CHAPTER 2
I was only two years old when my mother moved to the United Kingdom in search of greener pastures—or so I was told.
Africa, according to her, wasn't taking care of us the way she had hoped it would.
She had a friend there named Sandra who had agreed to let us stay with her until my mother found her footing. Sandra was a kind woman. She welcomed us into her home without hesitation and treated us with a generosity that my mother never forgot.
During the day, Sandra would take me to a daycare center while my mother went out searching for work.
Back then, I spoke only my indigenous language—Silozi. English was foreign to my ears. At daycare, I began learning it slowly, word by word, sentence by sentence. Children learn quickly when survival depends on it.
But survival wasn't easy.
For the first two years we lived in the UK, my mother couldn't find work. Everywhere she went, the same answer greeted her.
They needed someone qualified.
My mother had only studied up to the eleventh grade.
Meanwhile, life around us continued moving forward.
Sandra eventually got engaged to a Hispanic man named Arturo. He lived in Spain, and after their wedding, he planned to take his wife with him.
That meant we would be left alone.
My mother became increasingly stressed about how we would survive without Sandra. At one point, she even suggested returning to Africa.
Sandra refused to hear of it.
Instead, she offered to pay two months' rent for us and left enough money to feed ourselves for several weeks after she moved away.
Looking back now, I believe God did not abandon us completely.
Soon after Sandra left, my mother finally found work as a maid in Hertfordshire.
Her employers requested that we move into their house so she could work full-time.
For my mother, it felt like a miracle. If we moved in, she wouldn't have to worry about rent anymore.
Their house was enormous.
A massive white mansion with polished floors and luxury cars parked outside.
Where I came from, such a place would have been considered a castle.
At first, everything seemed fine.
The couple had two sets of twins.
The girls were Maddy and Madeline, while the boys were Rufus and Rudolph.
The children mostly kept to themselves. But sometimes, they would be rude to my mother, calling her names simply because she was Black.
But Maddy was different.
She was kind.
She would teach me everything she learned at school. She shared her toys with me and even gave me clothes she no longer wore.
Eventually, I stopped attending daycare altogether.
It had become too expensive, and my mother could no longer afford it.
Luckily, I wasn't a slow learner.
Everything Maddy taught me, I absorbed quickly.
But during all the years my mother worked in that house, she never once looked the Atkinsons in the eyes.
She always kept her head down.
At the time, I didn't understand why.
Whenever my mother cooked for the family, Mrs. Atkinson would stand nearby and watch her carefully, as if she feared my mother might poison them.
Even after watching her prepare the food, they would feed a portion to their pet dog first, just to make sure it was safe.
We never ate the same food they ate.
We never used their plates or cutlery.
If we ever ate their food, it was only leftovers.
Anything we touched was burned afterward.
And then… strange things started happening to my mother.
She developed a terrible cough.
A deep, disturbing cough that sounded like it was tearing her apart from the inside.
She began losing weight rapidly.
I was worried, so I asked her what was wrong.
Like most parents trying to protect their child from fear, she smiled and told me she was fine.
But one night, it became impossible to pretend.
My mother became violently sick.
She began coughing up blood.
Not just a little blood—large, horrifying clots.
Maddy ran to tell her parents what was happening.
But instead of helping…
They said it was a Black person's disease.
And that it couldn't be cured.
That night, I watched the life slowly leave my mother's body.
Her breathing became heavy and uneven.
Her chest rose and fell like a storm fighting to stay alive.
Just before she died, she looked at me and said she wanted to tell me a joke.
Her final words were:
"Do you know what scares a white man the most?"
I shook my head.
"A Black woman riding a stallion," she whispered weakly.
"Because he would have to look up at her in order to see her."
At the time, I didn't understand what she meant.
Moments later…
My mother died.
The only person who would have stood before a storm to protect me was gone.
And I was left alone in a world that suddenly felt cursed.
I didn't even get the chance to mourn her properly.
The next day, I buried my mother alone.
The Atkinsons watched from their balcony as I dug the grave with my bare hands.
They offered no condolences.
No comfort.
They simply watched.
They wore black clothing, but I knew it wasn't out of grief.
It was just something they did to convince themselves they weren't terrible people.
Maddy secretly gave me flowers to place on my mother's grave.
I was twelve years old when I buried the only person who had ever loved me.
After that, I replaced her.
I became the maid.
Every morning, I woke up before everyone else.
I heated water for the twins to bathe.
I prepared breakfast and packed their lunches.
Then I cleaned the entire eight-bedroom mansion, scrubbing floors, washing dishes, polishing furniture, and doing everything expected of a servant.
Just like my mother had done.
And just like my mother…
I never looked them in the eyes.
Maddy continued teaching me for a while.
Until one day everything changed.
All the toilets in the house were clogged except mine—the one located outside near my small cabin.
Maddy had explosive diarrhea and had no choice but to use my toilet.
Her sister Madeline saw her and immediately reported it to their parents.
I was severely punished.
They beat me until my body turned black and blue.
Then they starved me.
Apparently, their daughter had come into contact with a disease like mine.
They entered my small room and took all the food I had.
They didn't eat it.
They threw it away.
I wasn't paid for working for them.
I was simply expected to serve.
Even when I was too weak to stand, I still had to do everything.
The Atkinson children were cruel.
I endured their insults, their tantrums, and their endless demands.
Sometimes, if they didn't like what I cooked, they would force me to prepare five different meals until they found something acceptable.
And whatever they didn't finish…
That was what I ate.
One evening, it was drizzling outside.
I had just finished cleaning the house.
Exhausted, I walked back to my small cabin and prepared myself for bed.