumours that the woman was trafficking girls to Europe to work as prostitutes. When I confronted her and my brother about this, she tried to convince us that what awaited us in Italy was legitimate. I didn’t trust her. I refused to go.
However, my sister believed them and insisted that she’d leave no matter what. I begged my brother not to take her, and that if necessary, I would go in her stead. But he gave us no choice: both of us had to go, together.
Our family had abandoned us. No one wanted us. That’s why we left.
JOURNEY
The journey from Nigeria to Italy took just over three months.
We first travelled from Benin city to Kano, then boarding a bus for Agadez, in Niger. We spent about a week in Agadez, after which we crossed the desert into Libya.
The first city we reached in Libya was Sabha. We didn’t stay very long, only a day and night. The following day, we went to a crowded migrant camp somewhere, where we spent about a week. We moved onto the coastal city of Sabratha, where we stopped for another week before arriving at our final destination: the white house.
SABRATHA, Libya
There were thousands there, all waiting to cross to Europe.
I don’t quite know how to describe it. It was part of a large residential area with many houses, all of which were full of migrants. There were thousands there, all waiting to cross to Europe.
The guards were black, like us, and many were Nigerians. They were heavily armed, ruthless and brutal, patrolling the place day and night. They didn’t care who we were, where we came from or what we thought. We weren’t brothers and sisters; to them, we were animals. I saw a lot of bad things happen there.
The day I arrived, a group of guards explained the house rules. One of the chief smugglers, a Libyan, approached me; though he didn’t speak much English, I understood that he wanted me to follow him. But an older woman in our group warned me not to go. I refused, “No, I can’t”. Furious, the smuggler left and came back with a guard, who pointed his gun at me and told me that I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Nothing happened to me, but after that incident, I did everything I could to befriend the guards. I thought that if they saw me as a younger sister, they wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt me.
It worked perfectly. My other friends followed suit, and we were safe until our departure. We were given our own apartment and were mostly left alone. We lived quietly and peacefully, waiting, for around two months.
Then came the night of the crossing.
They didn't care who we were, where we came from or what we thought. We weren’t brothers and sisters; to them, we were animals.
As we waited on the beach, the smugglers divided us into lines of 10. But my sister was stubborn and impatient, so she left ours to join another because its boat was leaving sooner.
My friends and I begged her to stay with our group, but she refused, “No. I’m tired of Libya. I’m leaving as soon as possible”. That was how she left that night, on another boat.
As I was about to leave, the smugglers told us that police had been spotted patrolling the surrounding waters. Sometimes, Libyan police search for departing migrant ships and arrest the passengers, returning them to smugglers – for a fee. Many boats returned that night, but not my sister’s. The next morning, news came that her boat had capsized.
Many boats returned that night,
but not my sister’s.
The next morning, the waves carried their bodies to shore.
I refused to believe that my sister had died despite so many other passengers’ bodies washing up on the beach, and despite the fact that she didn’t know how to swim.
A week or two later, a girlfriend who had left with my sister called me. “I wanted to talk to you”, she said. A group of gangsters called the Asma Boys had found them and taken their engine, leaving them stranded. At some point, their boat’s air chamber burst and the boat began to sink. The only reason she’d survived was that, after swimming aimlessly for 30 minutes, she was found by Libyan fishermen who then brought her back to a smugglers’ hideout. Every other person on board the boat had drowned. She was sorry that she couldn’t help my sister.
My sister was so intelligent and sweet. I don’t know why she had to die.
Nowadays, I try not to think about it too much. It’s all in the past, now.
THE CROSSING
I shut out the fear.
When I stood on that beach for a second time a few weeks later, I was terrified. My sister had died so senselessly, and the same could happen to me.
Night had fallen and all I could see on the horizon was the empty, black sea. So I prayed. “I don’t want my family to end with me. My parents and sister are gone, so I’m the only one left. I have to live”. So I shut out the fear.
There’s a scripture that says something like “A thousand may fall around me and a thousand my fall at my right hand but they will not come near me” (roughly Psalm 91:7). I decided to believe that if others were able to cross the Mediterranean Sea, then I would as well. I believed that I would survive to spread the words of the Lord. And to this day, I hold that belief.
