by Jessica Yu
“You don’t even remember your parents’ names?”
The boy shook his head.
“That’s not extraordinary,” Faith observed. “It’s possible he could not remember the parents’ names. Because here children call their mothers Mommy, they don’t call them by their names.”
“No! But how can they not know the names?”
“Gladys,” Faith said, almost gently, “I was shocked. It is not just the children. If you ask a woman, she may not know the name of the father of her children.”
Gladys wrinkled up her nose and shook her head as though passing an overfilled latrine on a hot day. “Ah, no. No, Faith. No way. No, no, no. Whoever says that—”
“And she doesn’t have only one child. One, two three . . . She doesn’t know the name of the father.”
In previous generations it had been inconceivable that a child would not know his people, his family, his clan. Today many couples met in the city and cohabitated without bothering to find out where each other’s village was. But not even to know each other’s names!
“Shocking.”
“I was very shocked,” Faith repeated. “But it is normal. There are very many people who don’t know those details.”
“So it is just, ‘Sweetie . . .’” Gladys imitated a high, flirty voice. The women laughed together.
As she and the social worker exchanged cordial farewells, Gladys was buoyed by the feeling that she had gained a colleague. It seemed clear now that Faith had not been giving Gladys a hard time in the office; she had been prudently observing, to assess this journalist’s conduct. And that was fair.
Soon Officer Mugerwa arrived to take over the task of accompanying Junior Godfrey through Acute Care. The boy had been standing near the wall; now he raised his head, happy to see the officer. The flap of skin on his face had split further, revealing a startling meat-pink slash underneath. Gladys winced internally. If it hurt simply to look at him, what kind of pain must the boy himself be experiencing?
Still, Faith had reported that he would be seen shortly, and Gladys felt it was safe to take her leave.
“Godfrey.” It took a moment for the boy to respond; he had owned the name for only an hour. “Officer Mugerwa will stay with you now. And I will come to check on you later, okay?”
The boy nodded at her as the young officer rubbed his head. Mugerwa Junior and Officer Mugerwa.
Weeks ago, when Gladys had first interviewed the boy for her column, Officer Rebecca had commented that the boy might have chosen the name Mugerwa simply because he liked Officer Mugerwa. Lying about one’s name was something a typical street boy would do. Was this street boy typical?
She made her way back down the crowded hallway. There would be time to discover the answers to these questions. She and her colleagues must attend to the burns first. Then they would attend to the child.
The Boy with Seven Names, Part Two
Mugerwa Junior Godfrey
“Then he said, ‘I’ll give each child five thousand shillings to go for treatment.’ Can you imagine? Can five thousand get you treatment in Uganda?”
Gladys shook her head, allowing Officer Rebecca’s rant to flow. The two women were sharing the bench outside Old Kampala Station. The morning sun provided a wide spotlight for Rebecca’s indignation over the colleague who had dropped Junior Godfrey’s fiery accident into her lap.
“He tells me, ‘Your children are burned. Take care of them.’ Just like that. I said, ‘If they are our children, why do you make them do that work? You have these suspects here. You have some idlers. Why not have them do the work?’”
It did not seem quite proper to place prisoners in the path of explosive chemicals either, but Gladys let the point slide. Just as Gladys had erupted at Rebecca when hearing about the boys’ accident, now it was Rebecca’s turn to blow off steam.
“These are the problems I have every day,” Rebecca said forcefully. “Because that is child labor. And after the incident they did not even take them to hospital!”
Given the circumstances, the higher-ups preferred to wash their hands of the affair, and of the children involved. Without the official support and resources to handle the boy’s case, Officer Rebecca had had little recourse but to involve Gladys.
Gladys appreciated her friend’s predicament. “So then you call me, and I blast your ear off,” she said.
“Yes, I also felt fire!” Rebecca quipped, and the two bellowed with laughter.
A young male officer peered curiously at them from around the corner, then quickly ducked out of sight again.
