The thought of my mother's sanity after being taken from her is what still haunts me. I knew that if I didn't go with the men that the chances of survival for both my mother and I were nearly nonexistent. The entire duration of my thirteen years had been a life of ease until being taken from my home. It was no different than the lives of any other Central Africans. On the sixth day post my thirteenth birthday, it was as if it were any other ordinary day. I went through my usual routines of waking up and working a job of labor from dawn until dusk. I was in the fields bracing the punishing sunlight when I noticed a group of men coming towards me. They told me they had been given orders to take me to see the king. I respectfully asked to talk to my mother before taking any part of this. Quickly angered they became while forcefully restraining me. I can only imagine how ear piercing my shrieking cries were from outside. My mother ran heroically ran outside to save me, but the men were too strong. The only answer given to my mother was that they were under strict orders. I was quickly guided along with them while watching my mother fall to her knees in agony. The men had led me to a storage shed type hut. When they opened the door, I saw perhaps maybe thirty other young boys my age. Asking questions would not get anything in return except a lash or two. Crammed into this shed without an inch to spare was my new home, or at least for the time being. For four days and four nights, we were left in this shed. Whenever someone came to check on us, it was actually only to give us the bare minimum for survival. This became another mode of survival within itself. The doors would open, and the person would leave one big bucket of rice and another of water. Being in a state of every man for themselves, getting these necessities was a challenge. As soon as the buckets were placed on the ground, chaos broke out.