We left Libya at around 7:00 p.m.
People all around me were crying, but I just kept telling myself “I’m going to survive. We’re not going to die”. I was so confident that nothing would happen that I decided to sleep. I was sitting with my friends, who protected me and allowed me to lay comfortably throughout the night. At around 6 a.m., my friends woke me up, shouting “We can see rescue boats! Wake up! Wake up!”.
I was relieved but torn between my grief for my sister and the joy of being safe. I still miss her so much.
ITALY
We disembarked in Agrigento, in Sicily.
I was 16, so I was taken to a temporary home for minors nearby, in Palma di Montechiaro. The reception centre wasn’t just for migrant children; there were also Italian ones, too. We were 14 in all, including five African girls. It was a beautiful place; a spacious apartment, kind of like the group home I currently live in, Adesso Noi. We were made to feel at home; the rooms were well decorated, painted with beautiful colours, and the kitchen was great. I loved it there.
It’s where I first started going to school in Italy. They were a bit strict, though, always keeping an eye on us. When the staff would tell us to do something, we’d have to do it. When they would refuse a request, that was their final answer. We didn’t have much of a choice but to do as they said. If we complained about the food because we weren’t used to Italian cooking, they would just tell us to go to bed on an empty stomach. And we could only go out for a couple of hours at a time.
People here at Adesso Noi listen to us, try to understand and speak with us. They know when you're happy, they know when you're sad, they know when you're joking, they know when you're not.
It took me some time to adjust to life in Italy. When I first arrived, it was a bit frustrating because I wasn’t used to the food and I couldn’t communicate with anybody. But as time went on, things got better. I studied Italian and discovered that it came easily to me. Now I speak it well. It’s dope.
I even made a few friends, there. At school, I met Irrfan, a nice twenty-something Pakistani guy. Even now, we still talk on the phone for hours at a time.
But as I was adjusting to Italy, I had to deal with the traffickers who had brought me there.
She started calling me, harassing me, even threatening to kidnap, kill or have me deported.
The Nigerian woman who sent me off has a sister in Italy, whom I had agreed to meet. Obviously, I suspected that she would force me to sell myself, so I had no intention to do so. Once I refused to comply, she became increasingly aggressive. She started calling me, harassing me, even threatening to kidnap, kill or have me deported. Then her sister began to call me, too. I told them that I held them responsible for my sister’s death and that there was no way I would ever work for them, let alone become a prostitute. If they wanted anything from me, they would have to bring my sister back. I was scared of those women, but I knew that they couldn’t go through with any of their threats. They were just regular women, like me.
Meanwhile, at the group home, I would just smile and pretend everything was fine. People there never suspected what I was going through.
I told all of this to Nicole, a woman working with the IOM (International Organization for Migration, the UN’s refugee agency). She explained to me how trafficking networks would smuggle African girls into Italy and force them into prostitution; she showed me videos and told me stories of different girls to whom this had happened.
With Nicole’s help, I denounced the women to the police, providing their contact information and telling them everything I knew. The women stopped calling after that.
Eventually, I was transferred to Palermo, which is where I live now.
PALERMO, Sicily
We’re seven girls in this apartment, called Adesso Noi. The adjacent apartment, called Vela Grande, is run by the same staff and only houses boys.
I’ve been here for a year and a few months.
I like it here because there are fewer restrictions than there are at most reception centers. We can mostly do whatever we want. I have friends living in other residences and reception centers, and they don’t have the freedom we have here.
We’re allowed to cook for ourselves, to go out. We can request things we need. When we need someone to talk to, like a psychologist, the staff here makes arrangements for us. It’s really nice here. We can express ourselves. We can talk to the staff if we’re angry. They’re so kind. If something really bothers or upsets us, they’ll always do their best to help. They’re like mothers to us, especially Anna and Alessandra.
It can be difficult to live with so many different kinds of people, sometimes.
In Africa, I didn’t really like being around people. I didn’t have many friends, didn’t speak much and mostly just minded my own business. So, when I arrived here, it took me some time to adapt.
