Child Labour? Conmanship or Moral Responsibility

 Child Labour? Conmanship? or Moral Responsibility 

Some things cut many ways. I am sitting in the office when suddenly I begin itching for a walk. My back feels like it’s made of wood. Hard wood. I feel like someone has dexterously wrapped my waist with a ring band of warm water. My smart watch has been telling me to walk around. Each time I told it not to be too smart and to stuff it. In my mind of course. Now I am feeling the heat around my waist as if someone has been warming my innards.  I really must make the move.  Plus this urge is like a divine call that must be obeyed.  

Outside, the heat assaults my receding hairline  with a vengeance. It’s times like this  I begin to question the added value of being a Wahome Mūtahi lookalike. My hairline has been receding as if it’s got a deadline to beat. Too fast for my comfort. The sun immediately takes advantage and attacks my forehead with vengeance. It feels like some malevolent force is hell bent on boiling my brains. Perhaps I should take up that offer of some cream that apparently restores hair. The lady who offered it swears by the gods of feminine wisdom that it works. She says she knows people who have harmlessly used it and restored their gloss. I told her I have read stories of men who used such creams and had so much hair growing all over their bodies that they ended up looking like chimps. I am just not risking that. She says am a hopeless sceptic. 

The heat assaults me as if in solidarity with the lady or whatever cream she is advertising. My eyes squint to ward off the dazzling sun. I keep walking. I am not sure where I am going. Probably just an aimless walk.  Then I spot her. 

A young girl. No more than 13 years old, I would say. She is slender. I am not sure what colour her dress is or used to be. I am, like most men-I am told- clour blind. I can still see her in my  mind as I write now. The dress is or could have been  dark red, maroon, or pink. She is sitting down by the side of the road.  Her tall, slender and very dark legs are sprawled out in front of her. She has a winnowing basket on top of her head. It’s expertly perched on the head so she doesn’t even seem conscious of it. There are some few bananas in the winnower. I have met her type before in this neighborhood. They hawk fruits and always give you two options: either you  buy their fruits and contribute to their education or, if you don’t care for fruits, make a contribution. 

The girl eyes me directly. Tears are rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes are red with crying. It appears she has had a nasty experience. I wonder why her eyes never leave mine.  She appears determined to make her eyes and mine make four. I really don’t have time for involvement in other people’s affairs right now. I tell myself. There are a bunch of things  to sort out back in the office. Plus it could be complex and once you get involved there may be no walking away. So I walk past her. She follows me with her eyes. Keenly. She is definitely inviting me to get involved. She makes no effort to wipe her tears. She doesn’t  say anything. She just stares helplessly. I walk on. After a few paces, I turn around. Her eyes haven’t left me. I am determined. I walk on and disappear round the corner. 

“Did you just walk away from a crying girl child?”  It’s my conscience. I don’t like arguing with my conscience. I usually end up doing dumb things. “Look”, I reply, “you really can’t sort out every problem in the world. And you could tell she was seeking sympathy”. I walk on. Conscience follows me. “You are heartless. And you call yourself a Christian? You are just like the people in the story of the Good Samaritan. Yes, you are one of them hypocrites”. I tell Conscience that taking me on a guilt trip won’t achieve a damn thing. That girl is probably a conwoman and the tears were just part of her act. By this time I have reached a newly established coffee joint. I have been here once since they opened. They looked promising. I have been promising myself  to return and sample the progress made. Today is as good as any day. I tell myself. The doors are closed but there is a sign saying “Open”. I push the doors and get in. 

Coming from outside it’s a bit dark inside. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.  It’s an interesting joint. There is a hot drinks menu right at the back behind a counter where the drinks are made. On my immediate left and right, varieties of wine and other alcoholic drinks are finely arranged on wooden shelves. In the middle of one of the shelves there is a five liter Jerry can of honey.  From Gulu, the label says. In the middle  of the room, there is rack for an assortment of fruits and vegetables. There are two girls in the room and one dude. The dude is the coffee maker. One of the girls has a bowl of fried bananas that she is taking. I can’t tell if it’s katogo or not. I love katogo. 

I have come for lunch. I announce teasingly with a cheeky smile. The lady on katogo picks up the  nuance of the challenge instantly. It’s available, she says. There is more where that came from, she continues as she tilts the bowl towards me to show it half empty. She looks at me and effects a split second wink. Her colleagues give us suggestive side glances. Let the show begin, they seem to say. This catches me off guard. “Where are the stools you promised for customers”, I deflect the conversation by invoking my last visit here. I had told them it would be nice to have space for customers to sit and enjoy their coffee. They point me to what looks like a wooden fruit box turned upside down to serve as a bench. I protest that  this is classless and not befitting for a man of my tastes. They protest that other customers don’t seem to mind. I want to do a nkt and assert  that am not “other customers” but am in a good mood. I resist the urge and order a chocolate instead. I also pick an apple and promise to return only if they get proper stools. They promise to bring some.  I have my doubts but I don’t express it as I exit. 

Conscience is still on my case. “Really, what would it have cost you to find out what was the matter with the girl. The price of your take away Chocolate?” I take a sip of my chocolate to help me ignore her. The chocolate is mildly hot. The crying child is now walking towards me. The winnowing basket is still on her head. Tears continue running down her cheeks.  She keeps her eyes fixed on mine. She is clearly determined to extract sympathy. “This is the chance to redeem yourself”, Conscience whispers into my ear. My resistance breaks down. “Young girl”, I ask, “what is wrong? Why are you crying?” She chokes with emotions first and has to restart her sentence at least three times before she manages to bring it out. “I have lost all my money”, She says while unfolding what appears  like a headscarf but which apparently she uses as her bank. She flips and waves it in the air to demonstrate it’s empty. Her chest heaves uncontrollably. “How much was it”, I ask. I hear 20,000 and another figure that gets lost in the heaving. 

I want to ask if she goes to school. Did her mother or father send her to the streets to hawk and do they expect her to return with a certain amount of money from the sales? Or is  she in the employ of a vicious business person exploiting child labour? Will she encounter child abuse and or violence if she returns home without the fruits and no money? These are the questions I want to ask her but clearly it would take me forever to get answers. I give up. I remove my wallet and select a UGX 20,000 note. She politely picks the money, says thank you in between heaving and then uses the back of her hand to wipe away snort from her upper lip. I walk on. 

Behind me, I hear a man engaging her in a conversation. He was seated on the side of the road all along. I turn around. The girl has also turned and is now seemingly following me. Why is she following me now? Where was she going when I just met her and why has she changed direction? They are speaking in a language I can’t understand. I stop. “What is the matter?” I ask.  “It’s ok, but it’s not fair what they have done to her”. The man replies. He doesn’t tell me who “they” are.  I don’t ask what “they” have done. I walk back to my office wondering if I have just fallen victim to a triangle of conmen and women or have  I assisted a poor girl being exploited for child labour or have I rescued a family’s evening meal?