Stolen

Happiness. True happiness lies within you. You will never be happier than you expect; to change your happiness, change your expectations.

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Camilla. I love that name, it is so wonderful. Your father wanted you to be called Xhosa, but I could not let him name you such a thing. He was upset, but in the end we settled for Xhosa to be your middle name. Camilla Xhosa Ballo.  

When I first gave birth to you, I was relieved and happy. The nurses congratulated me on the birth and I thanked them greatly for the help. You looked so beautiful, so…amazing. You had eyes that were a deep brown, but they shined like a star in the night sky. Your hair was jet black and fluffy like a pair of boots. The first second I saw you I loved you dearly. You were the first child I had ever had.

Your father held you in his broad hands while I filled in the birth certificate. I guess this was good seeing as we did not have to argue about what we were going to name you.

The first thoughts your father had of you were, ‘She’s healthy’ and mine were, ‘My first child is beautiful’. The hospital discharged me in the late night, the same day I had given birth to you. Your father and I could not help but admire your prettiness. Those closed eyes of yours were slightly open after a lot of struggling. They looked straight at me all the while we walked to the car, in a wondering manner. It was as if you knew who I was already.

We drove you back home with you in my arms. Your hands tried to wrap around my neck, but you would just continue to clench and unclench your tiny soft hands. From that moment I knew you would turn out to be a mama’s girl.  

She sniffed and wiped her nose with her right hand.

‘Camilla, Grandma asked if you wanted yam and egg for supper,’ Rachel announced; the girl standing at the doorway of her elder sister's bedroom.

Her heart skipped a beat and she hurriedly - but carefully - put the diary back into the metal box before locking it. She nodded at Rachel and kept the box in her arms as if it was a teddy bear. Rachel peered under the bed suspiciously.

‘What is that?’ she asked, scratching her head.

‘Um, I should not see you looking for it!’ Camilla answered. Rachel shrugged and turned away.     

Camilla sighed and pushed the box under her bed with her foot and then jumped onto from her bed to the floor, a huge thudding sound created.  Grandma hated whenever she always did it.

Who cares, she probably didn’t even hear it! An evil voice inside of her said.

She walked into the steamy kitchen, welcomed to the smell of wonderful food. ‘E kaasan ma,’ she greeted to her Grandma. Then she bent down on one knee for a moment and stood up straight again. The woman stopped cutting the thick skin off from the yam and gave a little nod at Camilla and also greeted her back in a brief matter.

‘Camilla, would you like to help me with this food,’ she asked, or maybe more as demanded. The girl grinned and walked over to Grandma.

First of all she went over to the wooden drawer and retrieved a metal cutting knife. Then she grabbed a sweet potato from the blue carrier bag on the kitchen floor and began.

To be truthful, Camilla was not a fan of boiled yam. It tasted unusually sticky in her mouth, and boring. She preferred having it fried, as they were full of many flavours and was deliciously crispy. Maybe this time Grandma would be making it fried.

Looking over at the fryer, she discovered that it was turned off. She looked at the cooker from the corner of her eye to see that the largest hob was on and there was a big metal pot, full of hot bubbling water.

Aw.

Rachel stood near the cooker while she beat the big bowl of egg and seasoning together. Her eyebrows almost joined each other in concentration and her hand went around in awkward lines from stirring it.

For a six year old she was a very good cook. She had just gotten the hang of making plain cakes and could make lasagne, pounded yam, fried rice, jollof rice and much more. When Camilla was six she didn't even know how to make baked apples.

Camilla managed to take care while she cut out the yam by putting her hand in an arch shape.  She remembered a few years ago when she attempted to help prepare the yam that she cut her hand. The cut was so serious that immediately Grandma rushed for a first aid kit from one of the neighbours and cleaned her hands before she thickly bandaged them. Grandma did not let her prepare yam until just around two years ago. It was quite embarrassing.