When I was six, I set my first house on fire.

My mother was out of the house for one of her prestigious art shows, one with a theme I couldn't hope to interpret even now after four years of art college, and I was left with a nanny I didn't care for. She wasn't a friend of my mother's, and by that I mean she wasn't Nigerian like us. My mother had hired her on recommendation, and she came from somewhere in Spain. Zusa, I think her name was. Before the incident, she would call me Firebug. I suppose she thought it cute I followed every open flame like a moth drawn to a bulb. After the fire, she didn't talk to me at all. It didn't take a genius to understand why.

Once, I'd gone to visit her in hospital. I was dragged in sheepishly by my mother - who was rather laissez-faire about the whole situation - and I'll never forget it. Zusa's body was riddled head to toe with third-degree burns from trying to pull me from the roaring flames. I didn't have so much as a scratch on me. 

She called me el Diablo. I think now, after holding Meredith's charred body in my arms, I believe her. Only a devil could do what I do; burn again and again and again. The police ruled the whole thing an accident. Somebody must have left the stove on, they said.

After all, who would believe a little girl could cause such destruction?

Our new house was rid of every flammable liquid. My mother quit smoking, or at least she stopped doing it anywhere near me. It wasn't until I went to secondary school that I found a group of kids that were only too happy to lend me a lighter or two.

After being shipped off to the loony bin, I'd always thought I'd lost the spark forever. Little did I know it was still there, waiting for the chance to strike.

After all, they say that hell is empty, but all the devils are here.