What these men must think of them, thought Gladys. On Monday the two big women might shout and argue and hang up on each other. On Wednesday they would be huddled on the bench, giggling like conspiring schoolgirls.
They could always get themselves sorted out, Gladys reasoned, because they understood each other. They were both practical women. What other Child and Family Protection Unit officer besides Rebecca kept a spare uniform hanging in the office? Here was a colleague with whom she could speak freely, argue honestly, and strategize realistically. They might exchange a few bruises, but they would hammer out a plan.
Gladys did not fear Rebecca, nor did Rebecca fear Gladys. But together the two women frightened others, particularly their male colleagues.
“Do you remember when we were talking in your office together one time,” Gladys asked, “there was an officer who said, ‘If you take these two women into your home, it will be on fire’?”
“‘It will be on fire!’” Rebecca echoed, and they both hooted with laughter.
“What—what did—” It took a few gasping starts for Gladys to complete her question. “What did he think of us really? Why did he make such a comment?”
“Because, as you know, we are not easy. We are principled. When we make decisions, it is not easy to change them.”
“Yes. By the way”—Gladys was laughing again—“you don’t just tell us, ‘This is done like this,’ and we follow. No! No way!”
The banter went like this for some minutes. The shade retreated across the bench while the sun’s heat increased.
Rebecca glanced around. “I don’t know what is taking Officer Abdullah so long. He should have finished with Junior’s bath by now.”
“Abu!” Gladys called out, in no particular direction. “We want to see our boy!”
THOUGH GLADYS CHATTED easily with Rebecca, her mind had not fully rested since she had last seen the boy, two days ago. Her relief at getting him assistance at Mulago was short-lived. That night had found her sleepless. With the burns already starting to fester, she worried that the boy had not had a tetanus shot. That child, I’ve left him at that hospital, she fretted to herself. Has he been examined? What did the doctor say? Has the boy eaten?
She called Officer Mugerwa, who told her that Junior was now back at Old Kampala Police Station. A doctor had examined the boy and given him a tetanus injection. He would need to be seen again in two days. In the meantime he was to be given frequent fluids. The doctor recommended passionfruit juice. Gladys thanked him for the heartening news.
As night fell, her relief again evaporated. It was the cursed juice. Where would you expect a boy like that to get drinks, let alone passionfruit juice? She could not blame Office Mugerwa for failure to provide. Police officers were paid very little. He could not afford additional expenses like juice. Who knew if he even had enough money for his own children at home?
Now the boy was again stuck at the police station. Did he have food to prepare his stomach for medicine? Or even water to swallow with it?
Such thoughts buzzed around her head like the flies around Junior’s weeping hand, circling the most vulnerable parts of the wound. How could she swat these worries away? How could she drift off to sleep in her bed knowing that the boy shivered in a filthy wreck of a car?
Her children, they really suffered, and at night she suffered with them. This irrepressible empathy sometimes frustrated her boss, Cathy. �
�You take the issues of these children too much to heart,” Cathy would scold. “You must learn to stop it.”
Gladys knew that Cathy spoke out of concern. But it was never so simple as flicking a switch; she could not turn off her feelings along with the light. It brought to mind the inn sign she always passed when going to Old Kampala: FOR SIMPLE REST. Simple rest? Gladys would scoff. What is that? I may need a complicated rest! And you are telling me you are offering only simple.
The only effective cure for her worry was to solve the problem. She had to find a home for Mugerwa Junior Godfrey.
HER FIRST CHOICE was still Early Learning School, but she had no tuition money to offer. The garden project was not yet profitable, despite Zam’s energetic efforts. The young mother called her almost daily to report on the crops’ progress, new expenses, hassles with Kiviri the landlord, and her own hard work. Unfortunately, the income from the occasional harvest was still minuscule compared to Gladys’s outlay.
Expenses aside, would Director Agnes even accept a boy who had lived on the streets for so long? And could Gladys ask her to?
