From the deck, he thought he could perceive the screams that his family uttered when those men came armed with machetes to their home with the intention of recruiting him to a paramilitary children group. The refusal of his parents was outright and fatal. He ran and ran looking continuously backwards while profuse streams of tears splashed the arid land.
Leaving Somalia in a dilapidated van carrying myrrh resin, among which he could hide himself like a stowaway, he wandered for months on foot in that unknown land.
He survived on the remains of garbage and insects, but his thin body was barely lifting the dust of the road with his twisting feet.
He was tempted to feel joy when a group of slave owners kidnapped him; at least they should feed him to be able to sell their merchandise alive.
After months of captivity and scars on the wrists by the ties, he managed to escape in an oversight and cross the border of Libya, where after a few months, stole enough coins to pay a ticket in a battered boat with fifty more people.
The boat capsized halfway and forty of those people drowned.
When his strength began to leave him and the cold began to numb his thin limbs, he saw a large spot of light in the distance that seemed to approach.
Shivering soaked in seawater, he clung tightly to that photograph of his family, while the first white woman he saw in his life, wrapped him in a warm blanket and a smile.
Two years, six thousand three hundred kilometers and a promise later, he allowed himself to cry again.
All images used in my articles come from Pixabay and are hyperlinked to that page.