This year, we get to celebrate the dawn of 2011 with a missionary family that lives in Soroti, a town northwest of Mbale. They have three adopted children, one African American girl and two Ugandans.
“Where did those children come from?” Lucy, our laundress asked me this morning, seeing them running around with Josh. “They are not Karimojong.”
“No, they live in Soroti.” I answered. Lucy looked over at the woman who was carrying around baby Zulia.
“Where are their parents?”
“Right there, can’t you see?” I pointed to the white woman. “She is their mother.”
“That white woman? She has married the black African?”
“No. Her husband is there.” I pointed him out, standing with his son, Moses who was peering into the chicken pens,
“Then how can she have black children?”
“She has adopted them. Do you know adopted?” Lucy only stared at me, and then slowly shook her head. I attempted to explain, “She did not give birth to them, but she has taken them as her own children.”
“Oh, so they are orphans. The parents have died?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Lucy looked so confused.
“Why don’t they give the children to their relatives?”
“Because now they are their family. That white woman, she is the mother to them, her husband is their father. They are all one family.”
“But they are black children! How can the white family have black children?”
Gosh, it is the hardest thing to explain the concept of adoption to a Karimojong. They simply don’t understand it. Here, even if a child is an orphan, the relatives would rather send them to an orphanage a hundred miles away then have to feed and clothe them. And on the rare occasion that an orphan is taken into to a relative’s family, they are only fed on the understanding that they will be the ones cooking the food and washing the clothes and caring for the smaller children. A slave basically, with no prospects beyond work in the home and no prospect of school at all. They are not really welcomed into the family, but simply given a food to eat and a place to sleep at night. But now, here is a young mzungu couple living in Soroti, Uganda, caring for three black children who are not even related to them! They must be crazy! No one seems to grasp the idea that these wazungu are now the children’s parents and their loving family.
Today is the last day of the month, and therefore payday. Zulia’s mom had asked me to watch Zulia for a bit so I wandered out onto the porch, where Cosmas was, awaiting his payment.
“Maria, who is that child?” He inquired.
“Have you seen those visitors? It is their child.” I answered
“Those white visitors? Yes, I have seen. They even have two more. But where are the children’s parents.”
“No, those visitors are their parents. They have adopted them. ”
“So this girl’s parents are dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“But then why have they taken her? Is she Ugandan or from somewhere?”
“She is Ugandan. Even the other small boy, he is Ugandan.”
“What about the other girl?”
“She is American.” His face portrayed his shock at my words
“American? You have blacks in America?”
“Yes. They are there. They are African American.” I could tell by his face, that the concept was hard to grasp. African American? So she is American? But she is black? He shook his head in confusion. It was too much to take in in one day. “Her name is Zulia.” I said. Zulia stared up at Cosmas with big eyes.
“Julia, ejoka?” He took her tiny hand in his and shook it gently. She didn’t know what to make of that, but she smiled anyway, showing off her four teeth. Boy, is she a cute little bugger.
No comments:
Post a Comment