Ohn Quenda

Every morning, she came down the road from the right. Her clothes were tattered more than all the other children’s clothes. Of the 5 days we were there, she wore the same outfit 4 out of those five times: a dirty once-cream and blue tank-top and a cotton skirt with faded violets printed on it.

I guessed her age to be around 6 or 7, though I knew she was petite and malnourished. The only English she knew was “yes” and the response ever child in Uganda knows to the question of how are you: “I am fine.”

She only wanted to be held, cuddled, rocked – just loved. She just wanted to be loved.

While the other children went to play, Rashida stayed in my lap, longing to relish in the love I easily lavished on her. The light and trust emanated from her dark chocolate eyes and long eyelashes. Her smile was perfect and overwhelming. In a word, she captivated me. Her adoration left me in tears. So I sat her in my lap and rocked her as I sang Jesus’ sweet love songs to her. I would point and tell her English words. She would point and tell me the words in Luganda. She played with my hair, she stole my sunglasses and hat – she stole my heart.

As the week went by, I found myself seeking her out – I was starved for love just as she was.

So I asked David, one of our native interpreters, about her. He gently took her by the hand and took her aside to ask her questions. She’s 6, he found out. She should be in school, but she’s not and probably won’t ever be. Her parents are separated – probably divorced or her mother dead – and her father remarried. The stepmother doesn’t love Rashida and her children get everything that is apportioned for the children, including school.

As I was dancing with Rashida one particularly hot afternoon, one of the ladies in the church points to Rashida and says, “this one has no parents.”

“Rashida?” I ask to clarify.

“Yes, this one.” She points again.

I find Kimi, whom the children have affectionately christened “Auntie Kimi” and ask her to look into the situation for me. We exchange email information and she takes my precious baby by the hand and walks her home in hopes of finding more about her home situation.

The truth is, I could stay in that warm breeze, under that torn orange tarp (“His banner over me is love!”), rocking and singing with Rashida for the rest of my days, but instead am forced to watch her eyes darken as yet another person who has spoken those sacred words “ohn quenda” (I love
you) betrays the trust she has freely given me.

How dare I leave? How dare I not fight for her?