Nabila Sharma - Brutal: The Heartbreaking True Story of a Little Girls Stolen Innocence

Im running around the garden in the sunshine. My brother turns to throw a red rubber ball towards me and I watch as it sails high up into the air. I stretch up my hands to try and catch it and, as I do, the sunshine blinks between my fingertips. Its a hot day and I can feel the sun baking my skin.

My dolls are sitting in a neat line in their pram. Ive brushed their long glossy hair and dressed them in nice clothes and they look beautiful. Their hair isnt as long as mine, though. Mine stretches below my bottom and attracts comment wherever I go. Isnt she lovely? they say. What a beauty!

Maybe thats why the new imam at the mosque singles me out from the start. Youre a pretty one, he says, and asks me to help with the cleaning. I feel very proud. Hes a strange-looking man, with his freckles and protruding belly and the funny sarong he wears, but hes the imam, the leader of our community, the one all the parents want to impress. The other girls are jealous of the attention he pays me.

Every evening after school I go to the mosque for lessons with seventy other children. We all line up to shake the imams hand and say Salaam alaikum, to which he replies Alaikum salaam. But one night as he holds my hand, he does something odd. He strokes the inside of my palm with his index finger, wiggling it around, tickling me. Im confused. Should I do the same thing back? Then he jabs his finger hard into my hand, as if to make a point.

I watch carefully as he shakes hands with the other children and I dont think he does the funny handshake with them.

Its on my mind as I play in the garden. Why me? There are times when Im not sure what to make of it. Im only seven. I feel like Ive been chosen for something. But I dont know what.

I slipped on my shoes without stopping to fasten them, opened the back door and shot straight out into the back garden. My brother Asif was holding my favourite doll by the hair, swinging her round like a helicopter.

Ill get you! I shouted crossly, waving my tiny fist in the air.

The shoes slopped off my heels with every step I took, slowing me down.

Give me my doll! I demanded as I tried to catch him.

Nope, Asif teased.

Give her back now or or I couldnt think of a strong-enough threat.

Or what? he challenged.

Ill tell Mum.

Oooh, Im really scared, Asif laughed. The doll spun faster and faster around his head, her arms and legs splayed out. She was already naked and muddy from being kicked around the garden.

With all my might I stretched up on tiptoes to try and grab her, but it was no good. Asif was much taller than me. I hated my brothers. They were mean to me. Why didnt I have a sister instead?

I rubbed my eyes and began to sob.

Anyway, its only a stupid doll, Asif teased, knotting her hair between his fingers. He was eight years old to my five, and an expert at winding me up.

The sky had clouded over and it began to rain. I felt utterly miserable as the drizzle fell on my upturned face.

Nabila! Mums voice called suddenly from the back door.

Asif froze. Had Mum spotted him tormenting me from the back window? He dropped the doll guiltily on the ground and took a giant step away.

I seized the moment and, scooping her into the safety of my arms, surveyed the damage. Her ice-blonde hair was knotted and ratty and her face was caked in mud. With the sleeve of my dress I wiped a big dollop of mud from her forehead.

There, thats better, isnt it? I soothed, rocking her in my arms.

Asif was still watching the back door to see if Mum was about to come storming out, so I grabbed my chance and gave him a swift kick on the leg.

Oww, he groaned, rubbing his shin bone.

Nabila! Mum called again, her voice impatient. Come in now. I need to do your hair!

I rolled my eyes skywards and called, Okay, coming!

Asifs face broke into a sarcastic smile. Go on then, pretty little girl, he teased in a whiny voice. Hurry up and get some greasy oil in your stupid hair!

I stuck my tongue out at him, and hurried inside to where Mum was waiting.

The room was too hot. She had the gas fire on full blast and the flames flickered from yellow to blue. I thought how pretty they looked as they danced across the front of the fire.

The room smelled of coconuts. Mum had melted some coconut oil in a little silver bowl balanced on top of the gas fire. She swore by it because shed heard that it made your hair thick and strong but, more importantly, that it made it grow even faster. Mum was obsessed with my hair.

Its your crowning glory, Nabila, she insisted. You must look after it.

I hadnt had my hair cut since the day I was born and by the time I was five it hung down below my bottom. When I sat on the floor the ends would flick out along the carpet like black spiders legs trying to crawl away from me. Every day Mum would oil and plait my hair in front of the fire. I hated it because it always took ages, and when she pulled too hard it hurt. Sometimes it felt as if she was sticking a thousand pins into my scalp as she tugged and plaited it all with ribbons.

Everyone noticed my hair, and the comments were usually admiring but not always. One day, I was walking down the street holding Mums hand when a lady passed us. As soon as she saw the plaits swishing around my bum, she stopped and did a double-take.

Its cruel letting a child wear her hair so long! she exclaimed to Mum. It must be so much work.

Mum just stuck her nose in the air as if she didnt care. I dont know what the womans problem was. I loved the fact my hair was so long I could sit on it. It made me feel special, like Rapunzel.

It wasnt just my hair Mum fussed over; she also made all my clothes herself. She shopped around for different fabrics and ran them up into outfits on her little sewing machine. I had tops and trousers in every colour of the rainbow. My favourite dress was a sunshine yellow one with a zig-zag red trim along the bottom of the hem. It was bright and beautiful.

Whenever she did my hair Mum would be sure to match the colour of the ribbon with the outfit I was wearing. She threaded the ribbons inside my plaits and the colour streaked through, making them look even longer.

Dad said that the reason why Mum dressed me like a doll was because shed waited so long for a little girl. When I was finally born, she couldnt believe it. She had almost died during the pregnancy. Shed been working in our familys shop when she began to feel really ill and collapsed. Dad called for the doctor, who diagnosed tuberculosis a horrible word that stuck in my head. The GP warned them that even if the baby was born alive, it would be horribly deformed.

In fact, the doctor was so convinced of this that he insisted on being present at my birth, ready to comfort my parents when they saw me. But against all odds I arrived perfectly healthy and with a full head of black hair!

Dad was so delighted that he jumped around the room with joy. Mum just sat and wept quietly.

Why was she sad? I asked.

Dad shook his head. Not sad, Nabila. She cried because she was so happy. You were all she ever wanted.

He explained that hed chosen the name Nabila as soon as the midwife placed me in his arms. We chose it because it means happiness, and after your four brothers your mum was happy to finally have her little girl.

He told me that Id had a fifth brother called Aaban, but hed died when he was only six hours old. His lungs werent strong enough to breathe outside Mummys tummy. My parents held his tiny hand and cried whilst they watched his life ebb away. Dad said losing Aaban broke Mums heart, but that Id mended it.