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Sadiya Rabia
I was born in 1987 in Ivory Coast, West Africa. At age two I fell ill and was taken to the hospital. There I was given an injection that paralyzed me. After many treatments by a witch doctor, I was...ver maisI was born in 1987 in Ivory Coast, West Africa. At age two I fell ill and was taken to the hospital. There I was given an injection that paralyzed me. After many treatments by a witch doctor, I was able to regain my bodily functions but was affected by polio, and now I walk with a limp. My parents left me with my father’s mother in Sekondi-Takoradi before coming to London in 1991. My father came back for me when I was four. I lived with them in St. Raphael’s then moved to John Buck House on Fry Road. While there I attended New Field Primary School and studied English literature in Queens Park Community School and Harrow College. My parents divorced in 1996. In 1999, I developed depression due to my disability and went through numerous suicidal attempts. Ending my life was all I could think to do; it consumed me. My therapist advised me to put all my focus on something else. Though I possessed the gift of art, it didn’t help. It was not a passion but more a trait. Then I discovered writing. First I started to write a diary, and then I went on to poetry and songs, until gradually I developed the feel for fictional writing. Fiction helped me forget my depression. I got addicted to writing, which gave me peace of mind and whisked me into a world that was not my own, and I absolutely loved it—that literary world that was unlike my reality. So I wrote morning, noon, and evening until I created a world of characters. I have written a group of nineteen novels before Shepherd, which I haven’t published. I keep those for myself. After Shepherd, I moved with my mother and brother to Church Road, where my writing evolved. I’m currently composing a comedy-drama I call Outside, which has over 136 episodes, and there are more episodes that are in creation. Writing has made me antisocial. When I write, I get lost in my fiction and forget about the world around me. I forget about my suicide. My fiction is my rabbit hole where I escape from reality—it’s my Alice in Wonderland.ver menos