My best friend here is Majesty. Next year, she’ll turn 21 and will have to leave the apartment. I’m not sure what life is going to be like without her. She’s the only person I feel like I can completely open up to.
Living here has helped me grow, too. With so many different people and characters, I discover and experience new things all the time. I’m learning how to relate to others and appreciate our differences. I’m beginning to understand that what I like might not be right for others and that people have different ways of thinking, different ways of seeing things.
There are chores to do here, and everyone takes their turn. Every Tuesday, I clean the house and wash the toilet – which I hate. And every Sunday, I clean the fridge and wash the dishes.
We’re learning to become self-sufficient now so that by the time we move out, we’ll be ready to live on our own. This is what matters most to me: that by the time I leave here, I’ll be an independent woman.
My life is all about lessons, learning every blessed day.
I learned how to bake cakes and other pastries when I was in Africa. Since I was little, it’s always been my dream to be a great pastry chef.
Maybe I got it from my mom, even if I never knew her. I guess I was 4 years old when she died, so I don’t remember much about her. She was a caterer. Friends and family told me stories about her, so I guess that’s where I got my passion for baking from. I was actually a few months into a catering course when I left Nigeria.
I love being in the kitchen and baking things with flour; mostly cakes, cookies, and pastries. And I love the oven. I love creating recipes, too.
So when I arrived in Palermo, I registered at Euroform, a trade school that offers catering classes. My program focuses on pastry-making, baking, pizza-making and catering in general. I was so happy when I was accepted. I thought that if I studied hard, I could become a great chef.
But recently, I’ve become a bit concerned about getting a job later on. I’m 18 years old now and can stay at Adesso Noi until I turn 21 – in three years time – after which I need to have found an apartment and a steady job so I can live on my own. But my program at Euroform lasts three years as well, which wouldn’t give me enough time to find a job to support myself by the time I have to leave.
If continue my current studies, all I’ll be left with after three years is a certificate – which, by itself, doesn’t guarantee anything – without a job or savings. The last thing I want is to end up on the street, so I’m discussing this with the school and trying to find a solution. Unfortunately, I’m thinking of switching to waitressing because it’s an easier job to find in Sicily. It’s kind of stressful. I love my program so much.
I can’t go back to Nigeria.
Since I was trafficked as a minor, I was granted an EU passport and five-year international protection for reasons of political asylum. That means that I’m in danger in my home country and I can’t really go back. As a result, I no longer have a Nigerian passport.
I’ve mostly stopped speaking to people in Africa. I think I needed a clean break from my past. I’ve changed a lot since I left. My entire life has changed. I just want an easygoing, uncomplicated life, without too many friends. At the moment, I need to focus on myself, so I’ll be able to achieve what I want.
I don’t really speak to my family. Sometimes, I’ll chat with my stepsister on Facebook. If they need anything and there’s any way I could help, I’ll do what I can. But for now, I have to focus on my own future.
I care a lot about other people, but sometimes, it seems like the more I try to help, the more I get hurt. Life isn’t always fair. You can give some people attention, give them love, try to help them, but at the end of the day, they can still betray you.
So, I’m a bit more guarded about making friends these days. There are good people out there. I’m sure I can find friends I can trust, but those are hard to come by. For now, I don’t want new friends.
I just want to have a good, stable job that pays well, my own apartment, and the opportunity to continue my studies. And after that, I’ll be able to help my family.
I want to be a successful career woman who can afford to help people in need, people who are worse off than me. I’d particularly like to support orphans because I remember what it was like growing up.
I know what it’s like to grow up without loving parents, and I believe that there are many children in orphanages or in the street who need help, just like I did. So, I want to work hard, make something of myself and contribute to my community. It’s hard, though.
I’m 18 years old. I know I’m young, but I still feel a responsibility to care for others.
I don’t regret coming here, because I believe that it’s for the betterment of my future. I believe that every successful man or woman out there was once in a situation that was worse than the one I’m in right now.
I have to believe that everything is going to be fine and my current struggles are just part of my life story.