The Life and Death of Baby X: A Bedtime Story

The following is a true account. It is based on what I saw, what I know and what I can only imagine.

Deep in the ferny mountains of Uganda there existed a rare creature, a feral woman that was born without a heart. Her empty cage of ribs held to a hollow space that throbbed with infinite vacancy. And when she would open her mouth to speak an embarrassing whistle was produced instead of words, exposing her handicap. You see, where her heart should have been there were only ventricles that were attached to a vat of peanut butter and jelly. Many would consider that a fine substitute, but the brutish woman hated sandwiches as she hated herself and everyone around her.

When she discovered her belly was expanding outward more and more, she hated that too. I will not go into much detail on who the father was or how this all came to be. I will just say that the father was either the farmer that lived around the corner from her or it was Larry Birkhead, but his people aren't returning any calls to confirm. Anyway, baby X thrived off the small amount of peanut butter and jelly inside of that cave, but it was not enough. The mother's emptiness echoed in the womb. Baby X knew if there was love in the world it would not ever be found with her. Thus, the baby pushed and kicked, begging to be unleashed to begin its search for love. And released it was, but several months too early.

Baby X was a girl, a very tiny girl. She was born in the back bathroom of Petrol station. The mother’s stifled whimpers were unnoticeable to those pumping their gas. For a moment when the mother picked up the newborn, she paused and quizzically stared at the baby like one would at a Sudoku puzzle. The world held its’ breath, maybe a miracle would happen and an inkling of maternal affection would spark. But that moment passed, and with it a sigh as the mother dropped the child down the latrine hole. Down, down, down baby X fell. She landed with a small and distant splash, signalling the deed was done. The perpetrator left the restroom hurriedly. Surely, you ask, the mother threw a remorseful glance over her shoulder? She did look back when crossing the street, but only sending a silent wish that baby X had landed bottom up.

She didn't get that wish. There at the base of that dank dark well- baby X survived. Her journey should have ended there in the deep tar pit where Van Gogh swirls of slime and sludge lapped at her tiny ankles. But floating in the fecal abyss, that slow-moving vortex, she held on. How or why?- that is beyond any imagination I could ever write from. When the narrow light from above was eclipsed by the moon of another she let out a weak warble, a cry for humanity to show some pity, redeem itself. Her call was answered and she was elevated to the light. Up, up, up she was raised out of the bowels of that hell.

But her hell on earth was not yet over. Her memories of that time were a shuffle and scramble of hot hands on her. Some were thick cushiony palms with hairy fingers, others were long and flat with bony knuckles. And as she was passed from one set to the next, she felt an urgency that would sweat out of the pores of her clutching cradle. These hands were afraid of her fragility. When the merry go round finally stopped, baby X found herself in a hospital room bed. She lay there day in and day out, which created a constellation of painful bed sores.

A few weeks later her body gave in, but her spirit refused. Even a blood transfusion was not enough to make her well. For every minute of every hour for several days a little droplet of blood was injected.

But as her breath grew fainter, the doctors would slowly exit the room one by one, never returning. And one last nurse who had taken a particular liking to the child came over and put a dab of chocolate on the baby’s tiny pursed lips. The nurse thought no harm in it, seeing as the child was on the way out might as well give it one taste of life's pleasures. The child had surely seen it's share of life's pain. The small sampling on the baby's petals melted to her palette. It sent a euphoric wave through her body, from her ears to her toes. The blissful shiver, barely noticeable, was an extended gesture of her gratitude for that parting gift. She had found kindness and was thankful. Shortly after, the wide African sky above smiled and swooped down sucking the child in like sweet lemonade. She let herself go with it, quietly and sweetly.

Michelle.

Her caregivers imparted her with a name. Michelle. It was a name quickly given and almost quickly forgotten. At the funeral, the pastor cleared his throat to begin his sermon, "We are gathered here to give a proper burial to...to...". Her name had slipped right out his head through his left ear and was making its way down the side of his dirtied button-down shirt. His eyes frantically searched his notes in hand. Someone saved him by whispering the answer. He finished the short speech directing it at a small group of gatherers that consisted mostly of paid diggers. They hung out by her open grave like a pack of bored porch dogs. Their hands flopped over the top of shovel handles. Their eyes shifting, ticking, glancing at their watches and wondering how long this will take before they can get to the nearest pub and catch the second half of the Arsenal vs. Manchester game. No tears were shed there. Although, the surrounding banana trees wept; their palm leaves swayed, sprinkling a patchwork of light on the ground. From her place in the high mosaic, baby X peered down and watched as her humble box lowered into the earth, then she turned back around and continued to stuff her face with finger sandwiches. She had a palmetto cheese in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly one in the other. The End.

