Voice Of The Silence

Child Slavery

Child Slavery

It has been exactly ten years to the day now. Ten years since I had started hating the thing, I used to love. Ten years since I had never wanted to hear that cursed word again: Chocolate.

As a child, I used to love chocolates a lot. They were my own personal heaven. Chocolates were the thing that I loved the most on this planet. Chocolate chip cookies...Chocolate Milkshakes...Hot chocolate...Chocolate puddings...And of course, the chocolates! They were my best friends. I could devour several of them in one go! Be it Christmas or be it my birthday, everyone knew the perfect gift for me- Chocolates.

Even a decade long of this life had not hampered my memories of those days. I remember everything with crystal clarity.

My mummy and papa had taken my little sister and me on a little vacation to Africa. I had loved this place. The exotic people, places, animals...they fascinated me. Call it the foolishness of a seven-year-old child or the ignorance of a tourist; I was a victim of my own fascination.

My family and I were walking along a little dusty path in one of the market places. The scorching African sun had set, leaving behind a pleasantly cool weather. The breeze was soothing and the loud noises of people talking in a strange language made me feel like I was in a different world altogether. There were some stalls with people selling some sort of beans. On asking, my father told me that those were cocoa beans. They were the things from which chocolates were made.

I picked up one and put it in my mouth. My face scrunched up in disgust. Was it really possible that something so horrid could be made into something as delicious as chocolates? The thought was nearly impossible to believe. My parents were negotiating with the shopkeeper and looking at the various varieties of the beans, all of which looked identical to me.

I got bored quickly. What was the use of spending so much time to select something from a collection of the same thing? The surrounding was much more interesting to see. I was looking around at the evening, African market place when a strange man caught my attention. He was different; he looked neither like the people back home nor like the people here. I do not know how he was different, he just was. However, what actually caught my attention was the fact that he looking at me and smiling.

I frowned. Mummy had always told me not talk to strangers but it could not hurt, could it? Besides, that man was smiling, so, he must be friendly enough. He raised a hand and beckoned me towards him. My mistake, I slowly slinked away from my parents and towards the man. I had carefully looked up at mummy, papa, and my sister in my pa's arm before moving away from them. Little did I know then that it would be years before I would see them again.

As all things regretted in life, I remembered things from that day very well. I also remembered the incident that was a warning big enough. When I had crossed the dusty road and was going over towards the man, an old woman started shouting out things to me. Her eyes were fearful but I did not understand what she was saying. Pointing at the man, she kept on vigorously shaking her head. I should have known then that that was the time to turn back. But the woman dared not physically stop me and I did not stop on my own.  

That was it. Once I was within reaching distance of the man, he placed a dirty white handkerchief on my mouth and nose. My eyes closed to the life, as I knew it.

When I woke up next, I was in a small, dirty hut. The air smelled of a lot of things that I, at that time, didn't recognize. That time, the stench nearly made me gag. I had trouble breathing through the stink and my eyes watered. Now, however, the smell of manure, human excreta, vomit, blood, burning flesh and such, were quite familiar. That odour met my nose on daily basis. Sometimes, I was the source of them too.