It’s summer in the global south (which is winter in the global north), and for the month of February Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

A 40-year-old Malagasy writer, Mi Ravao, her pen name, and Miora Rakotomalala, is a passionate writer, a project coordinator, inclusion advocate, and mother of an autistic teenager. She combines writing and field experience to support social causes, particularly disability rights and gender justice.
A lifelong storyteller, she writes novels, plays, short stories, and poetry that amplify unheard voices. She previously worked at the Institut Français de Madagascar on the Ressources Éducatives project, promoting reading among young people and strengthening her skills in literary event organization.
Her short story Ce sera vite oublié appeared in the CANEX anthology (2024). Her upcoming novel, Au rythme de ton silence, addresses parenting a child with an invisible disability, and she is developing another novel on gender-based violence in Madagascar. Former founder of Autisme Madagascar, she now works as a Program Manager at an international NGO focused on disability empowerment.

It’s June, and the cold seeps deep into my bones. Crouched in my clay hut, I refuse to step outside. I feed the fire with a few branches I gathered the day before, but the warmth doesn’t reach me. It’s already ten in the morning. An almost funereal silence surrounds me, but I’m used to it now. This is the life I chose.

My name is Valisoa. Or rather, that was my name. Since I settled in this remote village, in a forgotten corner of Trambosy—here in Njaliana—I go by Felana.

Once again, the wind lashes the dried eucalyptus leaves outside. A light drizzle begins to fall. It’s not yet the peak of winter, but the cold is already biting. Or perhaps it’s just the isolation. Everyone knows the Tsinjorano region is among the coldest in Zarivoa during winter. Or maybe it’s simply that I once lived in Antarivoa, where I wrapped myself in thick down jackets and leather boots. Wearing anything like that here would draw suspicion and whispers. I’ve had a hard enough time blending into this tight-knit, almost communist-like community. For my safety, invisibility is my best ally.

Had I known six months ago that this decision would lead me here—hiding, possibly on the run—I might have thought twice. But it’s often the things we underestimate that lead to our downfall.

Let me tell you my story.

They used to say I was a brilliant woman, full of promise. I held a strategic position—envied by many, feared by some: Advisor to the President of the Republic of Zarivoa. I was barely thirty. Confidential meetings at the Amborivato Palace, classified memos, bilateral agreements—that was my daily life.

My main role was to identify development opportunities and seek out reliable partners to support these initiatives. I was so proud of myself: little Valisoa, from a modest family, had made it to the top, mingling with the elite. And what made it sweeter—I had earned it through hard work, not political ties. Of course, no one believed that. And eventually, to keep my place, I had to pick a side.

But what I was most proud of was the idea that I was contributing—laying a brick in the construction of a better nation. That I was actively participating in my country’s development. It wasn’t just political rhetoric or an empty promise. It was tangible, measurable action.

It was in this context that I became involved in a Zarivoan-Oravetskan cooperation project. Officially, it was about mining development, agricultural technology transfers, and security reinforcement. In reality… it was something else entirely.

The first doubts crept in quietly, like wind slipping through a cracked wall. Missing documents, contradictory reports, Oravetskan “experts” who seemed more interested in our sensitive geographic data than in our natural resources. Then came the informal meetings—in discreet hotels, at absurd hours—where the language was always too vague, too coded.

I remember one evening in particular, at the Blue Diamond Hotel, in a room rented under a fake name. Present were the Minister of Economy, two Oravetskan representatives—one of whom went only by “Alexei”—and Randriamihaja, a Zarivoan businessman with a web of high-level contacts.

– “We need priority access to the most precise satellite maps,” Alexei said calmly, in hesitant French. “For… strategic reasons.”
– “The National Geographic Institute’s data is already at your disposal,” the minister replied, visibly uncomfortable.
– “No, no, not precise enough. We also want ground surveys. And the old military maps. It will make the project easier.”
– “What project, exactly?” I asked, bluntly.

Silence. Then a stiff smile from Alexei.

– “Development of economic corridors. Nothing more.”
– “You want maps of the uninhabited areas,” Randriamihaja added, shooting me a look heavy with implication. “Just to plan the infrastructure.”

I could feel I was being tested. They were probing how far I was willing to go—to keep quiet, or to play along.

And that night, for the first time, I felt cold. Not from the air conditioning. But because I realized something much bigger was unfolding—and I might already be in too deep.

What disturbed me even more than the secret meeting was what happened afterward—or rather, the morning that followed. We’d wrapped up around one a.m., and Randriamihaja had politely asked the minister and me to leave. He said he was throwing a little party for the Oravetskan.

At the time, I didn’t question it—though it was clearly a form of bribery, offered shamelessly, right in front of the State, without fear or guilt.

But in the hotel parking lot, what I saw froze me in place: three young girls stepping out of Randriamihaja’s V8. There was no mistaking it—that kind of high-end SUV, brand-new, tinted windows, temporary plates—doesn’t go unnoticed in Antarivoa. And the girls, in their tight dresses barely five inches long, teetering on nine-centimeter heels, looked so young… I swear they were underage. Fifteen, maybe sixteen.

A horrifying image hit me. My legs buckled. The minister turned to me. I knew he’d seen it too. But he chose to unsee it.

He got into his car, leaving me alone with the cold… and the abyss yawning at my feet.

