In 2012, the Wallonia-Brussels Federation entered into a partnership with the non-profit association Tumaini to organize the adoption of Congolese children. The outlook was promising. The fiasco is complete. Excessive fees, false documents, abuse, theft of children: this is the worst part of adoption.
" I am called Anna. It was written that I am 5 years old but it is not true. I am 4 years old and I was woken up. We got off the plane. A long clean hallway. This metallic gray airport with lots of white people. I have never seen so many. We are eleven children to have boarded the plane, to have left the Tumaini house, in Kinshasa. Without even saying goodbye to Uncle Kitambo.
We are then all gathered in a room, black children and white parents. There are games, presentations. A lady wears, like me, a flower on a sign attached around her neck. She talks to me. I do not understand. I'm playing. Then everyone leaves. Big whites with little blacks. The lady with the sign wants to go with me. I am the only one crying. So the big brother who had accompanied us so that we wouldn't be afraid of the plane said not to cry, he said that they would come and get me.
I believed him. For a week, every morning, I hit the lady. I got dressed, I put on my panties, my socks, my shoes, my pants, my T-shirt, my jacket. I tied my hair in a rubber band and put on my backpack. I positioned myself in front of the window. From the second floor of this lady's house, we could clearly see the crossroads. I waited. No one came to pick me up. It wasn't true.
When I could speak French. I told the lady. "You're not my mom. I have one in the village.” While painting my dolls, I told her about Gemena, my sisters, my parents. She said to me: “I think you are confusing my darling. She is a lady who behaved like a mother.” But it's not true. My parents live in Congo. My anger was to survive. She left. A little. With time. The lady became my adoptive mother.