Stitching and Growing

As an American Mzungu Princess, I have been given my own room in my Ugandan house. I have yet to go to another African home where one person solely occupies a room; yet another example of the Balazas’ embodiment of African hospitality.

My room is a wonderful escape from the chaos and challenges that engulf my African world: the dirt, the grime, the germs, the smells, the hagglers, the miscommunication, the culture differences. The Balazas are incredibly respectful of the sacred space they have created for me; my room has a lock on it, the key to which I am the sole keeper. My door is never entered by others unless to help me spray for mosquitoes or soak up water from a small flood, and when I am in my room with the door closed, the door is never opened unless an invitation is granted, and the visitor will only stand at the threshold.

So it was odd last week when Ester rapped on my door loudly and thrust it open before I had a chance to do so myself. Ester stood framed in the door way, usually the epitome of calm, her face was wide and excitable.

“We have another problem,” she said with Rachel in her arms. I had just enough time to search over Rachel’s drooping expression, red gaze and soggy check, Was she comatose? Ester lifted back her head. “She fell.”

The child had an inch long gash beneath her chin, deep red flesh and fat over a centimeter wide. I grabbed 50,000 shillings from my bag and slapped it in Ester’s free hand; African hospitals operate on cash only basis and will actually ignore dying patients laying at their steps without the necessary funds.

“Okay. Go to the hospital. She needs stitches. Do you have airtime?”

“No.”

“Okay. Here’s some extra money in case you need to call me.”

(Africans don’t have credit cards; the vast majority doesn’t have bank accounts. As such, airtime is purchased at stores in the form of a scratch card, the cover of which is peeled off like a lotto ticket revealing a code beneath, the code is then entered into the phone.)

Several minutes after Ester rushed out the door I realized Rachel may have a concussion. I called Ester.

“Hey. Find out if she was knocked unconscious. And make sure the doctor checks to see if she has a concussion.”

An hour passed and Ester walked through the door with a still wide-eyed Beatrice and Richard in tow and a dazed Rachel in arms, a huge bandage covered the little one’s chin to her mid jaw line.

“She got three stitches,” Ester said as I reached for Rachel to hold her in my lap. Her clothes were still stained with blood splatters. Having had stitches placed twice in my own head, three seemed too few for the size of the wound. Not surprising, this was Africa.

“Was she ever unconscious?”

“No.”

“Did the doctor check if she had a concussion? Did he check her eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” I said as I sat leaned back on the couch relieved. “What happened?”

It seemed that Agnes had put Rachel on the top of their triple bunk beds, something Ester constantly warned her against. The little kids go on the bottom bed! The top bed is high and the ground beneath pure concrete.

Ester relayed what she gathered from the children. The girl fell at six in the evening, although Beatrice and Richard didn’t show up at our house with Rachel until almost nine. Beatrice had been out during Rachel’s accident and found her crying next to the bed, Agnes had been ignoring her. Blood was everywhere.

I was angry and disappointed with Agnes, but perplexed by her complete disregard; it wasn’t like her. Did she really put Rachel on the top bunk? Did she really then ignore the child's incessant shrieking? Did she really wait hours to send a hurt Rachel to us?

“What do we do?” I asked Stephen who sat across from us listening, unsure of how to address Agnes and sort of deferring to the African man of the house as generally customary out of respect.

“This one knows what to do. She will reprimand her,” Stephen said nodding his head at Ester.

“I am going to slap her when I get back,” Ester said. And she stood to leave with the kids.

The next morning it was my turn to talk to Agnes. I went for Ester first at the shop.

“I want you to come with me when I go to talk with her. I want to make sure she understands me and that we are very serious.”

We arrived in Namengo, about a ten minute walk from the Balaza’s house and Ester’s shop. The story had changed by then as clearer facts emerged. Rachel had fallen around eight, not six. Okay. This was one less reason to be mad at Agnes.

“Rachel, did someone put you on the top bed?” I asked her with the other children and Ester in their small room.

“Agnes,” she mumbled looking straight ahead avoiding eye contact. I turned to Agnes and asked her if it was true. She denied it.

We spoke more about the incident, reminding the children again to not let the little ones ever on top, and to run to us once someone is hurt or sick. I asked Ester if she reprimanded the children the night before. She had talked to them about it.

“I didn’t slap Agnes,” she said slightly smiling. I wasn’t surprised. Based on her disposition and previous comments about beating children, Ester seemed incapable of corporal punishment, which was just as well with me. I turned again to Rachel.

“Rachel, who put you on the top bed?”

This time she said it was Beatrice. Her inconsistency suggested deception. But was it even possible for her to climb up there by herself? The mystery remained, but it was clear that Agnes, at the very least, wasn’t being as responsible as she should. A few evenings prior Ester caught her putting the child on top and even if Rachel had climbed up on her own the night of the accident, Agnes should have been checking on her.

“Agnes, you need to be more responsible, especially in watching after Rachel. Rachel could have been hurt very badly. She could have even died.” Agnes looked down and away, not responding, fidgeting. It was difficult to read her. Was she being obstinate or was this a typical reaction from a Ugandan child?

“Agnes. Agnes.” I repeated her name until she looked up at me. “I am thinking of going to the school and asking for my money back for your trip to Entebbe.”

She looked down again, crestfallen. The child, as well as her siblings, had probably never been anywhere outside her former village and Lugazi, not even to Kampala. Her class trip to the Entebbe airport and zoo was no doubt going to be a highlight of her childhood.

“Agnes, if you show to me you’re responsible though, between then and now, you can go, but I am very disappointed in the way you looked after Rachel. Something like this can’t happen again.”

She didn’t seem to hear my last words; they fell on deaf, pained ears. With worrisome expression and movement, she took up the chores that I had found her performing when I arrived: cleaning, cooking, sorting.

I continued sitting in the chair in the small room processing what happened, a scared Rachel resting in my lap. Their current living situation of two claustrophobic rooms and not enough adult supervision was temporary, but still bothersome. A few minutes later Agnes emerged through the door with a large jerrycan of water fetched from the local tap. She squatted down perpendicular to me and lifted the heavy item from her head to the ground. She froze, staring at the wall in front of her; she softly choked out something in Luganda.

“What? Ester, what is she saying?” I called to Ester in the room behind us. Agnes heaved and repeated herself.

“She says she’s sorry.”

Agnes continued squatting in the tiny room in which she is constantly cleaning, constantly cooking, constantly studying, constantly minding her younger siblings; Ester usually gone herself at work until late evening leaving the eldest girl to much of the household work. Agnes’ frame shook and she sobbed into her arm. I didn’t sense the emotion came from my threat. It felt like sincere remorse. She no doubt was scared seeing her little sister covered in blood. She no doubt felt guilty having not been a better eldest sister, a responsible baba.

I rose and put my arm around her and kissed the side of her check. She was stiff, not accustomed to physical affection.

“It’s okay Aggie. I still love you. Rachel will be okay. We just need to be sure to learn from our mistakes.”

After gathering herself, she arose and went back outside to continue her chores, I believe a bit wiser than when she entered the room just moments ago.