What it means to dump a child in a latrine

We have heard about babies being dumped in pit-latrines but it is not common for that to happen to a three-year-old child. A woman from eastern Uganda, who is in her mid-20s, tells her story on why she came to a point of dumping her child in the latrine.

When I was seven years old, my aunt took me away from the village and told my parents that she was going to put me in school. However, when I got to her home, I was treated like a housemaid, doing the chores and minding my cousins until I turned 10. While I was enrolled in a UPE school, my cousins went to good private schools, just another sign that while I lived with my aunt, I was never really part of the family.

So when I got older and finally caught the attention of a man who appreciated me, I was flattered and returned his affection. He was a student at a college where my aunt worked. I saw him often and we were intimate.

Having the baby
When I became pregnant, I failed to get in touch with my boyfriend because I knew him by only one name. At the time, he had gone back to his country for the holiday.
I was scared, especially of my aunt’s reaction since our relationship was strained. She always seemed to be out of patience when it came to everything I did in the house.
I never swept the house or cleaned it well, the food I cooked always had something wrong with it … nothing I did pleased her.
I couldn’t imagine how she would take my being pregnant so I kept it to myself.

My secret didn’t last, for it was not long before I was vomiting, always spitting, and my appetite was so bad that I hardly ate. To say that she was angry is an understatement.
She told me to pack my bags and she sent me back to the village. I was two months pregnant at the time.
My parents were understandably disappointed in me and I was just grateful that they let me stay with them. It never once crossed my mind to abort because I really wanted to have my baby.

My baby was born in 2009 and I was filled with joy when I held him. I might not have known how I was going to feed or clothe him but I knew that I loved him with all my heart.
I stayed with my parents till the baby made four months. By this time, my parents had made it clear that I had outlived my welcome.

Luckily, a friend told me about her mother who needed help. Although the job was in eastern Uganda, I took it and moved there with my baby.
My new boss was not too keen about me having a young child but she let me work.

She paid me Shs20,000 a month, which helped cater for my baby’s basic needs. After almost a year of working for her, she didn’t need my services anymore and I had to leave, my one-and-a-half-year-old son in tow.

I stayed with a friend in Kampala who let me tag along with her to work, sharing what she earned with me but of course this had to end. There were days I couldn’t find food for him. I started moving from one friend’s place to another because very few people were willing to hire me because I came with a child.

The struggle
Last year, I sent him to the village because it was difficult to keep him out of the way when I got jobs like washing clothes and cleaning houses.
It did not take long before I received a call from the village telling me that no one was taking care of him. When I went to get him, he was sick and looked malnourished. I was sad because I had let my boy down but I was hopeful that there was still something I could do for him.

I asked my uncle, who lived a few hours drive outside Kampala, to take my son in. He said he would do if his wife was fine with it. She said it was okay as long as I gave her Shs50,000 every month to compensate her for what she was going to spend on my on my son. Fortunately, I had just got a job where I was earning Shs100,000 a month and could afford to pay it.
The rest of the money, I used to put my son in school, and for a few months it looked like he was finally catching a break. However, this lasted only a few months.

During a visit, my uncle’s neighbour told me that my aunt sometimes didn’t give him food, and that she had stopped taking him to school.
It turned out that she thought it was her husband who had been paying his school fees because I always sent the money to his mobile money account.

I went back to work feeling hopeless about my son’s future but glad that I was working to make his life easier.
But it seems that whatever curse I have was still at work. When I got to work, my boss complained that I was always distracted by my personal problems. I went to my uncle’s place and when I told my aunt that I had lost my job, she told me that she was not going to let my son stay with her since I was not going to be able to pay her.

The fateful day
I felt like the last bit of hope had been squeezed out of me. I looked at my son innocently playing in the yard and I thought about how difficult his short life had been and thought, “why not put an end to his suffering?” I felt so useless because I had failed to do what is supposed to come naturally for any woman –take care of your child.
At around 7:30pm, I picked him up and took him to some public pit latrine, a distance away from my uncle’s home, and threw him into it.

He did not make a sound and if he did, I didn’t hear it.
At that moment, I was numb. I didn’t look around to make sure no one would catch me at it.

I didn’t care if they did. In fact, I wished that they would find me, and stone me to death. After throwing him, I went back to my uncle’s place. They asked where my son was and I mumbled something about sending him to Kampala. The next thing on my mind was how to end my life, now that I was sure that my son was in a better place. However, I never got an opportunity to try anything. Two weeks later, policemen came to my house with my uncle and his sister, the aunt I had lived with when I was younger.

They had rescued my son from the pit-latrine and taken him to a police station, where my aunt identified him. When the police questioned me about dumping my son, I confessed everything and they arrested me. I am guilty and ready for whatever punishment will be given to me.
I am happy that my son is safe and that he is being looked after but I still feel like a failure.

I was allowed to see my son when I was released on police bond but I can’t bring myself to look him in the face.
He is too young to know what happened but I am sure people will tell him about it when he gets older, and that is something I can live with.

I have been talking to a social worker who assures me that my future is not as bleak as I believe it is but only time will tell.