On Sundays after church, we usually meet for pancake lunch.
This particular Sunday I was running a few minutes late. As I stood in my kitchen peeling and
slicing bananas to take along, I heard crying coming from my backyard. I ran
outside and found a little boy standing in the middle of my lettuce patch. He
was all alone and was obviously very scared. I scooped him up, ran inside to
put on shoes and grab my keys. Then he and I set out in search of his mother.
He didn’t speak any English, and I sadly don’t even speak Kaonde well enough to
converse with a four year-old. Just enough to learn that his name was Atotwe.
We went to the Kilata – the area behind the hospital where
family members of patients stay. I walked up and down the rows of hostels,
asking if anyone was Baina Atotwe –
mother of Atotwe. With open palms raised toward the sky to demonstrate empty hands, the only reply I got was, “Kafwaako.” No one
here. As we walked along, I chattered
away cheerfully at him in English, telling him about my family and my cats and how I hoped we'd find his mother soon. He didn't say much in reply, but just clinged to my arm while we continued our search. We went to the house where pancake lunch was
being held to see if anyone there knew who his parents might be. Kafwaako. I found some folks whose
Kaonde was much better than mine to see if we could get any more information.
“Atotwe, jizhina Bainanji?” Atotwe, what is your mother’s name?”
“Bamama.” Mama.
“Bagipi?” Where is she?
“Ku nzubo.” At home.
“Mwikala pi?” Where do you live?
“Ku nzubo.”
We went to the hospital and walked through the wards to see
if anyone recognized him. Kafwaako. “Nasaka
kuya ku nzubo.” “I want to go home.” I wanted him to be able to go home
too! After walking around for over an
hour, the poor little guy was exhausted and fell asleep in my arms. I was
exhausted too and feeling a tad discouraged. We headed toward a few of the
hospital staff houses next to the hospital to see if anyone knew him, and we
decided that if we still couldn’t find his mama, we’d take a break for some
pancakes and water and then regroup.
As we walked up the road away from the hospital, a frantic
looking woman saw us and came running and crying in our direction. Baina
Atotwe! Not far behind her was Atotwe’s Nkambo
– his grandmother – in an equal state of duress. Apparently Atotwe had wandered
away from junior church and had traveled over a kilometer down the road all
by himself before he ended up crying in the middle of my lettuce patch. Atotwe was passed over to his mother as many
joyful tears were shed and hugs were shared. A happy ending to my mid-day adventure.
