The tape around her wrists was too tight, but the panting of her heart in the silent room was far worse.
Hephzibah Diarra sat trembling in the corner of a dimly lit warehouse, in the middle of God-knows-where. The stifling silence was occasionally interrupted by the shuffle of her captors’ boots. She was only fifteen, but she understood one thing clearly; this was all because of her father.
Mahmoud Diarra was the Minister of Internal Security, the man who gave speeches about justice, yet secretly eliminating journalists and activists, and anyone else who dared speak out against the corrupt government in Mali.
They nicknamed him “the butcher in a suit.” Hephzibah had dismissed them as mere rumours but now, she wasn’t so sure.
The man guarding the door had a deep scar across his cheek and with eyes that spoke volumes— tired enough to belong to someone twice his age, someone who had seen worse days. He didn’t speak to her—none of them did—but his gaze wasn’t cruel, just hollow.
Seven days had passed since the black SUV she was returning from school in was intercepted by a group of armed "hoodlums" in broad daylight. Everything had happened at the speed of light. A cloth over her mouth. Darkness. She screamed only once before everything went silent.
A new man entered the warehouse—heavyset but sharp, with a leather jacket and a phone in his hand. He stopped in front of her.
“What is your name?” he asked calmly.
“Hephzibah.”
“You know why you’re here?”
“Yes. You want my father,” she whispered as she lowered her gaze.
A faint smile. He nodded. “Your father has money and connections, but we want him to answer for the long list of people he killed and buried under his useless ambition. We want him to answer for it.”
“Will you kill me?” she asked fearfully.
The man laughing drily. “That depends on him.”
They called her father that evening. She heard every of their conversation and then they made her speak with him briefly.
“We are not joking ,” said the man with the phone. “We are not asking for your filthy money.Your sins for her life. We want a confession, on video, publicly.”
Her father’s voice crackled through the speaker, cold and composed. “You are mad to think I would bargain with you on any ground. I do not negotiate with criminals.”
And the line went dead.
Hephzibah’s heart splintered. The room was so quiet she could hear the hum of insects outside. No bargaining. She couldn't believe it— her father considered her an expendable?
The leader continued to stare at the phone.
“So that’s it?” another kidnapper muttered. “He won’t even try?”
“This man is not a father,” another spat.
That night, the guard with the scar heard her muffled cries and came closer. He placed water and a piece of bread near her, hesitating before he spoke.
“Will you kill me because my father won't negotiate with you?” she whispered.
The guard exhaled. “He won’t trade, it's a very complicated situation, I'm afraid.”
Tears spilled from her eyes even as she tried so hard to hold them back. “Then do it now and save me the torture.”
He looked at her with something akin to shame. “Not everyone in this place wants you dead. Some of us… we never signed up to kill children. We came here to change Mali, not to become monsters. My brother was a journalist. He had just become a father. His wife was still in the hospital, but he never made it home, never cuddled his baby.”
“My father...., her voice trailed off.
He said nothing but his eyes said it all. He left without answering.
---💠
Hours later, when everyone else slept, he returned. He cut her ties, gave her a hooded jacket and whispered: “There’s a back door. The others won’t wake before dawn. Walk straight until you hit the road.”
She stared at him. “You’ll be in trouble.”
He shrugged. “Don't worry about me.”
She stepped outside and ran. Past thorny bushes which scratched her tender skin. She ran through the icy cold of the night, never stopping for one moment, until she saw headlights on the highway. A truck slowed. The driver, an old man with kind eyes, helped her climb in.
With his phone, she dialed the only number she could remember by heart—her aunt in Bamako. As the truck rumbled toward the city, she watched the stars overhead, with a heart of gratitude... Then she thought about how easy it was for her father to leave her behind.
A month later.
She stood by a road in Bamako, waiting for school bus. She slowly exhaled.... Freedom was sweet. Her hair was tied to the back, her uniform clean and her back straight.
She still woke up sometimes in a cold sweat, hearing the sound of insects. But she was healing.
Mahmoud Diarra — her father had been arrested, massive exposé files had been leaked, implicating him in human rights abuses and multiple murders. He would be made to face the consequences.
She thought of the compassionate guard with the scar. She didn’t know his name. But she remembered him everyday and always whispered “thank you” into the wind.
As the bus approached, she stepped forward. Her aunt once told her healing would be a long road.
Hephzibah took one deep breath and began to walk it.
Image is AI generated.
🌸My Motto is: work at making myself proud of myself.🌸
Thank you very much for taking time to read me. Have a wonderful day!
