Court

 Friday morning - one of the two most important dates this trip could bring. We woke up early and I put Aidah in the shower, scrubbing her from head to toe. She spent the whole time playing with the shower knobs and turning the water from frigid to boiling. Several times I yelped and jumped out of the way as water spilled down on my arms. Aidah babbled away in Luganda and I enjoyed listening to her quiet voice telling me something....anything. She is so quiet and shy that when she talks, everyone stops to listen. I helped her get dressed, and she just beamed, not even trying to conceal her happiness at her clothing. Her shoes, the ones we thought fit well when we first arrived, are more than a size too small for her and her heel hangs off the back. Still, when she leans over to slip her foot in, and fasten the buckle, her hands literally shake with happiness. She went back in the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror, first at her head and shoulders and then standing up on the toilet seat to try and see her dress and shoes.
As I put on my dress and shoes, and then make up, she stood and watched, exclaiming over everything she thought was “kirungi nyo” - literally, beautiful so much! My yellow shoes, beaded necklace, pink lipstick (which I shared) and mascara.

Soon, we heard a honk at the gate, and we scurried out to meet Steven, our driver for the day. He navigated the maze of streets in Kampala’s city center, and eventually we pulled up in front of an apartment building, guarded by policemen. He explained why we were there, and we were shown to a parking space labeled “Austrian ambassador”. It was around this time that I realized I had forgotten my camera. “Oh brother!” I exclaimed and Aidah echoed me, “Oh brotha!”

As we walked in the building we were searched and our belongings sent through a scanner. I believe I have forgotten to mention that this happens everywhere though, so it felt like just walking into an apartment building. Steven started the walk up a flight of stairs and I hesitated, looking at Aidah and then at the elevator. “Steven,” I called, “Can I bring Aidah on the elevator?” “No,” he replied, “It’s not far.” So, up we climbed. As we reached the first half-story, the first landing, Aidah stopped to catch her breath. A minute later, up we climbed. Steven had lost sight of us, so we weren’t sure how far we were going, but it took us at least 10 minutes to go up 3 more half-stories, resting at each landing. Steven poked his head over the bannister and said, “Are you coming?” “Do you know that Aidah is sick? She has a very bad heart! This is not good for her!” I sort of snipped. His mouth dropped open in shock, “Ay, what? A bad heart? She looks so healthy! Just one more to go!” So, Aidah plugged away, up 2 more flights until we saw the sign for “Family Court”. And there we were. Another check of our bags and some beautiful compliments to Aidah for looking so “smart”, and we were sitting in a courtroom waiting, 1 full hour ahead of schedule. Steven disappeared to drive to our attorney’s office and pick up Aidah’s birth family. I asked him to tell Aidah who was coming back with him, and the smiles disappeared. I put my arm around her and kept telling her it would be ok, and she leaned up against me, her head on my shoulder.

About 45 minutes later, a commotion in the waiting room made Aidah poke her head out the door. She exclaimed and then hustled back to my side, burying her eyes in the back of my arm. In walked Aidah’s father and mother, her littlest sister Elizabeth (age 4), her auntie and Evelyn, the social worker from Bulamu. Jacson, Aidah’s father, sat down immediately on a bench, and Ester, Aidah’s mother dropped to her knees and shuffled over to me to take my hand. She brought it to her lips, and began to talk to me, while Beatrice translated. “Mrs Mary, we are so happy for your love for Aidah. She is more your daughter than she has ever been mine.” At these words, Aidah stood up and walked to another bench. “N-nn-noooo....” I stammered. “She will always be your daughter.” The answer came back, “But you care for her more than we ever will.” I raised my eyes to meet Aidah’s across the room, and she dropped her face and retreated even farther. Ester pointed at her and motioned to her estranged husband, and Aidah obediently dropped to her knees, shuffled over to her father, her face turned away the whole time. He reached out his hand and she took it, but refused to look at him. As soon as he released it, she jumped up and came to sit by me, wrapping her arms around my arm, and leaning her head against me. When Isaac (our lawyer) came in the room, he saw two sides...birth family, and Aidah and me, facing each other, each silent. The tension was thick.
I have made it very clear to Aidah’s family that I feel no jealousy towards them. We will always refer to them as Aidah’s parents. Her siblings will always be her brothers and sisters. If it takes Aidah a year to call me “mama” that will be ok. We don’t own her, or her feelings. But when faced with the reality that Aidah has much to work out in her own heart concerning her feelings toward this family, it made the situation very uncomfortable. I sat with her in silence, my hand on her knee, her arms around me, and just kept saying softly to her that it would be ok. Every once in a while I would gently squeeze her knee and she would giggle and squirm.