You know that age-old riddle, "If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, then does it make a sound?" You can also ask, does a person really exist if they never have a name and no one ever knows them? I like to believe that every child has a purpose. I don’t have children, but if I did I would hug them. Tightly. And in between several "I love you’s”, I would repeat their name. A name can sometimes be the herald of our memory. It is a reminder that we have meaning and that we matter to someone in some way.

I will remember Michelle.

All's Quiet on the Eastern Front

Kelli and James have since departed and the days no longer play out like A Comedy of Errors. They read now like A Winter’s Tale, long with a pinch of melancholy. My dad tells me that I shouldn’t be in a third world country alone and I reply back by quoting some feminist line I might have read online or on the back of book somewhere. Later that night, when two thieves attempt to break into my apartment I think maybe my dad was right. I can handle it though.

When I walk the streets of Kampala, I overcompensate for my vulnerabilities by shooting off confidence and attitude like roman candles. I’ll admit it also helps to have your own personal theme song playing in your head when walking unaccompanied. I usually select something in the rap genre, a little rougher, maybe some DMX. I think somehow this puts an edge in my step. Maybe people will not want to mess with a girl that walks like an angry pirate, minus the cool parrot and peg-leg, although one of my legs is shorter than the other.

However, none of this seemed to hinder a man from deliberately getting off at my taxi stop just to hit on me. He followed me for a few steps and approached by opening with his top ten pick-up lines followed by the disappointing second act, the old number request. I responded with the usual- that I don’t own a cell phone here in Uganda. And of course right then the “mosquito” ring tone I chose emits from my backpack; My cell phone, which is happily nestled next to my malaria pills, buzzes, laughing at my humiliation. Besides that instance, I haven’t had any trouble living and working by myself. I actually enjoy it. I just imagine that I am Erin Brokovitch, or Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, minus the cleavage.

It’s funny, as self-reliant, self-assured and (insert all of those other positive self words) as I exude to be and at times possess, I own equal portions in weakness. These children remind me of that and that the very same ratio occurs in life. Life, you know- that crazy yin-yang pendulum thingy that inevitably keeps swinging to and fro, in our favor and against. When the balance tends to tip we hope that need does not spill over into greed, that despair will not sour the return of love. The children force me to recognize the frailty and preciousness in being.

And Joshua is an excellent example of that reminder. I walked into the babies’ home yesterday and was greeted by a new boy. Not greeted really, more like stared at. We locked eyes. My mouth opened, I was transfixed. His mouth mirrored mine, but only because he was too drained to close it. “This child came in yesterday,” some ominous voice behind me called out like an intercom. I didn’t turn to see who the voice box was. “He was found on someone’s door step, crying. As you can see he’s malnourished,” the voice box spoke again. I glanced down at his flesh, which apparently was abandoning him also, dried and withered; it drooped off his body escaping the bone. For an instant I was frightened of him. The sight of him paralyzed me. A lady holding him placed him in my arms. My hand grazed his back. His shoulder blades were jutting out like he was sprouting wings. I could feel my heart beating faster. Oh god, please don’t let me lose it. I have seen a lot in my few months here, can I please not lose it now. Not in front of all these nurses. His head pressed against my chest and I absorbed his helplessness; somewhere inside me it did a waltz with my own vulnerability. A huge knot welled in the back of my throat. I felt like I had swallowed a lego.

I held him for three hours. The other nurses said he would not sleep. I understood why. I rocked him very softly. He started to nod off and if I moved even an eyelash he would reawaken, eyes wide and searching. His weak hands would dig their soft fingertips into my arm, begging for me to not disappear. I am so sorry little man. I am so sorry.

I gazed at the top of his head and silently prayed, wishing somehow my words would descend upon him, forming shingles or plates of armor, protecting him. I don’t really pray much, but I did for him.

I kept it together at the babies’ center for the most part. Although, I didn’t make it all the way home. He resurfaced in my mind when I was at the supermarket. I was in the drink section grabbing a sprite and his face popped up, his little arms, little dangling legs. I don’t know. I guess it surprised me suddenly, overwhelming me like an asthma attack, clenching tighter and tighter with each inhale. I turned the corner and saw that the bread aisle was empty, so I stood there. And next to a dozen muffins, I quietly let it out.

After I was done I recomposed myself and went to check out.

And I thought Britney was Crazy

It’s been pretty quiet in my neighborhood ever since they removed the crazy lady that lived next door.

A couple nights ago it was not so peaceful. I woke up at 3AM. Normally, the only things that rouse me from my slumber are the mosquitoes that feast on my ankles as if they were at a buffet table. Seriously, I look like I have chicken pox with all my bites. I douse myself with Off Spray, but I think the mosquitoes just consider that a marinade. No, this time it was not bugs that stirred me. It was painfully loud screaming coming from the woman next door.