The nine children Gladys had sent to Agnes were innocents. Life had betrayed them, and they deserved refuge. Street kids, on the other hand, often ran to the street willingly, kicking off supervision like a pair of too-tight shoes. Their unruly habits could be a damaging influence.
Gladys did not turn to homes like Early Learning School with every needy child. Reunion with a family member was a case’s preferred outcome. For those without families, like Junior, Good Samaritans could often be found to assist with school fees and medical bills, and there were other facilities she could call upon. But Early Learning School was special. A child under Agnes’s care could receive not only education and a place to sleep but also love.
The last time Gladys had called Agnes on behalf of a child, the director had turned her down. She was very sorry, but the school had just relocated, and there was simply too much to handle. Although Gladys understood, she felt hurt. She had gotten her hopes up.
With the urgency of Junior Godfrey’s case, Gladys was again prepared to press. But she had to know that her footing was solid.
“I REALLY NEED to convince Agnes to accept this boy,” she confessed to Rebecca as they continued to wait for Junior to return from his bath. “But I am still a bit worried. Can he behave? He is coming from the street. How do you see it?”
Rebecca spoke without hesitation. “This boy has turned out to be very humble,” she said. “You know, we get these kids turning up. If they are from the streets, we just ignore them. That is their first ‘interview.’ Most boys who have been on the street, they will disappear that day. Junior passed the interview. He came back the next day. And the day after. He is consistent. In the morning he comes to see me in the office. He cleans for us. I asked him once, where did you learn how to clean? He said, ‘I watched people. And I learned from that.’ So he may have earned a little money or food that way.”
“Ehh . . .” So the boy was willing to work.
“It really seems he’s tired of the street. And he says he has no parents.” She shrugged. “Maybe the mother abandoned him at a tender age, so he didn’t know the father. Which is typical of some of these ladies in the slums.”
“So he could be from one of the slum areas,” Gladys said slowly, seeing the logic.
“At times, you know, these women die and leave children behind,” Rebecca went on. “The neighbors do not know her village, where she’s coming from, and they just take the body to the city morgue. The boy could be a victim of that.”
Junior Godfrey emerged then, unescorted, from behind the buildings. This morning he wore his usual dark-blue pants, but replacing the girl’s camisole was a plain white T-shirt. The shirt was in good condition, with only a few pinholes at the collar. He answered the women’s greetings politely, his posture less rigid but his manner still solemn.
Mike joined the group at the bench, and the three adults surveyed the boy’s injuries. The burns on his arm had continued their gruesome metamorphosis. Some blisters had burst and shriveled; others were leaking. The larger boils along his arm were distended with fluid, looking to Gladys as though they would burst at the touch.
“The water, it will come out,” Rebecca advised. “You don’t want to disturb it, as it will cause a lot of pain.”
“Let it come out naturally,” Mike concurred. “The skin under the boil must be able to heal itself.”
The burned areas on Junior’s cheek, nose, earlobe, and chin had mostly fallen away. Large patches of tender skin stretched the length of his face, tongue-pink against his normal deep brown.
“Do you have pain?” Mike asked in Luganda.
“I feel much better than before,” the boy reported. “Although the place where the shot was given is very sore.”
Concluding the medical review, the grownups noticed the boy’s feet. They were clad in new plastic slippers.
“Look,” Mike said. “The other day I gave him some money to put in his pocket, and he went and bought himself slippers.”
The purchase of these shoes told Gladys something about the boy. He had walked across the street in his bare feet, and he had spent his money because he did not want to have bare feet when he crossed back again. Most young boys would have used their shillings on soda and candy. Some would have stolen slippers from someone else. But it seemed that this one was thinking maturely. Spending money on shoes demonstrated a willingness to invest beyond the hours of the given day.
The adults all stared down in appreciation at the bright blue slippers. The boy ducked his head, the gesture only partly hiding his grin of satisfaction.
REBECCA RETURNED TO her office, leaving Gladys to the next step in her plan: calling Director Agnes at Early Learning School.
