Little Josephine

Her little body curled up into something smaller than a basketball that settled on my stomach, the top of her head barely reaching my chest. She did not move. I didn’t either, not wanting to break the magic of this sleepy moment. It was rare to have a moment with only one baby from the children’s home. During the day, the dozen babies, ranging from a few months to almost two years, crawled and babbled and cried over one another like a box of kittens seeking attention. But now, after supper, the other babies had been cleaned, changed and laid in bed, and Josephine dozed on my chest. She was six months old. 

By then, Josephine had been living at Noah’s Ark for three months. She and her sister were taken away from their family by the police after their mother, who was very sick,  tried to drown the girls in a pit latrine. Without any other known family able to care for them, both girls were put under the care of Noah’s Ark. This place, and this family, became their home. 

Josephine with one of her best adult friends, Auntie Joanita.

Josephine was the first Noah’s Ark baby to fall asleep in my arms. I remember softly singing to her. I remember exactly where I was sitting on the couch. Eight years ago, and that image is printed in my memory. 

Most of our relationship is fuzzier than that first memory, but there are snapshots here and there that play like a viewmaster to get us where we are today. 

I don’t remember exactly when or exactly how—probably there was nothing exact about it—but Josephine became a regular at my house when she was three years old. She and other toddlers would escape the watchful eye of their aunties and come to my house even before they had eaten breakfast. And after breakfast, and before and after lunch, and after school. At the time, I was living in the closest house to the children’s home, making it an easy escape for children who wanted to play outside of their own playground. I didn’t mind. It kept the house lively, and then I could blame the mess on people other than myself. 

Three-year-old Josephine was one of the official flower girls in our Ugandan wedding. On the day of wedding number three, she and Daisy donned matching pink-and-white dresses and silver sandals we had bought in the Netherlands, and some aunties combed their unruly hair into something uncharacteristically smooth for the occasion. They were, for lack of a more descriptive word, adorable. 

For three years after that day, Josephine asked me when Christian and I were going to get married and if she could be in the wedding. Apparently our wedding day had less of an impression on her than it did on me. 

Josephine, more than almost any child I know, yearns to be helpful. If she comes to my house and finds me washing the dishes, she asks to help. If she finds me hanging laundry, she asks to help. If she finds me cooking, she asks to help. If she finds me sitting on the couch, she asks to help, to which I ask with what I need help and she shrugs her shoulders, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. 

One day she raided the dress-up box before offering to wash my shoes. It was a precious sight, a four-year-old in a tiara scrubbing my red-soiled sandals. 

Another time, Josephine disappeared in my bathroom longer than her normal business should have required. When I checked on her, she was brushing her teeth. With my toothbrush. 

Later, in a similar situation, she scrubbed my entire bathroom floor. With the toilet brush. 

Years later, she decided she was old enough that it was important to lock the door when she used the bathroom. That in itself was not a problem… and I think you can see where this is going. She may have been old enough to need bathroom privacy, but she was not yet old enough to shimmy a finicky key into unlocking. Nor was she old enough to understand our directions to remove the key and slide it under the door so we could open it from the outside. There was no other option—if we wanted to open the door, we had to remove the lock. 

We did not have a flathead screwdriver. Our neighbors did not have a flathead screwdriver. We used a butterknife. 

My first fear was that Josephine would panic and there was absolutely nothing we could do from the living room to comfort her. Now and then I shouted through the door, “Josephine, are you okay?” She shouted back a cheerful “Yes!” which led me to my second fear: that she was trapped in her preferred place of mischief and might repeat any of her past offenses or, as suited her character, come up with an entirely new way to “help” me. 

When we finally set her free from the bathroom, we hung the key so high even I can barely reach it, and it hasn’t moved since. 

Our first morning in Uganda after we returned from our American and Dutch weddings, we intended to sleep in. The flight arrived in Entebbe at 10:30 at night, followed by an hour to get out of the airport and at least two hours to drive home. We deserved a morning of rest. Or so we thought. 

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. 

A cultural difference between Ugandans and Americans: Americans knock three times and wait for an answer. If we don’t hear one, we might knock three more times, but after no reaction we leave and try again later. 

Ugandans, on the other hand, knock. And knock. And knock. Being home and not answering the door is not an option, because if the person at the door knows you are there, they will not go away. This applies to adults and children alike. 

We tried to wait it out. 

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. 

Lying face-to-face on our mattress on the floor, we opened our eyes just enough to glare at each other (the glare of course being meant for the person at the door) and then squeeze our eyes shut again. No one ever needed us for an emergency, and anything else could wait. We had hardly been back in the country for twelve hours. Whatever had waited the six weeks we were away could wait another hour or two.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. 

Then silence. But not for long. 

The footsteps that disappeared off our verandah appeared a few seconds later outside our bedroom window. 

“Auntie Katie, I am here!” It was a sweet voice, even early in the morning. 

“Good morning, Josephine,” we greeted groggily from bed. 

“I am here! I am coming to the door!” Footsteps. Then again, knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. 

It’s a good thing she is so cute. 

After that, we talked to her about waiting to visit until the curtains are open in the morning and not knocking incessantly. She is still often the first person at our house after breakfast, but at least now she waits until we are awake. 

Josephines seem to easily work their ways into my heart, because this Josephine is not the only special girl in my life by that name. “My” other Josephine is 23 years old, so we got into the habit of referring to them as Little Josephine and Big Josephine. Which one is Little and which one is Big is an ongoing and ever-changing debate, for what the younger Josephine lacks in years and height, she more than makes up for in personality and stubbornness. Drawn to each other several years ago by their common name, these two girls have formed a sister-like bond that has come to include playing, teasing, tutoring, and many gifts from and for both parties. 

For two years, Big Josephine (the actual big one) attended a school a mile up the road from Noah’s Ark. It was a boarding school and families were allowed to visit only once every few months on Visitation Day. After the first one or two visits, once Christian and I felt more comfortable with the system and what happens on such occasions, we began to bring Little Josephine along for the adventure. She would walk with us from Noah’s Ark a half mile up a dirt road to the main road, which had far too much traffic (and traffic that doesn’t stay between the lines) for a six-year-old to walk by herself. So I would hoist her onto my back and walk the next half mile with her arms around my neck and her commentary in my ears. 

When we reached the school, almost without fail, she played the typical child’s game of feigning shyness and not speaking a single word to Big Josephine for at least an hour. Big would try to play with Little, and Little would keep her mouth closed and look away. Big would offer Little food, and Little would either pretend she had not heard or take it silently. Also without fail, by the end of the visit they were best friends and Little Josephine told us she was going to stay there while we walked back home without her. When all was said and done, I can’t tell you which Josephine appreciated the reunion more. 

As I sit in the office writing the last of this post, the culprit herself has entered and silently taken up a place behind me, patiently waiting until I am finished and can give her something to do. So let me turn my attention to this girl in the flesh and see where she can best help me today.