A Pearl with Cracks
I entered the human-sized slit in the wall where the prostitutes lived. The smell of poverty attacked my nose: human waste and wasting humans. Repulsive, but after two and a half months working in these conditions the smell was all too familiar.
Lots of the homeless children lived in the Kisenyi slums, a place where banging industry and decaying people came together. It was relatively safe, and there were plenty of metal scraps the kids could salvage to make a little money. The medical group I worked with tested the girls for HIV. They were 12 to 21 years old and had to sell their bodies to pay for the dark and dirty crevice they called home. I use the term home loosely for it wasn’t a place of comfort and security, something a home should be.
There were two sets of beds drilled into the sides of the wall, stacked three high, six beds total. Two to three girls slept on each bed. Whenever one of them had to do “business” with a client the others would move somewhere else until the deed was done. Look close enough at the mattresses and you could see little bugs scampering everywhere. Lice, perhaps. Maybe termites. I didn’t care. Creepy crawlies were low on the priority list.
I was outside doing HIV testing when one of the girls came up to me. “Uncle,” she said, (all the kids would refer to the volunteers as Aunties and Uncles), “will you go check on Fatimah? I think she is sick.”
After I finished testing all the girls and some of their clients (all of them were HIV negative to my surprise), I went inside to check on Fatimah. I entered the slit just as a nasty little man came out. He reeked of alcohol and was tightening up his belt. There was a big smile on his sweaty face that contained a scattershot of malformed teeth: Just one of many business transactions that occurred in this little microcosm of the world.
Fucking pig, I thought to myself.
Fatimah was on the bottom bunk in the first room with her little baby sleeping at her feet. I felt her head, she was running a fever and was sweaty. It looked like she had just finished a marathon. Her eyelids were half closed and all I could see were the whites of her eyes. I gently shook her shoulder - no response - and placed a concerned finger on her carotid artery.
Bump…
Bump…
Bump…
Her pulse barely registered, her breathing shallow and strained. I was no doctor, but it didn’t take seven years of medical school to know that this young lady needed to go to a hospital. I walked out of the room and found Fred. Fred was my translator and one of the most amazing people I have ever met. He dedicated his life to these transient boys and girls. Fred loved these kids because he used to be one of them. He had spent the first fourteen years of his life on the streets.
“Fred, Fatimah needs to go to a hospital,” I said, hoping the urgency in my voice would be clear.
“I saw her this morning. She seemed well,” he replied.
“She’s not. If she doesn’t get help now, she’ll die.”
Fred’s eyes flashed wide. He checked on her then came back to me with watery eyes resigned to the inevitable.
“We can’t afford to take her in, Canyon. It is too expensive,” he said.
I pulled out my wallet and gave him 100,000 Ugandan shillings, about 27 U.S. dollars.
“Take her to the hospital right now.”
I returned to see the girls three days later and met up with Fred. His face spoke the tragedy before his mouth did.
Fatimah had died two nights before. I wanted to cry but, how could I? Dozens of kids still needed food, hugs, and medical attention. I needed to be strong for them.
The doctors tested Fatimah the night we brought her into the hospital and found that she had AIDS. She had been taking the drugs that suppress the virus from spreading, but stopped taking it awhile back because she could never remember to take the pill every day. Before she died one of the doctors asked if she knew who might have given her the disease. She didn’t know. It could have been one of her three boyfriends, or the roughly fifteen clients who regularly see her.
She was 16.
The entire time I had known her she was very sick, but still managed to be lively and cheerful. Whenever I came to visit, I always brought her and the rest of the girls some candy. They loved taffy and would always make sure I got a piece too. I insisted the candy was for them, but they still wanted me to have some. In our broken world, those who have nothing still give all they can.
Fatimah would tear off a tiny piece and give it to her child. She loved that baby of hers as only a mother can. I never learned the little one’s name, but he was so cute. The first time I held him he had this look of shock on his face. I don’t think he had ever seen a white person before.
What is going to happen to her baby, that infant whose mother was still a child? I hope for the best. Hope that somebody will see those sweet little almond eyes and fall in love right then and there. Hope that someone will raise Fatimah’s child in a stable home, with food on the table and a heart full of love.
Wishful thinking. I know the truth. That child will either die or live long enough to become another innocent life beat down by the squalor and shame of poverty.
Winston Churchill called Uganda the Pearl of Africa. Abundant beauty confirms this analogy. The Nile River meanders through the country, giving life to everything. Lions, hippos, rhinos, and elephants roam freely in Murchison Falls National Park. One of our closest relatives, the mountain gorilla, survives in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest — though it would be disingenuous to ignore the obvious.
Even in this pearl, there are reminders everywhere which never let you forget that suffering exists. Children huff jet fuel on the streets to numb their pain and hunger. A young woman dies of AIDS, leaving behind her newborn child. So yes, Mr. Churchill, Uganda is indeed a pearl. But it is not one of those flawless pearls strung around a woman’s neck. It is an old, yellowed pearl, downtrodden with abuse and in need of some tender loving care.
It is a pearl, but a pearl with cracks.