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By Root 688 0

is bright eyed, proud to be one of the boys now, and he can’t be bothered with his sister. While the boys are feasting away on the treats, I slip away with Noella to her room. Two new girls have joined the center and share her room, but they are sharp edged and much older. They clear the space so I can talk to Noella alone. I present her with a matching, green-floral-print skirt and blouse. She puts it on and smiles. But her eyes are heavy. I instantly feel silly bringing her a trinket present, especially one that reminds her she’s a cute little girl in a place where it is her greatest liability. I take her photo in the pretty outfit, which is barely large enough for her. It only fits when she stands still; every slight move of her arms pulls at the buttons or makes a sliver of her tummy protrude.

I look out the window, picturing her on her trips to the bathroom. Does a staff member escort her there? Certainly not. I hope she doesn’t wear that dress.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” I say. “It must be difficult for you here, the only girl with so many boys. Are you okay?”

She struggles to say something back, muttering, “It is no place for a little girl.”

I’m at a loss. I look in her eyes, and struggle for any words of encouragement I can muster. “I don’t know what it’s like for you here. But I do know that whatever happens, there is a place inside you all yours, that no one can touch. Do you understand?”

Maurice explains to Serge, who translates to the girl. I suspect the translation wasn’t exact. “What did he say?”

Serge says, “I told her, ‘sometimes it’s better to forget.’”

“That’s not what I said,” I tell him. “I would never say that to a child.”

They look at me patiently, waiting for my anger to pass.

“Tell her that’s not what I said. Tell her what I really said.”

Maurice and Serge smile; Serge doesn’t translate.

As we drive to the outskirts of town, my thoughts are flying like a fast-moving tennis match. Why didn’t I offer to drive Noella and Luc to Rwanda myself?

International law.

Or take her with me back to Orchid. I could have been her foster mom for at least a while.

It’s not your place.

Not my place? I could have pushed Murhabazi to place her somewhere safe.

You did bring it up to him. He said not to worry.

How stupid I was to listen. I could have protected her. I’m a grown-up. And I knew. I knew.

You did what you could. It wasn’t your role. . . .

We park the car and start walking, winding our way past an abandoned warehouse, up the eroded paths on a hillside overlooking Lake Kivu, to check in with another sister who has sick kids. As we pass women carrying loads up the hill, I marvel at their efforts. If they catch me looking, I smile and extend a “Jambo Mama!” Some manage a vague smile under the weight cutting into their foreheads. But occasionally, one will flash a big smile and “Jambo” back, a reminder there is a woman under that load just waiting to be seen. When I pass one woman who gives me such a smile, I take it as an invitation for friendship. “It looks heavy!” I say. “You must be very strong.”

She pauses to wait for the translation.

“Ah. Ndiyo. Yes. Heavy.”

“Is it okay? Are you okay carrying it?”

I don’t know why I ask questions like this. Out of concern, I suppose. What is she going to say, No?

She smiles weakly.

I wonder how heavy it is. I want to help her. On an impulse, I say, “Why don’t you let me take it. Let me carry it for you a while.”

Maurice and my new friend laugh. “It is not possible.”

But I love a challenge and I want to help, so I persist. “No. I’m serious. Let me take it.”

Maurice is gentle but firm. “You will hurt yourself.”

A few others have stopped to watch the spectacle. “Maurice, I can run thirty miles,” I tell him. “I’m fit. Ask her if I can take it for a bit. I want to help her.”

“Lisa,” he says, “you will break your back.”

But I have already started to move in on the load. She turns it towards me in acquiescence. I place my hands underneath her load, which is flour of some description. By the size of it, I guess it is about a hundred pounds. I try