No Word for Lucky

We sat in a guest house in Kampala, Uganda. The small, tiled room was our temporary imitation of a home. The door of our room stood wide open, as if begging for a breeze to come rustling through the banana trees outside and bring relief from the ever-constant heat. Sounds of K’la reverberated around the plaster walls. Upbeat music mixed with the cadence of the Luganda language to create a soundtrack for this long-awaited moment. We could hear the shouts of workmen next door as they built a high-rise apartment building with bricks formed from red African mud. Kampala is a city of 1.5 million. It is loud and vibrant, with an easy equivalent of hard work and hard play. 

 

He sat, small, wondering, hesitant. The pink bottoms of his feet were marked with cracks, like the parched earth of the desert. A few red streams of blood trickled out. Absently, he spit on his little hand and rubbed moisture in between his brown toes to provide a fleeting relief. With this physical act, my heart intertwined with his. Someone had taught my tiny son (my SON?) to ease his own suffering, but this would only be a momentary reprieve. First things first: I may not know what our life together will look like, but I can fix this. I took the jar of coconut oil off the shelf and gently rubbed lasting relief into his pain. Back and forth, back and forth, nkwagala nyo. 

 

Three and a half years and 7,765 miles later, we sat on the carpeted floor of the boys’ bedroom. Legos and Rescuebots were strewn about, a childhood minefield in a battle against growing up. Outside, robins chirped and the sun shone through a window dirty with their fingerprints. The heat begged to get in, but the window held fast, keeping our air conditioned to our liking. Catlin is a village of 2100. It is quiet and calm, with an image of the American Dream plastered deceptively outside every wreathed door. 

 

My other kids watched with furrowed brows from the doorway. The baby fended for herself in the living room, as I tossed up a silent prayer that she wouldn’t put something tiny into her mouth. He sat listlessly on my lap, drenched in sweat and tears. Forty-three minutes had passed since he was told to stop jumping on the couch, and his frustration had spiraled into overwhelming grief. Sobs racked his body, and emotion seeped out from the cracks of his soul. I am at a loss for what to do or how to help. He holds hurts I have never experienced, and sometimes those deep emotions overtake superficial situations. I held him against my heart and gently rubbed his back, my tears mixing with his, hoping to ease his suffering if only for a moment. Back and forth, back and forth, nkwagala nyo.

 

When people hear that he’s adopted or that his life before us was filled with trauma, they remark absently, “He’s so lucky!” With that comment, they display their well-meaning ignorance. My son (my SON!)- he is not lucky. Adoption is not the same as the coconut oil I rubbed into the cracks between his toes and on the pink soles of his feet. Adoption is not a cure-all, erasing the pain of the past. Adoption is a mama joining in a child’s suffering, knowing there is grief she can’t heal and pain she can’t erase but loving him anyways. There is no word for lucky in Luganda, but there are words for “I love you”: Nkwagala nyo.