Her life is in my hands

She shuffles by the market women with her head down. Women whisper about her, but no one speaks to her. Her stomach is bloated, her eyes bulge, and her skin pulls tautly against hard bone. She is a walking skeleton—fragile and slowly dying. Her name is Maimah J. and I helped save her life.
In a tropical country people rarely starve to death. Liberia is covered with dense tropical forests and rich soil. This is not a country of genetic modification and agribusinesses. It is a country of community growers relying on traditional knowledge. They grow moderate surpluses and feed their community. This is not a barren wasteland of drought and famine. It is a recovering democracy with deep emotional wounds. This is the place I found her.
The sun’s setting rays cast curious shadows on the office floor. I don’t notice the ephemeral silhouette until she speaks. “Yeah, hello.” She is barely audible and I only see her bony fingers timidly hiding her face. I motion her in and she sits. Her voluminous belly looks odd against her frail frame. I have a litany of questions that she calmly answers. “My parents left me at the hospital to die, but I didn’t die. They told me I was going to die, but I got better. I went to Bomi Hills Elementary School. My teacher is Ms. Johnson. I have three sisters. I sleep outside the hospital now. I eat whatever falls on the ground.” She quietly says. I sit stunned and offer her my bottled water. She guzzles a liter of water in less than ten seconds. I tell her “Come on get up. I am going to help you.” I am not sure how I am going to help her, but food, clothes, and shelter are all I can think of. She’s dirty and covered in rags. Slowly she follows behind me. She stops on the road and squats to urinate. Directly in front of houses in full view of everyone she relieves herself. A part of me wants to cover her vulnerability. Another part of me wants to cover my face in revulsion. Conflicted, I wait. My partner welcomes her warmly on the front porch and they walk in our home together. “Honey, can you give her bath?” He asks me, but I’m unsure. “I can do it myself.” I’m relieved by her independence. I find a few lappas, towels, soap, and skin crème. She takes her time washing away the dirt and humiliation of sleeping outdoors and eating garbage. We prepare enough food to feed a soccer team. We are both nervous and clueless. “Let’s call UNMIL. Maybe Phebe Hospital. Where’s the missionary?” She steps out of the shower holding her dirty rags. I take them from her and place into a black bag. I later throw them away in a large pit outside to be burned. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” She nods yes.
She curiously eats more than I think is usual. She shovels spoonfuls of rice, vegetables, and beans into her tiny mouth. Cheeks bulge with food and I wonder if she is getting sick. “Maimah, why did you come to the hospital?” In between gulps she says, “Diabetes, but my mom said it was African Sign.” African Sign is sorcery or witchcraft and many here believe in metaphysical etiology. “Is this why they left a Kissi girl in a hospital deep in Kpelle country nearly five hours away from home?” I begin to wonder. She grows tired and I prepare a place on the couch for her to sleep. In the morning we go to Phebe Hospital. We need to assess her health and find any information about her.

The nurses at Phebe all suck their teeth and audibly grumble when we arrive. Half glasses rest low on nose bridges and heads wag. A chorus of disapproving women erupts when we ask questions about Maimah. “Hmmph! I know this little girl. Yeah, she runs away from home because she doesn’t like the food. I know her mother. She sells produce behind the hospital.” Her mother arrives and gives her a sideways glance. She doesn’t smile at her and talks to the nurses in Kpelle. She doesn’t want her burdensome daughter anymore and wants to get rid of her. Maimah’s uncle walks out of the lab and introduces himself. Her uncle is a lab technician and hasn’t checked her blood sugar in months. He passes her everyday going to work and watches her slowly deteriorate. He wants to place the blame with Maimah. “She only wants to eats sweets and starchy rice. She can go home with you if you want her.” I stare stunned, but take her home and call a social worker. He arrives at home with the mother and uncle. My partner and I agree to take her back to her father in Bomi Hills on one condition. We must take the mother to re-introduce her to the community. The bus leaves Tuesday morning.
The bumpy ride makes Maimah and her mother sick. Her mother motions us to stop at an old memory. She tries to drop her daughter off at an IDP camp inhabited by old ghosts and strangers. She wanders around aimlessly trapped in a nightmare. “Let’s go here.” She points to a dense copse of trees. An older man named Konia wisely recognizes what is happening. He leans over to me and says, “These are internally displaced people. She’s pointing to a village burned down years ago.” A mother unaware of her daughter’s own age or sickly condition is trying to drop her off at an abandoned village. Konia takes the lead and questions the villagers. “Do you know this girl’s father?” He was able to track down the village in under an hour and guide us to it. She is welcomed home and we congratulate ourselves for a job well done.