hospital.
“This is all my fault,” I cried out to Father Maurizio just before we pulled away. “If I had loved Abdul more, he would want to live. If he dies, it’s because my lack of love killed him.”
Father Maurizio showed up at the hospital several hours later. He had found the money through an Italian donor. The doctors did the transfusion immediately, but afterwards Abdul was worse than before. He lay weakly in my arms, his big brown eyes gazing off into the air. He didn’t even cry to tell me he was hungry.
Three days later, Abdul’s almost-weightless body fell completely still. His breathing grew shallow. Every so often his eyes would blink as if in slow motion. I sat clutching him tightly.
“I think it’s time,” Marie said gently, taking Abdul from my arms. She motioned for me to go outside and shut the door behind me.
As I walked down the hall, I kept my eyes focused directly forward, blocking out the other babies on the ward. Every time I looked at them, all I could see was Abdul’s face.
Later that day, back at the camp, I went straight to my room. I lay down on the mat I slept on. Whenever anyone tried to talk to me, I’d respond with a gruff “Leave me alone.” For the first few days, I got up only to use one of the urinals in the camp. On my way back, I’d grab a few bites of rice, then return to my room and my mat.
My family held a funeral ceremony for Abdul in the camp’s mosque. The imam recited a prayer, and one by one my family asked for blessings. I sat motionless, listening but notreally hearing. Whenever we were supposed to recite a passage from the Quran, I did so under my breath.
“Allah,” I said in my head. “Help make me a better person.”
In the weeks that followed, I spent all my time sleeping. Abibatu, Fatmata, and Marie tried to console me many, many times, bringing me plates of rice and vegetables that I’d push away. Marie told me stories about Magborou. “We’ll go back one day,” she said. “You wait and see. We’ll be back in Magborou very soon.”
Abibatu often scolded me. “You have to pick yourself up, or else what’s the point of living? Those rebels should have killed you right then and there.”
Fatmata, who, along with Abdul, was living part of the time at the camp now, took a different approach. “There are still lots of things to be hopeful for, Mariatu.”
“Like what?” I grumbled. All I could see before me was a life of begging and depending on others for my survival. The best thing I could do for my family would be to move away. But where?
My sleep was haunted by images of Abdul. I’d have conversations with myself in my dreams: “Abdul was a person. He understood I did not love him. He knew I did not want him, so he left the world.”
I’d hear Abdul crying and I’d wake with a start. Relief swept through me, until I realized I’d been dreaming. A frequent dream was feeling Abdul lying on my stomach. I’d awake hugging him, only to find he was not there.
Abibatu and Marie collected all of Abdul’s clothes and toys and gave them back to Father Maurizio. Soon all that was left to remind me of him was the long scar on my stomach. When thisknowledge hit me, I cried for nearly half a day. I cried until I had nothing left in me, then fell into one of my fitful sleeps.
In the dream that followed, Salieu came to me a second time. He sat down beside me, as he had in the dream after I first learned I was pregnant.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked him
.
“Of course not,” he answered
.
“But I killed Abdul.”
“No, you didn’t,” he replied. “You were too young, Mariatu. What I did to you was selfish. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. Abdul is with me.”
Abdul suddenly appeared, sitting on Salieu’s lap. He was wearing such a big smile, I could see his two bottom teeth; they had come in just before he got sick. Abdul looked like he had before the illness, with his fat legs and arms, normal-sized stomach, and
“This is all my fault,” I cried out to Father Maurizio just before we pulled away. “If I had loved Abdul more, he would want to live. If he dies, it’s because my lack of love killed him.”
Father Maurizio showed up at the hospital several hours later. He had found the money through an Italian donor. The doctors did the transfusion immediately, but afterwards Abdul was worse than before. He lay weakly in my arms, his big brown eyes gazing off into the air. He didn’t even cry to tell me he was hungry.
Three days later, Abdul’s almost-weightless body fell completely still. His breathing grew shallow. Every so often his eyes would blink as if in slow motion. I sat clutching him tightly.
“I think it’s time,” Marie said gently, taking Abdul from my arms. She motioned for me to go outside and shut the door behind me.
As I walked down the hall, I kept my eyes focused directly forward, blocking out the other babies on the ward. Every time I looked at them, all I could see was Abdul’s face.
Later that day, back at the camp, I went straight to my room. I lay down on the mat I slept on. Whenever anyone tried to talk to me, I’d respond with a gruff “Leave me alone.” For the first few days, I got up only to use one of the urinals in the camp. On my way back, I’d grab a few bites of rice, then return to my room and my mat.
My family held a funeral ceremony for Abdul in the camp’s mosque. The imam recited a prayer, and one by one my family asked for blessings. I sat motionless, listening but notreally hearing. Whenever we were supposed to recite a passage from the Quran, I did so under my breath.
“Allah,” I said in my head. “Help make me a better person.”
In the weeks that followed, I spent all my time sleeping. Abibatu, Fatmata, and Marie tried to console me many, many times, bringing me plates of rice and vegetables that I’d push away. Marie told me stories about Magborou. “We’ll go back one day,” she said. “You wait and see. We’ll be back in Magborou very soon.”
Abibatu often scolded me. “You have to pick yourself up, or else what’s the point of living? Those rebels should have killed you right then and there.”
Fatmata, who, along with Abdul, was living part of the time at the camp now, took a different approach. “There are still lots of things to be hopeful for, Mariatu.”
“Like what?” I grumbled. All I could see before me was a life of begging and depending on others for my survival. The best thing I could do for my family would be to move away. But where?
My sleep was haunted by images of Abdul. I’d have conversations with myself in my dreams: “Abdul was a person. He understood I did not love him. He knew I did not want him, so he left the world.”
I’d hear Abdul crying and I’d wake with a start. Relief swept through me, until I realized I’d been dreaming. A frequent dream was feeling Abdul lying on my stomach. I’d awake hugging him, only to find he was not there.
Abibatu and Marie collected all of Abdul’s clothes and toys and gave them back to Father Maurizio. Soon all that was left to remind me of him was the long scar on my stomach. When thisknowledge hit me, I cried for nearly half a day. I cried until I had nothing left in me, then fell into one of my fitful sleeps.
In the dream that followed, Salieu came to me a second time. He sat down beside me, as he had in the dream after I first learned I was pregnant.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked him
.
“Of course not,” he answered
.
“But I killed Abdul.”
“No, you didn’t,” he replied. “You were too young, Mariatu. What I did to you was selfish. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. Abdul is with me.”
Abdul suddenly appeared, sitting on Salieu’s lap. He was wearing such a big smile, I could see his two bottom teeth; they had come in just before he got sick. Abdul looked like he had before the illness, with his fat legs and arms, normal-sized stomach, and
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