I’m not paranoid. I just started asking questions. Digging a little deeper than I was supposed to. That’s when I became a problem.

The negotiations went on. But my heart wasn’t in it anymore—my investigation had confirmed what I feared. Worse, actually. The people around me, those who claim to be working for the development of our country, are nothing but traitors.

I’m not saying I’m blameless. I’ve taken advantage of my status more than once to secure favors from certain companies or individuals. But a scheme of this magnitude… it’s nothing short of monstrous.

Of course, Randriamihaja is the true beneficiary of the project. It’s as if the country belonged to him, as if he had the right to sell it to the highest bidder, like a stale piece of bread.

It’s about a gold deposit in the north, near Imahazava, in the Vohitaly region. The site lies about a hundred kilometers away, toward Ankarivo, along a barely passable secondary road, especially during the rainy season.

That area is a wetland, protected. A genuine ecological sanctuary nestled in the northeast of Zarivoa. In its dense rainforests live species found nowhere else on Earth. Rare lemurs leap gracefully from tree to tree; dazzling chameleons vanish into thick foliage; unique orchids bloom directly on the bark of trees, and tiny frogs sing in the hollows of crystal-clear streams.

And it’s not just about nature. Around twenty villages live in rhythm with this forest. Their traditions, their skills, their songs—even their language—are intricately tied to the land. They grow rice on steep terraces, harvest wild honey, practice herbal medicine, teach their children to recognize birds by their song.

But if this horrible project goes ahead, all those living beings—animals, plants, people—will be displaced. Driven out. Crushed in the name of profit. Their voices will be drowned in the roar of machinery. And I—through my silence—would become complicit in their erasure.

I had a few contacts among environmental activists. I made the decision to send them copies of the files I had. It wasn’t a light choice. I knew, by then, that I was crossing an invisible line—that to those in power, I would become a threat. But I couldn’t stay silent any longer.

I started carefully. A discreet message here, a coded phone call there, using channels I knew were more or less secure. I reached out to Salohy, an old university friend, now fully committed to defending the northeastern forests. She asked just one question: “Are you sure?” I told her I wasn’t sure of anything—except that silence would make me complicit.

I knew it was risky. But what frightened me most wasn’t the crackdown—it was the feeling that everyone knew, and looked the other way. That outrage had become a luxury. And that if no one sounded the alarm now, there’d soon be nothing left to protect.

Salohy did her part well. Within weeks, the first tremors began to ripple through the region. Whispers traveled the dusty red paths of Radaina to the outermost hamlets. Farmers, herders, local associations… all began to realize that this “strategic mining partnership” was no economic miracle. And when the truth emerged—that their land would be sacrificed, their forests flattened, their children stripped of any future here—anger burst forth like wildfire.

It wasn’t a violent anger—not yet. It was a dignified anger. Organized. Marches were improvised, banners were raised. Women led the way, children clinging to their lambas. Elders spoke in the village squares, recalling the history of their ancestors who had lived from these forests, these rivers, this generous land. “Tsy amidy ny tanindrazana!” they cried. (We do not sell the land of our ancestors).

The first videos began circulating on social media. The slogans were simple, but powerful. “Tsy mila orinasa mitondra fahapotehana!” (We don’t want companies that bring destruction!). The faces of these people—their dignity, their despair—crossed the screens.

But the State didn’t take long to respond. The mask fell, and with it, the illusion of democratic dialogue. It was only a matter of time before the repression came crashing down on those who had dared to raise their voices.

In Radaina, the army came one night, without warning. They claimed they were there to keep order. In truth, they came to silence the people. Huts were burned. Women beaten. Men dragged from their homes. They say around fifty people died. Officially, nothing happened.

And then, there was Salohy.

They found her in an alley in the capital. Executed. The work of the infamous Randriamihaja. A bullet to the back of the neck, the way you deal with a traitor, an inconvenience. No statement. No trial. No investigation. Just a heavy, suffocating silence. As if her death had never happened.

I didn’t even have the courage to attend her funeral. Too risky. Too closely watched. So I gathered a few things—just the essentials, the most discreet. I removed the battery from my phone and left it there, on the living room table, like closing a chapter I’d never have the strength to reopen.

I took the first taxi I could find. Asked the driver to take me to the nearest ATM. While he waited, I scribbled a note on a crumpled sheet I found in my bag. A simple message to my mother. No details—just enough for her to know I was alive. I handed it to the driver, along with his number and a pleading look. I paid him well, hoping he’d take it to heart.

Then I slipped away to the bus station, my heart pounding. I got into the first taxi-brousse heading south—didn’t matter where. I just needed to go. To put distance. To disappear into silence.

First Isohy, where I stayed for three days, lost among clusters of adventure-seeking tourists. Then Besira, where I found refuge for a week in the foggy anonymity of its streets. Then Trambosy. And finally—here. Njaliana. Hoping that Randriamihaja’s poisoned, tentacled grip will never find me.

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This story won the prose category of the African Literary Prize 2025, part of Narratives Against Poverty in Africa, an African writing programme that challenges one-sided portrayals of the continent through creative, self-determined narratives. The prize honours poetry, prose, and hybrid forms; selected works gain international visibility and are published in an African Book Anthology. The initiative combines competition, publication, scholarships, and mentoring and was founded by Mbizo Chirasha.