Gladys did not like to force people to do things. It was unpleasant, and in the end it did not work. You could not make someone do what he or she was unable to do. A person might say yes to escape the pressure of the moment, but the next day, would such a person follow through?
There were those who would not help and those who could not help. Then there were those who were inclined to help but who were very busy or distracted. With those in the last group, you needed to capture their attention. To inspire their support.
It was fair play to plead a child’s case. And plead she would.
Agnes was inclined to help; she had a big heart. If she refused Gladys again, it would be out of practical or financial concerns. Taking in a street boy would be both a risk and an expense. Early Learning School already supported a lot of indigent children, most of them delivered to the home by one Gladys Kalibbala.
It took a half-dozen tries, but Gladys finally reached Agnes on the phone. Jumping in, she summarized Junior’s history from the time of her first profile to the burning accident to his treatment at Mulago Hospital.
“I was so, so, so scared that the boy didn’t have a tetanus shot. But he got the shot and some medicine and now he’s doing much better. Of course, he can’t stay here at Old Kampala Police, where the only place to sleep is those old vehicles. I really want to see this kid get off the street. Please help me, Agnes.”
It had been a lengthy monologue, but here she dared to pause for a breath. In the moment of silence, Gladys braced for the dreaded words: “Sorry, Gladys . . .” But what came was not words, only a choking sound. Agnes was sobbing.
“Okay, okay, okay, you bring him. Bring him here,” she managed. Her tearful reply was so loud, even through the tinny phone, that Mike glanced over curiously.
With her phone still pressed to her ear, Gladys swayed her body from side to side, waving her fist in a silent victory dance that made the bench rock beneath her. She pushed out her lower lip and wagged her chin. Woo-woo-woo!
“Thank you, sweetie!” she squealed, sending a delighted peal of laughter into the receiver. Her huge grin revealed every one of her perfect white teeth. “Thank you so much, dear. We will bring him Thursday!”
AFTER SHARING THE good news with Rebecca and Officer Mugerwa in the office, Gladys went to find Junior.
He was sitting on the bench, tugging at the corners of a checked hankie that Mike had given him to keep the flies off his arm. The boy listened as she told him about Early Learning School and the other children she had taken there.
“You know, I feared taking you on since you’ve been on the streets,” she admitted. “I don’t want to send you to a school where you will teach the children bad manners.”
“I won’t,” the boy protested. “I want to study.”
Gladys scrutinized the boy. His eyes, those bloodshot eyes, were round with hope. She wished she knew what made them so red. But it was too late for second thoughts.
“Okay, Godfrey, I am going to take you on.”
The boy blinked at her, as though unsure of her meaning.
“You see, my request has been granted, and I will be taking you to Early Learning School.” She bent down to stare directly into his eyes. “You will be going to school.”
A smile raised every feature in Junior Godfrey’s round face, and the effect was that of watching the moon turn into the sun. The joy in his face eclipsed his injuries.
“The minute I hear you are acting badly, we will come to the school and take you out.”
“No, no, Auntie, I will be good.”
“Okay.” Gladys attempted a stern expression, but there was no steel supporting it. “I will keep studying your behaviors. Behave.”
“I will.”
Surely that smile must have strained that poor face. Those wounds had never been stretched so wide! But the boy kept beaming, and Gladys beamed back.
The Boy with Seven Names, Part Three
Mugerwa Junior Godfrey Victor
The morning they went to pick up Junior was not a cheerful one for Mike. It had started in Kampala with Gladys’s rounds at Jinja Road Station, where she had interviewed a sixteen-year-old mother with two children, aged three years and six months. Fleeing an abusive uncle who liked to hang kids from a tree to beat them, the girl had been taken in by a couple whose grown son then defiled her. Pregnant at twelve, she was now HIV-positive. Her toddler looked reasonably healthy, but her infant was emaciated. While Gladys discussed the possibilities for medical treatment, Mike watched in pity and horror as the girl’s baby struggled and failed to hold his head up.