The yelling was so deafening she might as well have marched into my bedroom and crashed her cymbals into my ear. It sounded like a man was trying to calm her down, but she was going ballistic. She would ramble on in Lugandan and her voice would peak. It was as if she were practicing her scales. It’s similar to when your voice breaks when you attempt to sing along to a Mariah Carey song in your car. In any case, it was aggravating. After maybe an hour of this, I was about to walk over there and introduce my fists, but the noise quieted. I shoved my head under the pillow and fell back asleep.

Round 2 came four hours later with the same wild shrieking. I got out of bed. No use trying to sleep. I peered out my window. I hid behind the curtain trying to catch a peek of what was going on. A small cluster of neighbors had gathered and surrounded her home, investigating the commotion. Unlike me, they didn’t try to hide their voyeurism. How long could her ranting go on? Wouldn’t she grow tired of being crazy?

Well, apparently not. When I returned home later that night after spending the day in Kampala, she was still at it. The conflux of onlookers had grown. I tiptoed by her house. There were several Muslim men in a small group, discussing amongst themselves. I could see her in the window behind the bars shouting at her spectators. They had locked her in her home for fear that she might be a danger to others. Her hands wrapped around the bars, she thrashed her head wildly. She was pleading with the outside. From what I gathered by the murmuring crowd, she was insisting that there were evil spirits in her home. One person believed that her husband had left her. Someone else said that was not the case, because her husband lived next door with his second wife and family. No one really knew why she lost it. The Muslim community had encircled her and begged her to allow Allah to rid these evil spirits. I came up with a good idea that might calm her down. Why not just throw a really big blanket over her house? It always worked on my pet bird when I wanted it to go to sleep and stop chirping. I thought I might throw that suggestion into the hat.

My solution was not needed, because the next day her house was quiet. The crowd had left. Her windows closed and curtains drawn. I am not sure where she went. Now, the only sounds I hear from outside my window are the roosters.

P.S. I just got through typing this and I let out a blood curdling scream. And not because I too have gone insane, but because a GIGANTIC mouse just ran past me. And I am not talking cute Stuart Little type mouse, I am talking ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE NOT A CAT type mouse. I think it ran into my room. There goes another night of sleeping peacefully.

Keeping the faith

Kelli and I found ourselves heading out east, again. We endured another five-hour van ride along a maze of great potholes. Once more, we past through what my lungs deemed must be a great dust bowl. This trip better be worth it. Our previous visit to Busia had been cut short and we wanted to spend more time with a man named Gerald and learn about his program called Radiant Love Caring Mission.



I have been filming a few of these organizations, such as Radiant Love, so I can include them on my website at www.projectsuubi.com. I want to make a commercial for each, showing the programs that are at work. I believe the visual blurb will be a better tool to get people to donate. All the funds that Project Suubi had raised were dispersed among groups within the first few weeks upon our arriving. All we offer now are our hands and hearts. I can help network an organization which might lead to possible funds, but I cannot personally bear money. Sometimes that does not sink in with people. Once the word “money” is mentioned at all, people’s eyes glaze over and a steady string of drool comes out their mouths.

To Ugandans, if you are a mzungu (white person) you must have money. It is just plain fact and cannot be disproved. Kelli and I frequently display our empty pockets, but that method is never successful. When volunteering, what we represent to Ugandans tends to work against us. As soon as we stepped out of the van we met trouble. The word had gotten around that we were meeting with Gerald, and other non-profits in the area were jealous of this. “They say I am stealing the mzungus away from them,” Gerald exclaimed to me when we arrived. I corrected him, “Don’t worry about it. We are not property or possessions that can be stolen. We can visit with whom we please.” I was a little dumbfounded by this unexpected situation. The non-profits were fighting over us like two kids deciding who gets to push the elevator button. I find this a strange mentality for any non-profit to have, especially ones that share the same goal. You don’t see PETA getting pissed because Greenpeace gets a large grant to fight poaching. This isn’t the space race, people. Who cares who helps the orphans first as long their helped? There should be some camaraderie in Busia between organizations. Unfortunately, there is not.

Gerald shuttled us into the back of a beat-up car and we set out to gather information on Radiant Love

Or not.

Gerald stopped the car on every corner and chatted up every passerby. He found reasons to lollygag. It began to dawn on me that he was showing us off. He wanted to be seen with Kelli and I, the mzungus, his mzungus. He was like one of those sixteen year old boys that cruise around mall parking lots proudly showing off their new Ford Mustang.

I finally got frustrated and cracked my whip. Our time was limited here. We needed to get down to business; no more pussyfooting around (by the way, “pussyfooting” has got to be the most ridiculous word ever). Anyway, we set off to visit four areas, each led by a different coordinator of Radiant Love. Some of the places we reached by foot, because there were no roads. When we crossed a rickety bridge, Gerald declared that we were the first mzungus to pass over into this land. Too bad, I left my flag at home.

