Two Baskets of Food and a Few Banknotes

Today is 16th October, Friday. This marks the fifth week since our departure from Porto-Novo and the seventh week since we left Lokossa. It is late afternoon and we are yet to receive something to eat. I am hungry - a painfully familiar feeling but combined with fear, it is a million times more unbearable. Yesterday we were told that a pick-up truck would come to take us to the border with Nigeria. It is five of us in the flooded basement of an abandoned building. The tropical rains do not let us sleep in peace and the hunger does not let us stay in peace while awake. I saw rats earlier. This place is hell.

I am Udo, 11 years old. I was born to a family of eight in a small village in Benin, a god-forgotten country in West Africa. I was told that I had three older siblings who I have never seen. They do not have graves so I highly doubt they are dead. I think they were taken by the old man who would visit us from time to time and give us food. My parents always had fear in their eyes when he used to come. I did not like him. Now, I hate him.

I had Dofi and Adaze to play games. Dofi is younger than me, Adaze is my older brother. They were the only people in our village with smiles on their faces. I never saw anyone else smile or express any feelings different from hunger, fear and anger. Our village was small and people were struggling to feed their families. Poverty was common for everyone and there were only two sources of income - selling farming production in the big city and the old man. While I was familiar with how farming worked, I never understood the role and significance of the old man. His presence was petrifying for a lot of the village population. Every time he would come, thankfully not with great frequency, I would lose another friend.

Later I learnt that his name was Mobo and he was Nigerian. For us, the word ‘Nigerian’ was a synonym of money and prosperity. My country was poor while Nigeria, our Eastern neighbour, was one of the most developed countries in our region. When Mobo would come, it meant that we would not be hungry for a while. What confused me was why he would take some of my friends with him when leaving. Last time he took Osaze, my best friend. I could not get used to his absence. If they asked me, I would have chosen hunger instead.

It was late August and we were preparing for the rainy season. Our village was bursting with liveliness and activity. Every year around this time we would throw away the indolence of the hot summer days and get to work. For me, it was a magical time when one cycle would end and a new one would start.

One day during the preparations, Mobo came back with more food and money. His presence managed to vanish all the positivity inside me. He wished to speak to my parents. My intuition told me that it was a bad sign for me. I saw tears in my mum’s face silently falling down her cheeks. I will never forget this day - the day my life changed forever. The song of the birds woke me up early. We skipped breakfast because we had no food and went to look for bananas instead. I was with my siblings and we managed to find enough bananas to bring back home. Each one of us had our hands full. We felt lucky that today we were not going to be hungry. We reached back to our village, my good spirit was crushed - Mobo was there. Even worse - he was speaking to my parents.

After a short conversation with my parents, he opened his truck and took two baskets full of food. He handed my father some banknotes along with the baskets. I was confused. Mobo never gave us anything; it was always other people receiving gifts from him.

Mum took us inside our old house - the only place I knew in this world. I did not know that it would be the last time I would see the old house, my siblings, my parents. Once inside, mum grabbed me and started crying uncontrollably. I could feel her strong embrace and her warm tears falling down her cheeks.

Then I understood - it was my turn. For years I watched Mobo come and take my friends, one by one and now I was the chosen one. I was not ready. Time stopped. I had no words, nothing to say. Just stay in silence and hold mum for eternity. Violent stream of fury was flowing in my veins but all I needed at this moment was mum’s embrace. Memories passed before my eyes and a hurricane of emotions followed when mum let me loose. I heard Dofi and Adaze screaming when dad rushed inside and took me away. I was forcefully thrown inside the truck and we set off to the unknown. All I knew - my loved ones, my family, my friends, my home, my dreams, my youth … - all I knew was slowly drifting away from me.

Soon I understood that crying would not help. I was taken away and Mobo was my master now. I had to be obedient to save my life. Mobo was silent throughout the journey. We stopped in another village and another boy was taken away from his family. The journey ended in a few hours when we reached a big city - Mobo told us it was Porto Novo, the capital. It was the first time I was away from Lokossa and I was scared. I feared the big city, which we were told is full of sin, I feared Mobo and I feared the unknown - my future. What would happen to me now?

