Laila's Suffering (version english)

Laïla was born under a lucky star—at least, that’s what everyone used to say. Her father, Mamadou Diallo, a respected businessman, and her mother, Aïssata, an elegant and loving woman, had given her a golden childhood. Their villa, located in one of Conakry’s upscale neighborhoods, was always lively: laughter echoed through the hallways, music floated in the air, and the aroma of the refined dishes prepared by their cook wrapped the house in comforting warmth.

— Laïla, come quickly! Dinner’s ready! Fatou, the cook, would often call out, her warm voice carrying from the kitchen.

— I’m coming! the little girl would reply, running down the long corridor, her small sandals clapping against the cold marble floor.

Every morning, Laïla woke to the soft murmur of coffee brewing in the kitchen and her father’s animated phone conversations. Sitting at the edge of her bed, she listened to the familiar sounds that filled her days—the muffled laughter, the rustle of newspapers, the clinking of porcelain cups. All these sounds made up the comforting melody of her childhood.

— Grandma, will you tell me the story of the princess of the Niger River again? Laïla would ask on the evenings when her grandmother came to visit.

— Of course, my dear, the old woman would reply, settling into the big armchair in the living room, her colorful pagne neatly tied around her waist. Listen carefully…

And the soft, rhythmic voice of the old woman would rise under the dim glow of the lamps, while Laïla, nestled against her mother, absorbed those ancestral tales that fueled her imagination.

Her father, on the other hand, preferred stories about the world of business and travel. In the evenings, after dinner, he liked to sit on the terrace with a cup of tea and share with his daughter his memories of youth.

— You know, Laïla, the world is vast, very vast. One day, you too will travel far from here, he would say, pointing to the stars.

— Far, like to Europe?

— Yes, maybe. Or even to America. But never forget where you come from. Guinea is your land, your heritage.

Those precious moments between father and daughter remained forever etched in Laïla’s memory. She admired her father—an imposing, wise man who commanded respect. Her mother embodied gentleness and tenderness, always ready to shower her daughter with kisses and kind advice.

— Laïla, my princess, don’t run so fast! You’ll tear your dress again! Aïssata would say, laughing as she tried to catch her daughter in the garden.

— But Mama, I want to catch the blue butterfly! It flew that way!

— Come here, little adventurer, her mother laughed, grabbing her and kissing her on the cheek.

Their garden, lush and colorful, was Laïla’s kingdom. Beneath the shade of mango and flame trees, she spent hours chasing butterflies, climbing trees, and inventing stories filled with princesses and brave heroes.

But life, fickle and cruel, abruptly tore that happiness away. One night, while the house slept peacefully, the shrill ring of the phone shattered the silence. Laïla woke with a start and heard her mother’s hurried footsteps down the stairs.

— Hello? Who is this? Aïssata asked, her voice trembling.

A silence. Then a piercing scream.

— No! No, it can’t be! Mamadou! Oh my God, Mamadou!

Laïla ran downstairs, barefoot, her heart pounding wildly. At the bottom, she saw her mother kneeling, the phone clutched to her chest, her face soaked in tears.

— Mama? What’s happening? Where’s Papa?

Aïssata lifted her head, her eyes drowning in sorrow.

— My darling… your father… he had an accident. He’s not coming back…

To be continued...