The House at Orak

I remember going on that mission trip. It was the third that year and had become a personal tradition. Overtly excited at finally making this journey, I lug my gift bags and a noble heart to the house at Orak. I felt like a heroine and worthy contributor to the First Lady’s pet project. A surprise awaits me. It would cease to be a ritual this time, leaving me more broken than my previous escapades. It is my first visit to your world and a totally different sphere for me. I remember seeing you for the very first time. Frail, small, feeble, and helpless couldn’t even begin to describe you. Six months, they said you were. 2 months old, you looked. I stand transfixed, staring into your face among the sea of tear-tracked faces.

You were the first baby I carried and the only one I wanted to hold on to for a long time, probably because you were the smallest in that section. Laying you back on your bed seemed heartless. Could they not see you needed to be held? You were such a beautiful Fulani baby. I touch your soft, curly hair, matting a very delicate head. I look into your huge eyes, surrounded by long lashes spiked by tears, and then I notice and ask about your weird-colored right iris. I get a brief answer about soldier ants pillaging that one eye before you were found in the dumpster. A two-day-old ‘miracle find’ you were, they said! I realize I foolishly created a scene by letting mascara-laced tears fall unrestrained on my crisp pink shirt. I thought I came to give comfort, but I had lost grip, falling apart in my typical maudlin fashion. Astonishingly, I am the one in need of comfort. The bold toddlers among you tentatively lift innocent hands from cold cots and wave at me in an attempt to soothe. They were obviously puzzled at that ‘Auntie.’

There are so many like you. 57 are in the baby and toddler section, and four nurses are running two shifts! All residing in this one match-box-sized squalid home. You each have a shocking story of how you came here. Some were first found in dumpsters, others forgotten in hospitals by parents losing a battle with HIV/Aids or left on a jagged doorstep. Some of you, I learn, would never make it to your 3rd birthday as a result of a disease or some terminal illness. Some get adopted, others don’t. I remember spending a day with you and your friends. What happens in a decade or when you turn 18, I wondered. I finally give voice to my thoughts. A vague and unsatisfactory answer, I get. Then I realized this one truth: it was only a pet project like many others before it. It stays a pet only for as long as the First Lady finds it exciting and ‘play’ worthy. Like a toy, it gets forgotten and replaced with a new or more colorful one after a while.

I go home still wondering. What happens if you don’t get adopted? Would you be a good boy or someone’s toy? Would you become street savvy for the wrong reasons? Then the picture comes to me. Life will happen when you are all grown up. I know I would probably hear how great a trader you have become or, worse, what street corner you might be found in, hawking, hustling, peddling, or just loitering. So, I silently and earnestly pray you do find a good home. I remember that with time, I began to loathe how others like me often come with our bags of gifts like Santa Claus. Our misguided beliefs are that somehow, those boxes of diapers and bags of formula or candy are tucked in daily words like ‘I love. ‘ Then we return to our well-structured world, patting our backs for a well-done job. Nobody asks about flu shots, dentist visits, or eye check-ups. Who would you show a detached milk tooth at 7? Who would you share the novelty of finding your first cute little bug? You would not even revel in the rare privilege of throwing a blessed tantrum or having a deserved cranky day. Who would know that that lonely night wasn’t an attention-seeking ruse but a battle with an excruciating earache? Who would talk earnestly with you about the labyrinthine nature of puberty? It would be a struggle to survive, and no luxury of storing great memories for future nostalgia. In years, you would erect walls around your heart with bricks of pain, lack, and anger. Dense thoughts would be your pillar while moving on wheels with no guarantees. I remember the stench of soiled diapers, decaying custard in unwashed 3-day-old feeding bottles, urine-soaked beddings, and the over-powering odor of the local disinfectant. The smell wouldn’t go away. I realize it is more the smell of your pain…the tang of loneliness… the almost morbid ambiance in the house. I also recognize that it is the fear in my heart. I remember your story, the abuse, and the deprivation. It hangs around in the air and lives on the dingy walls. I sense you and the rest inadvertently clutching on to it, some form of survival tactic. Some try unsuccessfully to sleep it off, staying in the cocoon they have constructed, others grasping for attention from any and every visitor. As much as we try, no donation is sufficient. No supply can replace the need for a caress, listening ear, attention, protection, and kind words. I stayed away for a while and visited again. Babies have come and gone, but you are still here. In a whisper, I ask the nurses why the prettiest child in my heart is still here. “The imperfect eye…” they say. “…No one wants a baby with one ‘bad’ eye…” No one wants a reminder that an imperfect world exists beyond their perfect fence. Then, I realize with deep shame, even ME!

September 23, 2010 6.34pm