I remember.

Cecile, our nanny. Her full embrace. Her kindness. Her infectious bright laugh. I wondered where she lived. Did she have her own family, her own children?

The musty smell of the clapped out non-descript colored, noisy, Renault 4. It felt safe.

The Sabena clinic. The quadriplegic outside our elevator. How did he get there? He was there every morning from sunrise to when the stars came out. He must have lived nearby.

Our apartment. The landing. The story about the burglary. How did he get up there?

Nights full of bad dreams and sweats.

The airport. The chaos. The running.

Waking up in the middle of the night to line up for butter and flour outside the store.

The young babysitter and her friend scaring my baby brother and I, pretending to be ghost elephants. 

Brightly colored, chewy, sweet smelling, addictive gum balls. 

The fun had sticking it in my brother’s hair and then cutting it out. In one big clump. I remember feeling so clever covering up my tracks.

A bee’s nest. Running for our life when we poked it with a stick. Jumping in the pool to get rid of the nasty bees. Little Simon’s legs not being fast enough. His skin covered in red welts.

The mugging. My mum’s screams. Her face ashen. The freezing terror I felt. The smell of stale sweat. The wild look in his eyes. The knife.

The alarming stories I heard, from behind closed doors, of parents being threatened by trucks full of men with big guns. 

The flight to Lubumbashi. My stomach up to my armpits. The heaving and hurling.

The first hotel night. The power cut. The moment you realize your parents aren’t there. Holding hands and protecting my little brother.

Exhausting sickness. Yellow eyes. Stool that’s white. Pee that’s black.

The club house. The pool. Swimming for hours and hours. Water babies. Pale green hair from the mix of bright white hair and too much chlorine.

I remember.