He had suffered a bout of malaria when he was just three months. He recovered after three days. But he started crying continuously, even when he had been fed and cleaned. He did not sit at four months, which meant he could not crawl or walk. The nurses at the immunization center said his growth was regressing, and he soon became underweight. She desperately sought medication as his limbs wasted away. The illness meant that she had to abandon her job as a security guard. It also took a huge toll on her salary, which all went into buying medicine for her child, who was not getting any better.
She had met the father of her child at work. He was also a security guard. She worked during the day, he did the night shift. One night, three months ago, the shop he was guarding was broken into, and the thieves made off with money and valuables. The owner of the shop, an Indian, demanded for justice. Her “husband” was arrested and thrown behind bars. He has not been to court, but is being held in prison. She visits him every Monday, and has to take him some money for cigarettes and something to eat.
When she came to the office the first time, about three weeks ago, she wanted money to either buy a special chair for her son, or to travel home to the village. The chair cost 350,000 shillings. The administrators of the Katalemwa Cheshire Home for Rehabilitation Services in Mpererwe, which says it “brings smiles to the faces of children with disabilities’, said her bill had become astronomical and she had to pay them some money otherwise…. (She claimed that some parents leave their children under the care of the nurses who are impatient and beat them regularly.)
She didn't have any money, but opted to go to her mother in Gulu district where she said, she would get some help, and love. Tears welled up in her eyes, as she thanked me profusely.
She returned to Kampala on Wednesday, with 300,000 shillings in her bag. That bag was stolen in the taxi that she took to Luzira. Someone picked the bag from the kameeme (that hot engine behind the driver's seat). Her ID, phone and the precious money were all taken. She said a kind pastor allowed her to spend the night in a church in Luzira.
As she narrated her ordeal, her son was testy and cried a lot. She shoved a bottle of passion fruit juice into his little mouth. His teeth have all been ground down by disease. He writhed and wailed loudly, obviously uncomfortable, as his mother bound the kikoyi which she wrapped around his little body tighter.
She wanted money for: one, to be able to take him to the hospital the next day, and two, to feed him because he was hungry, the reason he was crying so much.
She refused to look me in the eyes and sat with her body turned away from me the whole time. I explained that instead of asking around for money, it would be better if she got something to do that would continuously bring in some cash, even if it wasn’t much. She said she wanted to do a charcoal business, and some vegetables like tomatoes and onions on the side. My advice was that whatever happened, she should save some of that income, however small it was. I told her I knew what poverty smelt like, when you have a child that you must feed and do not even know where the next meal will come from. But you must pick yourself up, and carry your tusks as well.
She said some neighbors in the village had gossiped about her child, saying he had been attacked by evil spirits. Some told her mother that they should abandon the child in a bush and concentrate on other things. But she is determined to keep him, however much it takes.
As she prepared herself to leave, she unwrapped the kikoyi. The child was wet with urine. He cannot control his bladder. And she cannot afford diapers or nappies. Maybe she does not have any old cloths with which to pad him. There was a strong smell of urine around her. But she stands up, a worried smile on her face, her look flitting between scared and confident.
The baby in her womb is growing bigger.
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