On this farm, we find Abdul. He survived three years of work. He's just 10. He earns no wages for his work, he says, just food, the occasional tip from the owner, and the torn clothes on his back. Put in the simplest of terms, Abdul is a child slave. We move away from the group so he can speak more freely, and through our translator, he tells us his story. If he had a choice, he wouldn't work. Abdul says he's from neighbouring Bikina Faso. When his father died, he says a stranger brought him to Ivory Coast. Abdul has never eaten chocolate. He tells us he doesn't even know what cocoa is for. We met Jaku on the same farm, also from Bikina Faso. My mother brought me when my father died, he tells me. Jaku insists he's 16, but he looks much younger. His legs bear machete scars from hours clearing the bush. The emotional scars seem much deeper. I wish I could just go to school, he says, to learn to read and write. But Jaku says he's never spent a day in school.