All of a sudden, about 30 minutes after court was to start, Isaac barreled into the room. “Everyone come! Now! Judge is ready!” So, we filed into the court room. Two long conference tables faced each other, the judge on one side, and Isaac on the other. Behind Isaac, a row of chairs was placed and we all lined up and sat down. First me, Aidah and Jurjanne, and then Jacson, Ester, Beatrice, Elizabeth and Evelyn.
Only after we were seated did I notice the court reporter and the two translators sitting near the judge. They smiled at us and we smiled back, the judge looking quite fatherly and kind, if not a bit strict. Isaac introduced each person in our case, and we stood up and waited for the judge to acknowledge us. Except that no one had told me to stand at all, and I was the first person introduced. I remained seated because Isaac had told me that he would indicate when I should stand, sit or speak. Several intros down the line, he began to tell people to stand up, and my stomach sank with horror. What a way to start off the court session!

The first thing Isaac made clear was that Aidah is very sick, that she has been given just months to live and he thanked the judge for taking it so seriously. The judge stared at Aidah, who stared back but shrank into my shoulder again. As the affidavits were read, personal situations revealed, and although the words were spoken in English and Aidah’s comprehension is minimal, I felt her separating herself from her parents and clinging to me more and more. The judge asked me some questions about Sam, our other “heart kid” and then focused on the parents. He called up Aidah’s father and began to ask him questions. They went through two translators and his reply went back. The judge scoffed at him, “Noooo!!! This is not true! Tell the truth!” Back went the question and after a lengthy reply, the answer was translated back to him. The judge turned to Isaac. “You, sir, have been in too much of a hurry! This father believes his child will be returning to him in a matter of months, or a year. Why did you not explain to him what was happening?” Isaac stammered, “I did, your Lordship, several times! He has even signed the statement.” The judge turned back to Jacson and another series of questions was shot off. Jurjanne and I started to pray...I heard her whispering, “Please Lord, guide his tongue!” And my tears started. The judge began to speak to Isaac again. “I think you should return in 2 weeks, 3 weeks, 2 months, 6 months. However long it takes for this father to realize this girl cannot return to him. He is not mentally healthy.”

And my hand shot up.

As His Lordship glanced at me, I, a bit hysterically, with tears and trembling voice, said, “Your honor she does not have months. She has weeks. If we must come back in 6 months, she will die. She will not make it.” And the judge became swallowed up in the affidavits again. I heard a clear voice from behind the papers, “Compose yourself, lady.” So, I composed myself and when I ceased to cause him discomfort, he lowered the papers. “Mrs Morris, I am asking this for your own good. Too often parents in Uganda think their children are coming back. This does not make the government happy. It makes them want to close the program. I am doing this for your own good. Look at how sad you are when I postpone. What despair would you be in if this family came to you and said their child must return? Now, trust me and I will work this out.”

Aidah wrapped her arms around my neck and patted me on the back, trying to comfort me as well, and I kissed her forehead. The judge called Ester, Beatrice and Eve up to speak to him, and each of them assured him that they knew Aidah would not be returning. That Isaac had made it clear to them that adoption was permanent.
The courtroom fell silent for a few minutes. Maybe even 10 minutes. Or 15. I have no idea. I was praying and Jurjanne was steaming.
“When will your husband arrive, Mrs Morris?”
“Tuesday night, your Lordship.”“Isaac, on Wednesday morning, you will appear for the ruling. I will ask the father again, and if agrees, I will give the ruling. You may go.”

And we stood and filed into a big group in the hallway. Immediately upon stepping out of the courtroom, Aidah burst into loud sobs, burying her head on Eve’s shoulder. A hurried translation told me what Aidah believed to be true - that it was over. She had no chance of life, or a family, that she would die in Uganda quite soon. She glanced up and found me and snuffled into my arms.
“Aidah, I am so sorry I scared you. You will not die here. I will not leave you. You will come home with me. It will be ok. I am not leaving you. Jurjanne wrapped her arms around all three of us, and as we stood there, the door to the courtroom opened again. The judge and clerk poked their heads out, and I heard the judge’s deep voice. “Is she ok?” “Yes sir.” “Come back on Wednesday. Things will be fine. You will see.”

We forlornly headed back to the stairway, passing the room where Isaac was incredulously questioning Jacson. Why would he do this? Nerves? Lack of comprehension? Only God knows.But tomorrow, at 10:00 AM we step back into court and listen to our ruling. My prayers of the last three days have mainly consisted of asking for help for Jacson, that he understand, give the right answers, and do the right thing by his daughter.