Thirteen years ago, my mother met a woman at a train station. Her name was Juldi and she had just fled from Liberia. This encounter was the beginning of a special relationship between her and our family. She was like an older sister, though one with a completely different background.

Juldi suddenly died three years later, a few weeks after the birth of her second son. Even though I was old enough at the time to broadly understand her situation, I never asked a lot of questions. Searching for Juldi arose out of my curiosity for a woman who came into my life by chance and whose influence is still apparent.