THIRTY-ONE

May 17

Sunday afternoon after church, Emma took a couple of tro-tros to reach the Autism Center at the junction of Barnes Road and William Tubman Avenue. She was in a huff because the driver’s mate on the tro-tro had been slow—deliberately in Emma’s mind—about rendering the correct change. But once she arrived at the Center, she forgot the trivialities of Accra travel.

It was a modest place, but still far better off than the other autism institutions in the country. The rectangular brick building on the left was a small, converted home with a playroom, classroom, and an administrative office-cum-staff lounge/meeting room. The courtyard had a pair of swings, a slide, a climbing net, and two mini soccer goals on each side of the yard. The sky was darkening with rain clouds, so everyone was inside.

“Auntie” Rose Clarkson, the owner and director of the center, was a hands-on woman who didn’t mind working the weekends. She had only one staff member on with her on Sundays. Speech, art, and music therapy made up much of the activity during the week, but it was on the relatively unstructured Sunday when many of the permanent staff were off that Auntie Rose needed more volunteer help.

Rose’s own eighteen-year-old son, Timothy, had autism. When he was born, Rose was living in Connecticut with her then husband, whom she later divorced. But at the time, Rose was thrown into the turbulence of learning how to manage an autistic child, and it wasn’t easy. When Rose had to return to Ghana some ten years ago to care for her own mother, she faced the harsh reality that there wasn’t a single institution that would care for Timothy at the level he had enjoyed in the US. On top of that, the stigma facing parents—especially a single mother like Rose—was severe. Rose knew she wasn’t the only mother suffering. There were others like her. That’s why she founded the Accra Autism Center.

“Glad you’re here,” Rose said as Emma came in. “Kojo needs you.”

Emma had a rapport with thirteen-year-old Kojo, officially the Center’s first autistic child (after Timothy) to register. Kojo’s mother, Abena, was Emma’s best friend and the conduit through which Emma had been introduced to autism and the Center. Thereafter, Emma became a regular volunteer. This afternoon, he was rocking, flapping his hands, wiggling his fingers, and grimacing, which meant he was in a moderately agitated state that might—or might not—deteriorate into a sensory meltdown.

Emma eased Kojo away to the adjoining office, shutting the door behind her with a foot and moving to a corner of the room. She sat on the floor and he followed. It was quieter and darker in here than outside and Emma hoped decreasing visual and auditory stimulation would help. After about five minutes, he was less active, rocking only slightly, but his eyes were still far away, lost in that world of his that no one else could enter.

“Better?” Emma said softly.

She didn’t expect a verbal response because Kojo was nonverbal and had never uttered a sound beyond an indistinct moan. They sat quietly together awhile as Emma reflected that while Kojo and the other Autism Spectrum Disorder children at the center were blessed to have this safe place, they were but a tiny proportion of ASD Ghanaians in need. And Rose operated on a shoestring budget, depending on donations and volunteers. She seemed to be constantly on the verge of having to close down, but something or someone always came along to rescue her at the last minute. One of those saviors was Josephine Akrofi, the IGP’s wife. Mrs. Akrofi was the Center’s strongest patron.

Kojo was much calmer now, so Emma took him back to the outer room.

Rose looked at her with a smile. “I knew you could do it. He loves you, that boy.”

After Kojo was settled on the floor with a picture book, Emma sat beside Rose at the table in the center of the room.

“I have some exciting news,” Rose said. “I wanted to make sure it would happen first, and now it looks like it will.”

“Oh, really! I can’t wait to hear.”

“As you probably know,” Rose began, “there’s research suggesting that some autistic kids do well interacting with screen images. The topic is a little controversial, but some nonverbal children are able indicate their needs using mobile apps—like on a tablet, for example. And the ability to express themselves relieves them of a lot of frustration.”

Emma nodded. “Yes, I’ve read something about that.”

“So,” Rose said slowly, enjoying the suspense she was creating, “I asked Madame Akrofi if she could help the Center acquire a tablet we can try on some of our kids. Guess what? She did even better than that. She got us four tablets.”

“That’s wonderful!” Emma exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

“Yes, it is,” Rose said, elated. “So, what we plan is a ceremony later this week at which Mrs. Akrofi will be presenting us with the gifts. She’s arranging for some newspaper and TV press so that we can highlight the Center and use the opportunity for not only publicity, but education of the public as well.”

“That will be great,” Emma said. “I’m eager to see what Kojo does with the tablets.”

“Me too,” Rose said. Her demeanor changed to grave. “This year, we have to be very aggressive about raising funds. The lease on the property is up in fourteen months, and if I don’t pay the landlord, we’re going to be out.”

For Emma and Rose, that would be an unthinkable catastrophe. What would Kojo and the other children do without Auntie Rose’s Autism Center?