held me hostage for ten hours and then cut off my hands. I now live at Aberdeen with my cousins Adamsay, Ibrahim, and Mohamed, who were also in the Manarma attack. They don’t have hands either.”
“How old is your baby?” the red-haired woman asked.
“His name is Abdul,” I replied. “He’s five months old.”
My first interview with the media lasted about 15 minutes. The representative then led the journalists on a tour of the camp, asking me to follow behind. At one point he directed me to stand still, with Abdul in my arms, so that the photographers could take pictures of me. I remember it well. My bare feet were caked in mud; a dog barked wildly in the background; behind me was a clothesline.
The camp official slipped a few leones into my arms and said he would call for me again.
It would be many years before I read the articles written about me that day and in the days to come. Every one of themwould come back to haunt me. The journalists all said the rebels had raped me and that I had conceived Abdul during the attack on Manarma.
CHAPTER 12
“He’s sick, Mariatu,” Marie said. “He’s very sick. The doctor says Abdul needs a blood transfusion or he might die.”
Abdul was now about 10 months old. Over the past few weeks, his stomach had become swollen, so swollen he looked as if he was carrying a small baby inside. At first I thought he was getting fat from my milk. But he really wasn’t taking in as much milk as he had when he was younger. He’d also started crying more and more.
A nurse at the camp clinic gave Abdul a needle with some vitamins that were supposed to make him healthy. We went to see her every day, but the needle wasn’t helping. Abdul’s stomach got bigger and his face grew puffy. His legs had lost their baby fat. He was so skinny in some places and so fat in others that he looked distorted.
When the nurse first told me that Abdul was suffering from malnutrition, I started eating as much as I could, hoping I could make my milk more nourishing. I ate so many spoonfuls of rice that I felt I’d throw up. I stopped going out to beg with Adamsay and Mabinty, and spent all my time with Abdul at the camp. I’d cradle him in my arms until he fell asleep. I evensang to him—very softly, since I didn’t want anyone else to hear my bad singing voice.
But nothing I did seemed to make a difference. One day, the nurse said we needed to take Abdul to the hospital.
Abibatu, Marie, and Fatmata came with me. We were back at Connaught, but in a different ward—this one was for babies—than where I stayed when I first arrived in Freetown.
“If Abdul dies, it will be all my fault,” I thought. “I should have loved him more.” In between being angry at myself, I tried to figure out how I could get enough money for the blood transfusion he needed. “I could go out and beg,” I said to myself, “pleading with anyone who walks my way. I could get my cousins to do the same. We could steal the money from the fabric salesman.”
Then a rational thought poked its way in. Father Maurizio, the Italian priest who had given me all of Abdul’s clothes: I would go to see him. Fatmata, Abibatu, and Marie approved of my plan. I kissed Abdul on the forehead and then I was off.
I ran faster than I ever had, out of the hospital, through the packed, market-lined streets of Freetown, down toward the ferry, and straight to the compound where Father Maurizio lived.
“I need your help,” I gasped when I saw him. Father Maurizio looked at me wide-eyed as I blurted out my reason for coming.
“Okay, Mariatu,” the priest said. “Let me see what I can do.”
Father Maurizio provided shelter at his mission for boys and girls who were separated from their families. He had access to wealthy people back in Italy who shipped him clothes and other necessities and wired him money for various programs.
The priest offered me a cup of water, then asked one of his staff to drive me back to the
“How old is your baby?” the red-haired woman asked.
“His name is Abdul,” I replied. “He’s five months old.”
My first interview with the media lasted about 15 minutes. The representative then led the journalists on a tour of the camp, asking me to follow behind. At one point he directed me to stand still, with Abdul in my arms, so that the photographers could take pictures of me. I remember it well. My bare feet were caked in mud; a dog barked wildly in the background; behind me was a clothesline.
The camp official slipped a few leones into my arms and said he would call for me again.
It would be many years before I read the articles written about me that day and in the days to come. Every one of themwould come back to haunt me. The journalists all said the rebels had raped me and that I had conceived Abdul during the attack on Manarma.
CHAPTER 12
“He’s sick, Mariatu,” Marie said. “He’s very sick. The doctor says Abdul needs a blood transfusion or he might die.”
Abdul was now about 10 months old. Over the past few weeks, his stomach had become swollen, so swollen he looked as if he was carrying a small baby inside. At first I thought he was getting fat from my milk. But he really wasn’t taking in as much milk as he had when he was younger. He’d also started crying more and more.
A nurse at the camp clinic gave Abdul a needle with some vitamins that were supposed to make him healthy. We went to see her every day, but the needle wasn’t helping. Abdul’s stomach got bigger and his face grew puffy. His legs had lost their baby fat. He was so skinny in some places and so fat in others that he looked distorted.
When the nurse first told me that Abdul was suffering from malnutrition, I started eating as much as I could, hoping I could make my milk more nourishing. I ate so many spoonfuls of rice that I felt I’d throw up. I stopped going out to beg with Adamsay and Mabinty, and spent all my time with Abdul at the camp. I’d cradle him in my arms until he fell asleep. I evensang to him—very softly, since I didn’t want anyone else to hear my bad singing voice.
But nothing I did seemed to make a difference. One day, the nurse said we needed to take Abdul to the hospital.
Abibatu, Marie, and Fatmata came with me. We were back at Connaught, but in a different ward—this one was for babies—than where I stayed when I first arrived in Freetown.
“If Abdul dies, it will be all my fault,” I thought. “I should have loved him more.” In between being angry at myself, I tried to figure out how I could get enough money for the blood transfusion he needed. “I could go out and beg,” I said to myself, “pleading with anyone who walks my way. I could get my cousins to do the same. We could steal the money from the fabric salesman.”
Then a rational thought poked its way in. Father Maurizio, the Italian priest who had given me all of Abdul’s clothes: I would go to see him. Fatmata, Abibatu, and Marie approved of my plan. I kissed Abdul on the forehead and then I was off.
I ran faster than I ever had, out of the hospital, through the packed, market-lined streets of Freetown, down toward the ferry, and straight to the compound where Father Maurizio lived.
“I need your help,” I gasped when I saw him. Father Maurizio looked at me wide-eyed as I blurted out my reason for coming.
“Okay, Mariatu,” the priest said. “Let me see what I can do.”
Father Maurizio provided shelter at his mission for boys and girls who were separated from their families. He had access to wealthy people back in Italy who shipped him clothes and other necessities and wired him money for various programs.
The priest offered me a cup of water, then asked one of his staff to drive me back to the
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