In each area a massive amount of people had mobilized to greet us. Kelli and I repeated why we were there videotaping. I then recorded personal story after personal story. Women grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to them, “school fees, please, school fees,” they’d whisper in my ear. There were hundreds of children running around. They should be in class, but none of them can afford it.


At one stop there was young albino boy. When I shook his hand I could feel his burned raw skin and his ears and lips were severely chapped. Kelli grabbed the sunblock out of our bag and showed it to his grandmother. We tried to explain that he has no pigment, melanin, in his skin to protect him from the sun’s harmful rays. He needs special attention and should wear a hat and longer layers when playing in the sun. Kelli opened the bottle and smoothed the lotion on his peeling body. The other children formed a tight circle around her, inquisitively watching her strokes. As she finished, she put the sunblock in his hand and reminded him to use it everyday. Sadly, that lotion will most likely be passed around and emptied before nightfall.


I listened to plea after plea. One girl’s cheek had swollen to the size of cantaloupe. She was badly in need of a dentist. “Please, I cannot afford medical care,” her guardian implored. When we left the zone, I turned to Gerald. I tried to clarify that the people I have met seem to carry false hope that I will be the solution. This mistakenly implied responsibility cannot rest on my shoulders. I hope the video will bring in funds, but I will not physically be here to pass donations out. I could do my part and round up donations, but Radiant Love was going to have to be accountable for distributing. They will have to answer to these distress calls. I continued to question Gerald, is Radiant Love ready for that incredible responsibility? How will they decide who gets school fees and which child receives aid? These questions must be thoroughly considered before funds come in. He nodded and said he understood. But as the day wore on, all I saw were more people praying for relief. I had a lurking fear there was no program set up, no plan of action, no proposed solution.


We spent that night at Gerald’s house. His wife made a feast for dinner. She brought out plate after plate and sat them on the table in front of us. “If you do not eat, I will fight you,” she stated. I let out a chuckle thinking she was being humorous, but she shot me a serious glance. She wasn’t kidding. I gulped and wiped off my smile. She disappeared into the kitchen to fetch more plates. Kelli and I quickly looked around the room for a way out. I seriously considered dumping some of the food into my camera bag. After we cleaned three plates each, I unbuttoned my pants and sighed. “Eat more, eat more,” Gerald and his wife encouraged. You have got to be kidding me. Kelli distracted them with a long story and I used the old childhood tactic of pushing food around on the plate to make it appear like I had eaten a lot.

Right before bed, Gerald sat us down and requested that we help him find school sponsorship for his four children. They were already in school, but he wanted to place them in better boarding schools. There was a silence before I responded. Frankly, I was a little taken back that he would ask this of us, considering the number of children we met today that do not have the opportunity to ever see the inside of a classroom. I said I would try, but to remember that his children are lucky. They have two parents, their health, and can afford education. Kelli and I shared a glance. We have spent so much time together we no longer need to communicate verbally. We both knew that the other was nervous, for how can we trust him to not use the organization’s money on his own family.

We quietly sat there. I watched a mouse scurry over a mat that his child was laying on. I guess I can’t blame his request, really. You find that in a lot on non-profits the people that are running them are struggling and in need themselves. How can you begin help others if you can’t help yourself?


The next morning we woke up early. Kelli and I were heading back to Kampala that evening. If Radiant Love was an actual program and not just an idealistic afterthought I had to find out today. We traveled out to the fourth and final area. The director of that area, a man named Jimmy, was a little preoccupied because he had spent the majority of the night trying to find a doctor for his pregnant wife who had fallen dreadfully ill with malaria. Despite his troubles, he surprisingly still wore a smile when he met with us. He showed us the zone’s school and children’s center for the orphans. Plus, he took us to see land that was purchased for building a larger school and a farm. This is what I wanted to see, someone who had their act together.

Before we departed, Kelli and I sat down with all the coordinators in each of the zones. We went over our findings. There is an immediate need for schooling. If Radiant Love is fortunate enough to receive a $3000 donation, they can easily spend that on school fees for 10 children for one year. OR they could put that $3000 towards building a school that would educate many more children for many more years. We reiterated that the focus needs to be kept on long term results and not immediate consumptive needs.

We reviewed their project proposal/budget and made corrections. Night was upon us and it was time for us to bid adieu. We parted ways and I squished myself into the back of the van and prepared for yet another torturous ride home to Kampala. I practiced my yoga, contorting my body to find a comfortable seat position. Although that never happened, I did find comfort knowing that I had not lost complete faith in the Radiant Love program. These directors will come together and create accountability and responsibility. This organization will survive. Why am I so sure of this? Because they possess a rare empathy and understanding of what is going on. They face the very same challenges and fears, which has made them even more determined to fight for improvements.