Their Story
Born in Spain. Taken away.
Fighting to come home.
My name is Mel. I am a mother living in Spain. My three children — Kenny (14), MoMo (11), and Brainbox (10) — were born and raised here in Spain. They are German citizens. This is their home. This is where they belong.
In 2023, their father — a Nigerian national — took them to Nigeria for what should have been a visit. He never brought them back.
What happened next is something no mother should ever have to go through. He left my children — his own children — with strangers. He abandoned them while he went off with his girlfriend. My babies, in a country they didn't know, with people who were not their family, not properly fed, not in school, not safe.
When I found out, I acted immediately. I flew to Nigeria myself. I found them. I took care of them. I made sure they had food, shelter and safety. But when the time came to bring them home to Spain, the legal situation blocked everything. Because we are still legally married and the divorce proceedings are ongoing, bringing the children back required documentation and signatures — and their father refused to cooperate. He refused to sign anything at the embassy. And then he disappeared entirely. His whereabouts are unknown.
There is a restraining order. There is an active legal case. And still — my children are in Nigeria, and I am in Spain, fighting every single day through the courts to bring them home.
So here we are. Still fighting. Still waiting.
Sometime after arriving in Nigeria, Brainbox began losing his hair — first thinning, then complete hair loss with no regrowth since. We don't know the cause. What we do know is that he had no access to a specialist who could properly diagnose or treat it while he was there. I've identified one of the leading pediatric hair loss specialists in Europe, based in Barcelona, but getting him seen — and potentially treated — requires funds we don't currently have. This is one more part of why bringing him home matters: so he can finally get real answers and real care.
Kenny, MoMo & Brainbox — waiting to come home since 2023
"I walk through my house and the silence is unbearable. No voices. No footsteps. No one asking what's for dinner. Just quiet. A quiet no mother should ever have to live with."
People think Nigeria is one thing. But let me tell you what my children's daily reality looks like. In Nigeria, power cuts are not occasional — they are constant. My children regularly sleep in complete darkness because there is no electricity. Water supply is unreliable. They are not in school. They ask if there is enough money to buy food. Not a treat — food.
But the physical conditions are not even the worst part.
My son — my youngest, Brainbox — had a full head of hair when this started. Since being in Nigeria, he has lost every strand. No eyebrows. No eyelashes. Not a single hair on his head. Doctors have no explanation. A child's body keeping score of what his mind is carrying.
My children have witnessed things, heard things, and been told things that no child should ever have to process. They have lived in overcrowded conditions — cramped into a small apartment with over ten people, with no stability, no privacy, no peace. They have been afraid to make mistakes. When my son accidentally broke a window while playing football, he ran to his room, hid behind a curtain, and was shaking. Physically shaking. Over a broken window. That is what fear does to a child.
My daughter told me: "Mummy, if we were with Daddy or Uncle, they would beat him so badly for that." Over a broken window. A child playing football.
When I am finally able to bring them home, the journey does not end at the airport. These children will need time, stability, love — and professional psychological support to process what they have been through. That is also part of what this campaign will fund. Because I refuse to let what happened to them define who they become. I still believe in human kindness. And I will make sure my children do too.
No parent should ever use their children as a weapon. No child should ever be put in the position of feeling unsafe, unwanted, or afraid of tomorrow. That ends the moment they come home.
And while I sit here in Spain — with lights, with water, with food on my table — my children are living a completely different reality. Nigeria's power situation is severe. They regularly sleep in complete darkness because there is no electricity. Clean water is not guaranteed. They are not in school. They ask me if there is enough money to eat today. Not a treat. Food.
I am also financially carrying two lives from Spain — covering their food, water, data, accommodation and a nanny — while simultaneously fighting a legal battle that has already drained everything I have. I am at the end of my finances. But I cannot stop. They are my children.
The hardest moments are during the rainy season. Mobile networks go down completely. Sometimes I cannot reach my children for days at a time. No call. No message. No way of knowing if they are safe. Just silence — and praying. Kenny is 14. She should be having her first real teenage conversations with her mum. Instead, we count ourselves lucky just to hear each other's voice when the signal allows it.
We are close to the end of this legal battle. We have found a way to bring them home. But we need help to make it happen — and we need it now.
I am asking for your help today. Not for me. For Kenny, MoMo, and Brainbox — children born in Spain, who deserve to come home.