We spent two weeks in an abandoned warehouse. Mobo brought more kids, all around my age. Fear and hunger were the two common feelings shared among us. There were no beds so we all slept on the floor hoping not to be woken up by the rats. I thought often about Dofi and Adaze. I prayed for them, the next ones in line. I had dreams of us playing together again. Mum - she never left me, her memory was always with me. Dad rarely crossed my mind. I tried to justify his actions - they need food and money to survive. The same questions, however, always bothered me and distorted dad’s memory - was it worth sacrificing me?

I did not have the chance to contemplate long over this question as we soon set off to the Nigerian border. The journey seemed endless. It was surreal; it felt like a nightmare from which I would wake up. I never woke up.

We were told that we would reach the border in a few days and then wait there. We were each going to be sold to wealthy families. No one spoke during the journey, no one cried. We were drained of all energy and emotions. There were two new people driving us to the border. Mobo stayed in Porto Novo. I understood that his role was to buy children from poor families while the trade with Nigerian families was done by other people.

The journey seemed to never end. Once close to the border, we were separated in several groups and taken in different directions. I and four other kids were placed in a basement in an old abandoned building. There was one small window and no furniture. The walls were painted in dark green and an old painting of Jesus Christ was handing and looking over us.

We were forgotten by God. We were waiting, half-naked and hungry, to be brought to our new masters. I could not separate my eyes from the painting. It was ironic that this place, from all places on earth, had a portrait of Jesus - the saviour. I did not hold any hope within me. There was not a chance of us being saved from here.

Were we going to be forced into physical labour? Were they going to feed us at least? Would I see my parents again? How about Dofi and Adaze?

I had countless questions and no answers.

Today is 16th October, Friday. This marks the fifth week since our departure from Porto-Novo and the seventh week since we left Lokossa. I am Udo, 11 years old. This is my story - I am being traded as a slave to a wealthy family in Nigeria. I was bought for two baskets of food and a few banknotes. For my parents, it was either my life or the prospect of endless hunger and poverty followed by death.

Now I am waiting in the basement of an abandoned building with no furniture apart from a portrait of Jesus. I am about to be sold as a slave.

I am not alone. There are millions of other kids like me forced into slavery in foreign countries. Kids who will never see their parents again. My chapter is shared by victims of human trafficking and modern day slavery, endless tears of innocent children with crushed dreams and no future.

While the rest of the world writes stories of happiness and prosperity, our story is about survival.

* * *

Human traffic, poverty, hunger - a short yet realistic description of life in Africa - the second largest continent in the world. Once home to notable civilizations with remarkable achievements for humanity, Africa today is torn by misery. According to Institute for Security Studies, around 60% of the global population living in poverty is in Sub-Saharan Africa. Africa has turned into the global poverty hub and estimates are that 80% of the countries will be unable to eliminate the issue by 2030.

The home of Udo is the Republic of Benin, formerly known as Dahomey - a small country in West Africa forgotten by the rest of the world. A former colony of France, it gained its independence on 1st August 1960. More than half a century later, the country is suffering from extreme poverty and trying to find its place in the international community.

The Gross National Income per capita in Benin is $2,135. A simple calculation shows that the daily income, before tax, per capita is $5.85. Over 40% of the population (4.5 million people) has to survive with less than $1.90 - the international poverty threshold.

Around 700 million globally live below the poverty threshold with high levels of concentration in Africa. While optimistic trends were being observed recently in terms of tackling global poverty, according to United Nations data the spread of the COVID-19 pandemic resulted in approximately 71 million people being pushed into extreme poverty in 2020. Every one in ten people is below the $1.90 threshold.

In attempts to survive, parents sacrifice their most precious ones - their children.

Laws criminalizing child trafficking in Benin were adopted in 2006. The country, together with Nigeria, is putting efforts in enforcing the legislations, providing greater protections to victims and facilitating co-operations with neighbouring states. Nonetheless, the overall conclusions of international reports is that Benin does not meet the required minimum standards for tackling human trafficking.

The story of Udo is shared by many kids who are forcefully sold and pushed into modern day slavery. Extreme poverty is a global issue and not a problem of a particular region. We, as human beings, cannot continue writing our next chapters while millions of people do not even have a pen and a piece of paper to write their stories. We cannot strive to conquer new galaxies while leaving our own kind to die of hunger.