I am from old books, from Danielle Steel, from Barbara Cartland and Mary Higgins Clark.

I am from Burundi, from the heart of Africa. From a tiny, poor, overpopulated country with many diseases, they say but I say I come from a no winter, trees, mountains and blessed land with a beach. I am from the dreams of Chinese gardens with apple and cherry blossoms, of 19th century French fashion apogee and British royal residences and. I am from school uniform, from the clew of achievement is to go beyond your limits, from its good but you can do better and from hard work ethic. I am from my fathers saying there is no holiday for me. I remember following him at his office in weekends In order to mimic his gestures, him working at his computer and me on the old typewriter, inventing new words and a new world. I come from Thursdays and Sundays of choir rehearsals, from Wednesdays and Fridays of acting rehearsals, from Mondays and Saturdays of school activities and from missing my duty of being a good friend. I am from my mother speech with complicated and smart words, always pray after a day of work and read nutrition books. I am from the mature little girl at home with two parents, four security guards (my brother) and a twin (my sister). I am from the smell of baking floor and fresh bread, From feeding my secret dream of becoming a baker.