Achylle used to be a bank manager in western Cameroon. He was also the pastor of a church in the city of Buéa. Hundreds of worshippers used to flock to his building to attend mass. The church also provided shelter for the most needy, and regularly distributed food and clothing to those in need. The Cameroonian says he had "an intense but quiet life" in Buéa...

Until the day a church volunteer came to warn him that armed men were waiting outside. A kidnapping followed, during which Achylle was tortured and forced to leave the country. He landed in Cyprus, on the Turkish side of the island. Following the advice of an acquaintance he headed south to the Greek side, where he applied for asylum. It was the beginning of a long ordeal which has lasted five years he says. 

"When I came to the immigration office for the first time to submit my asylum request, the person behind the desk said, 'What are you doing here? We don't want you.’ I cried. I was so distressed that my whole body was shaking. I didn't understand why they were talking to me like that. I didn't know what to do or who to turn to. I thought they would listen to me.

I left my file there anyway, and from then on, I just had to wait. Someone from an association advised me to leave the capital of Nicosia for Limassol, in the southwestern part of the island. It was better for migrants there, according to her. So I boarded a bus and went there.

Once there, I slept on the streets for six months. Under bridges, on the beach, in churches. I was given a tent one day. It's very hard living outside, with the rain, the wind or the heat. I didn't even have a telephone to call my parents.

The Cypriot government does not house single male asylum seekers. Once their application has been submitted, they have to find their own accommodation. Some manage to pay for shared accommodation - when they receive the €261 in public benefits or when they have a job. They also sometimes stay with acquaintances. But many migrants sleep on the streets for lack of a better solution.

One day, I met a woman who ran an NGO. She took me under her wing and paid for me to stay in various hotel rooms. I had to change hotels regularly, because once tourists arrived, the managers chased us Africans away. They don't want black people when they have customers.

Read more: Violent anti-migrant riots in Cyprus town

'A violent blow to the jaw'

Once I had accommodation, I was able to call someone in Cameroon with whom I worked at the church. I asked him about my parents and sisters. They were all dead. The person on the other end of the line told me that the day I was kidnapped, a militia came to my house, and killed my family and our dogs. They then used the house as a base camp.

That day was Saturday, October 13, 2018, as I remember. A few hours before the massacre took place, as I was preparing for my service, I got up to meet the armed men waiting for me at the door of my church. I didn't have time to speak because one of them gave me a violent blow in the jaw with an object, and I fainted.

When I woke up, my fists and feet were tied together. Another man came to see me, and delivered a blow to the chest with a stick with spikes that ripped my skin off. One of my torturers asked me about my role in the Anglophone crisis. I told him the truth of course: that I wasn't involved.

Cameroon has been plagued by violence since 2016 in its English-speaking regions, in the northwest and southwest of the country. The crisis arose after demonstrators in the area, demanding greater recognition for the marginalized English-speaking minority, were violently repressed by the Cameroonian authorities, which are mainly French-speaking. The atrocities escalated, forcing thousands of people to flee for their safety. More than 6,000 people lost their lives over the course of seven years. 

After my kidnapping, I was thrown into the back of a large vehicle and later taken to the basement of a house, I don't know where. After a while, my torturer realized he knew my family. He offered me a deal: I'd give him all my savings, he'd let me live and organize my escape, without me knowing my final destination. So he took my passport and paid for a visa for northern Cyprus [on the Turkish side of the island]. A few days later, I arrived alone, wounded and completely lost.

Read more: Leprince: 'Sometimes it's harder here in Cyprus than in Cameroon'

I recounted my ordeal to the immigration services here. I even have photos to prove it. Yet the authorities remain deaf to my story and to the dramas I've lived through. This is my fourth rejection. It's because I'm black, it can't be any other way. Why do Ukrainians have the right to be here and not me?

'Cyprus makes you lose all hope'

The state's attitude has driven me mad and makes me feel completely helpless. I have tried to kill myself three times. I drank glasses of chlorine. After the second attempt, I was sent to a psychiatric hospital. Since then, I have a prescription every month and I take medication. Without it, things get even worse, my heart races.

It's crazy to think that one day I might die here, when I left my country to save my life.

I've been out of work for five years and I sleep in an apartment paid for by an NGO. I'm also subjected to racism on a daily basis. When I'm waiting for the bus, people drive by and shout, 'Hey Blackie! Go home!' My skin is a prison. I'm not wanted here, neither by the Cypriots nor the state.

Read more: Cyprus: Migrant community reels after violent racist attacks

Cyprus makes you lose all hope, all ambition. It consumes you little by little. If I could swim, I'd swim away from this country. But I know I'm lucky to at least have a roof over my head, I still see a lot of people sleeping outside. I try to help them as much as I can [Achylle organizes food distributions several times a week with unsold food from restaurants for migrants in Limassol].

My dream is to study law and become a lawyer. And also to have children. I'll give them the same first names as my parents."