At fourteen years of age, I pull out seagulls from my exercise books. Grass is growing on my body, and I keep discovering the harbours in myself. At this age I am ready to fly away, and the girls of our neighbourhood often enter my mind.



This was the age when revolution sneaked up on my body. Just as with others, the clouds fell into my hands, and trees followed me. God was different, and our neighbours plunged their hands into henna. But I had sadness flowing within me, and happiness seemed a stranger. The darkness of my skin was an omen of early silence.