Balogun Ojetade - Kori O: Protecting Afrikan Children From Violence Sexual Abuse

Ramona and Patrick

Ramona had had about enough.

Yeah, Patrick had been patient for as long as one could expect from any nine-year-old, and, yeah, the shopping excursion had gone on a long time, but he was pushing it. Rounds of Mama, can we go now? had assaulted Ramonas ears since they arrived at the department store, and as she looked over the inventory of shoes, Patrick brought out his whole inventory of manipulations: You promised, Im tired, Im hungry.

Ramona reminded her son that as he spoke those words about being hungry, he was literally still chewing on a donut. Her expression and tone were full of warning when she said, Patrick, stop bugging me. Im going as fast as I can and you are only slowing me down.

Ramona heard a sound that made her instantly angry: a slight chuckle from a man standing nearby. She shot a cold look in his direction, but he responded with a warm smile. Ramona remembers that he was a white man, in his twenties, with wavy brown hair, dressed casually in jeans and a maroon wool sweater. He explained his amusement, Sorry, its just that I was having this exact problem with my son a half-hour ago. My wife wasnt as patient as youve been; her solution was to send him a few doors down to the video-game store. Hey, if you want, Ill take your son over there to join my sontheyre about the same ageand you can pick him up when youre done shopping.

The man turned to Patrick. Whats the name of that place?

The Fix , Patrick answered.

Right, The Fix , where we always go when Ive got quarters in my pocket. You know, that place was started by a dad and his son, and now theyre equal partners. The man laughed and turned back to Ramona. Since were in the same boat, Ill be glad to give you a few minutes off, and well meet up at The Fix when youre done.

Ramona looked at this easygoing man like he was crazy, but he continued, I promise well look after him.

Obviously, she was not about to hand her son over to a total stranger. She thought, Youve got to be kidding , but she responded more diplomatically: No. Thats very kind, but well be done in a few minutes. Thanks anyway.

As if he did not hear her, the man said, Its no trouble, and since you probably dont like white folks, Ill let you know my son is biracial and my wife is Black.

When Ramona didnt respond to this, the man continued: Kids are all alike. Our sons tolerance for shopping is about fifteen minutesunless hes shopping for lizards. Then he turned to Patrick and said, Hes got an amazing collection. Im sure you saw the iguana at the pet shop downstairsalmost five feet long. Did you see it?

Perusing a pile of assorted on-sale sandals, Ramona didnt really register how Patrick responded. Though shed never in a million years let some stranger take her son somewhere, she was relieved that Patrick wasnt pestering her. As she continued shopping, she could hear the man talking with Patrick, but their conversation took less and less of her attention. My boys name is Kevin, like Kevin Hart. Hes twelve. How old are you?

And Patrick answered. Then another question, and Patrick answered. Ramona marveled that someone could actually have expected her to just turn her son over, even if he was a parent with a child of his own. She looked at prices on shoes while another part of her mind asked, Is that guy old enough to have a twelve-year-old? Maybe the son is his wifes from a previous marriage. Was he even wearing a wedding ring?

She casually glanced over to get an answer to her question, but shed moved a few displays down and the guy wasnt immediately within view. Neither was Patrick.

Instant focus.

Patrick!

No answer. Ramona rushed back over to where theyd been standing and looked around, scrutinizing every inch of that store. At the farthest corner, she saw Patrick. He was with the man! She called out to him loudly but he and the stranger were at that instant passing through a door at the end of a hallway. Without knowing it, Ramona was running in that direction.

She assumed it led to a bathroom and was relieved that they couldnt get too far away, but in the hall leading to that door, she passed the bathroom, which was bad news. She blasted through the door shed seen them go through and got more bad news. It led to the main mall, to a huge area congested with a hundred sets of people that looked just like Patrick and that man. She had lost her son for an instant, and then for the day, and then for years.

Immediately, people judged her. A police investigator asked if shed taken any drugs that might have dulled her senses; a news editorial described her as negligent; a caller on a radio talk show said she was stupid (she kept listening, though, hoping the abductor would call in).

As I write this, it has been nearly sixteen years since Ramona ran down that hallway and burst through that door, years in which nobodys harsh opinions could even touch her own experience of regret and self-doubt. Our judgment about a mother whom we could say let down her guard at the wrong moment, a mother whose child was lost on her watchwell, our judgment is inconsequential. Whether or not we forgive her, nature has built in some predictable consequences to enforce the imperative that parents protect their children.