Child Escapes Slavery in Benin

By Lane Hartill

When Marie was 4 years old, her father sold her for $330.

He needed the money. And besides, he had other children. He didn't bother to tell his ex-wife, Marie's mother. She found out when she returned to the village one day to see her children, and Marie wasn't there.

Marie was too young to understand what was happening. The woman who bought her was a market trader and Marie was her whipping girl. She did what was asked of her. She worked long hours cleaning the woman's house and washing her children's clothes. Marie's life became a rhythm of monotonous labor and cold directives. But all that would pale and seem easy compared to what would soon happen.

Antoinette Badou is the head of the Father Benito Ibaretta Home for Young Girls in Bohicon, Benin, a center for rescued girls who have been trafficked. She says in Benin, there's a tradition of giving a daughter to relatives who may be financially better off than the girl's own family. They often work long hours, but they are never maliciously mistreated. This type of servitude is common throughout West Africa as a way to prepare girls for the rigors of adulthood. But there's a difference, Antoinette says, between tough love and abuse.

"At the same time as the person is hard on you, you feel they still love you, they value you, [they] want the best for you, [they] want you to succeed in life," says Antoinette. "This is for your own good so you know how to confront life. But when it's suffering pure and simple, when one is evil for the sake of being evil…" Her voice trails off, her face curling into a scowl.

Antoinette works with people like this, the ones who deal in children. They buy and sell them like bags of beans. She's met the parents who hawk their daughters for cash to become vidomégon, or domestic workers. The police and city officials know her well. When the station wagons full of young girls try to cross the border into Nigeria, the customs officials call Antoinette.

She tells parents: Times have changed; laws are on the books now and it's illegal to do what your grandparents may have done.

"It's not that parents are malicious," she says, "it's just ignorance."

Antoinette is up against daunting statistics. The United Nations and the Benin Ministry of Family and Children say some 40,000 children between the ages of 6 and 17 were trafficked in Benin in 2006. Ninety-two percent of the children were trafficked inside the country.

"When [parents] have a lot of children in their arms, they have a hard time caring for them. But instead of finding a strategy to take on their responsibility, they shirk their obligation by sending their children elsewhere," she says. "I call that giving up. They call it poverty."

Out of Options

The woman who bought Marie had a son, who at the time was close to 20 years old. He tried to rape Marie when she was 9. Marie cried and ran toward her owner, hoping for protection. Antoinette says the woman told Marie: I bought you for $330. You let my son do what he wants with you or you pay me back my $330. Then she beat her.

At that moment, something clicked in Marie's mind: This woman isn't a relative; my father sold me. She'd been worked like a slave for years, beaten and never given an ounce of affection. Out of options and with no one to turn to, she let the son rape her. It happened more than once.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She had to escape.

Marie's birth mother got wind of where her daughter was being held. She showed up with gifts—corn, cassava and a chicken—hoping that they would break the ice with the woman. She went back again to pay her respects and grease the wheels before asking for her daughter back. On the third visit, Marie's mom asked to take Marie home. The woman didn't give an inch.

I bought Marie from her father, she said, so I don't know you. I don't see the girl's father, she continued, so Marie goes nowhere.

Marie didn't recognize her mom. And the mom didn't recognize her daughter. When the woman revealed that Marie was standing before her, mother and daughter both started to cry.

Marie's Escape

The woman must have sensed the urgency in Marie. She must have known Marie was going to flee. But Marie wouldn't be stopped. Her aunt—her mom's sister—helped her escape from the woman's house.

She made it back to her home village. After five years, Marie was home. But there were no hugs or tears or welcomes. Villagers started in on her almost immediately. They asked her how she could have done such a thing. How could she disobey her father like that and run away? There was only one solution, the villagers said: She'd have to go back.

But Marie wouldn't think of it. The only way out was to take her own life. She fled the village before they could bundle her back to that woman. She went to a nearby river and sat contemplating suicide. As she thought about drowning herself, a man walked by. He asked her what she was doing. All those years of misery brewing inside her finally came pouring out. She teared up and broke down. She told this complete stranger everything. He took her to a nearby priest. The priest brought her to Antoinette.

Safe Haven

When Marie arrived at the Catholic Relief Services-supported center for trafficked girls, Antoinette says she didn't talk much. She didn't like men. But she found solace in the other girls. Like Chantal, who was trafficked young and was beaten when the children of the woman she worked for messed up the house Chantal had just cleaned. Mina, another girl, was beaten with a strap. It's not uncommon for girls to come to Antoinette with scars.

Marie is better now. But when Marie is with people she doesn't know and she has to think about her past, she studies her hands. Her sad eyes avoid contact with strangers.

She says she enjoys the center's French classes three times a week. She and the other girls also take classes in African culture, moral education and human rights, all taught in the local Fon language. At night they dance the Ajobaba, a traditional dance that involves pulsing beats and swinging arms.

All these things Marie was never able to do. But the girls' biggest gain: a director who loves them. They have Antoinette, a jovial woman, who favors snappy outfits with shimmery shirts and likes to joke with the girls. She's the mom and sister and friend they wished they'd had all those years. But she's no pushover. She will talk tough to the girls about boys and responsibilities. The girls know who's boss.

Marie sits on a stool as a girl parts her hair. Two crosses hang from Marie's neck. Her eyebrows are painted on and she's wearing a T-shirt that says University of Love. Soft locks of hair fall in different directions across her forehead. Another girl's hands hover over Marie's head, the teeth of her comb separating quadrants of hair for extensions to be woven in. They are learning hairdressing. Other girls at the center learn to sew or do metalwork or raise rabbits. Marie's acting as the customer today, being treated like a queen. The girls around her chatter like a charm of finches.

Someday Marie may decide to get married. Maybe she'll even have a daughter of her own. But one thing is for sure: No matter how bad things get, no matter how poor or desperate she becomes, her daughter will never be sold. Not to a stranger. Not for $330. Not for anything.

Pseudonyms were used for all trafficked girls in this story to protect their identities.

Lane Hartill is the West Africa regional information officer for Catholic Relief Services. He is based in Dakar, Senegal.