In Tororo, there is an orphanage of sorts called Smile Africa.
Its an orphanage of sorts because there’s really not much structure to speak of. There’s a freestanding kitchen where the volunteers cook 2 meals a day for the children who reside there. There’s a pavilion covering a large concrete slab where the children eat, play and learn in front of a blackboard hanging from the roof. There are a few squatties and an open shower area in the middle of a field. There are a couple swings and a couple slides. There’s a small clinic with a couple classrooms attached. That’s it, home to more than 400 children who have nowhere else to play and learn.
I have been to Smile almost half a dozen times. Each time I see knew kids, but I also recognize some of the ones who have been there since my first visit in early January. I know you’re not supposed to have favorites, but I do. Her name is Fatuma.
I’m not sure how old she is. I’m not sure she does either. My best guess would be about 7, though all the kids look smaller than they should. I never find her right away, usually she’s off playing with other girls her age. But I always find her. Or she finds me. She remembers me, always remembers my name. We sit down under the pavilion and we sing songs, like Jesus Loves Me, or Joy to the World. We play “Double Double”, a hand clapping game, and see how fast we can go or how many times we can get in a row. We usually end up laughing a lot.
Last week when we visited, I was playing with Fatuma over by the construction site when a crowd of three or four boys came and stood over us. They couldn’t have been more than 10 years old, but when you’re sitting on the ground and they’re standing right in front of you, they can seem quite imposing. A shadow fell over us.
They started talking to her. It was in the local language; I couldn’t make out most of what they were saying, but I caught the sentiment. Something something mzungu. I could imagine what they were saying, judging by the look in their eyes and the smirks on their faces.
“You like playing with the mzungu, yeah? Why? They always leave. This one’s gonna leave you too. She doesn’t love you. If she did, she wouldn’t leave.”
Whatever they said, the light behind Fatuma’s eyes went dim. She began to look past them, into the distance. She didn’t cry, she just became silent. Even after they left, she still stared, as I wrapped my arms around her. She didn’t respond, other than putting her head on my shoulder.
We sat like that for what seemed like forever, until I just picked her up in my arms and carried her back to the pavilion. She just laid there, in my arms, until there was no way of knowing if she was awake or asleep.
“Alison, can you check? Is she awake?”
I spun around. Alison looked.
“She’s passed out.”
I continued walking to the slab, not really knowing what to do, but not wanting to give her away. I had no assurance of her safety anywhere else. A young boy came up to me, one of the “junior cops” that keeps order around the orphanage, because there just aren’t enough adults around.
“This one too old to be carried. Put her down.”
I didn’t want to put her down.
“She goes to rest now. Put down.”
Reluctantly, I set her down on feeble legs. Dazed, she began to walk towards the rest area, not looking back. I sigh.
Smile Africa. Irony.
