Starchild

by Michaela Foster Marsh

  When I arrived back in Ottawa that night, I got a distressing call from Mum saying she didn’t think my dad had long. My husband and I booked a flight and left the next day. When I arrived home, Dad was clearly near death. It was devastating to see him like that. I took the recording from my pocket and played the two songs for him. He was unable to speak but tears ran down his cheeks and I knew he had heard them. He died the following morning.

  Despite the overwhelming loss of my dad, I recognized that if EMI had not called requesting Greg to work on an urgent job, I wouldn’t have been home in Ottawa with my husband when I got that dreaded call from my mum. And, if Greg had not told me at the last minute not to mail the recordings, my dad would have never heard them. It was, in fact, miraculous.

  After Dad died, I knew Mum didn’t want me to leave Scotland, and I certainly didn’t want to go, but she wanted me to finish the CD and pursue my dreams. At times, I felt I was perhaps living the kind of life she secretly yearned for, a life of creative expression. She would often say, “I wish I had your guts in life.” Yet, most often, I was trembling inside.

  Working on the CD gave me focus. Though I was still grieving for my dad, Greg brightened my days in the studio. He was not only a wonderful producer, but a really nice guy with a great sense of humor. But, in the end, I think the raw, emotional energy of my grief is evident in that CD, Fairy Tales and The Death of Innocence.

  However, once the CD was complete, the record deal that EMI had as much as promised was pulled from the table. They didn’t feel the album was commercial enough. At the time, I was crestfallen. There was so much buzz around me and the CD in the industry. It was also embarrassing, and I felt like a failure. But I knew the business could be that harsh. Thankfully, I still had my fan base, and so we decided to release the CD independently with a major independent distribution deal. Shortly after, we won a grant to produce a music video—which at that time was not something everyone could do as it was very expensive. The album did reasonably well; we got some airplay and thanks to the publicist, Jane Harbury, we got a fair amount of media attention. I started to fill venues and open for some bigger players. I traveled, sang, played and basically lived and breathed my songwriting through those years. I always felt blessed to work with tremendously talented musicians and performed various gigs with members of the Ottawa Symphony Orchestra. For someone who only studied to grade two in music and failed that exam, it was pretty incredible. I even managed to get a few tracks on film and TV.

  I never gave up and went on to produce two more CDs. With my third album, I got to work with both Russian genius composer Kirill Shirokov and Rolf Soja of Yes Sir, I Can Boogie fame. I couldn’t believe I was working with Rolf and writing lyrics to his music. As a child, I must have played that record and danced in my living room a million times! Rolf and his co-writers had basically saved RCA’s ass with that song in the ’70s. RCA was eventually acquired by BMG and the song was still making them money in 2006! Rolf was a fan of my music, but he didn’t think it was commercial enough to push the glass ceiling. He also felt Kirill was a brilliant composer and we worked well together. So Kirill, Rolf and I worked on producing a commercial album for BMG. Rolf was convinced it would fly and had the powers to be in place.

  Exactly the same thing happened with my most “commercial” CD as happened with EMI. Rolf couldn’t believe that after sending them song after song and being told the album sounded great and they wanted it, in the end they wouldn’t sign me. They thought I was too old and instead signed a seventeen-year-old. It was a total kick in the teeth, not only for me, but for Rolf and Kirill.

  Did I make a lot of money? No, but I was rich with experience—meeting people from all walks of life, traveling, and doing what I loved. I even left the safety net of the Toronto music scene at one point to live in New York City for six months. I wheeled my keyboard through the streets of the East Village, often at 3:00 a.m. and sometimes having only played to a room of five people. That’s not an unusual story for any struggling artist, but it felt pretty amazing that I had the guts to go there and try to do it on my own. It was an incredible experience and a lesson in humility.

  However, ironically after Mum died and I had my breakthrough moment with the bottle of wine, I only gave a few more concerts. Maybe I needed time out to mourn and work through what my new life was going to look like now that I had lost all my key family. I am not saying this to pull out reader sympathy. I don’t need it or want it. I am writing this book for a reason.

  After Mum died, I used to sleep in her bed. It made me feel close to her. One night I decided to watch a movie. I opened the video player and the 1983 Grace Kelly movie with Cheryl Ladd was still in the machine. It must have been the last film she watched from her bed. My mum adored Grace Kelly and had watched every film she ever made. She loved the fairy tale story of the beautiful actress who married Prince Rainier of Monaco. She had always wanted to go to Monaco but sadly never did. I watched the movie that night and had a good cry.

  A few months later, out of the blue, I got a call from the organizers of the Monaco Film Festival. To my absolute surprise, they wanted me to sing at the festival! The festival was for non-violent films and I was to sing at the Angel Awards. I was told I would be performing at the Hotel Hermitage. I was so excited I could hardly believe it. Then a month or so before the event I got another call. This time Rosana, the director of the festival, asked if I would like to be the ambassador for the Film Festival. It sounded so prestigious—I wasn’t sure I was the person for the job. Didn’t you have to be clever to be an ambassador? At school, I was told I was a slow learner. A diagnosis of dyslexia didn’t come till much later in my life. Rosana told me they had been playing my music a lot and felt my lyrics were pertinent to the event. She was sure I’d be perfect. She reassured me that I would only have to give a few short speeches. I still wasn’t sure I was ambassador material but just as I was about to hang up, Rosana said, “Oh, Michaela, by the way, we’ve changed the venue for your performance. It is going to be at the Princess Grace Theatre. I hope that’s okay. I think you’ll like it.” Like it. I was stunned! All I could think about was Mum. I knew then she was with me and would be every single step of the way in Monaco. It was like her gift to me, to her, for all we had been through less than a year before. It was like another fairy tale come true.

  Subsequently, I was invited to sing at the Cannes Film Festival, which was also an incredible experience. However, it was perhaps a turning point.

  The reviews were great. Nothing negative happened but gradually, the need to perform seemed to leave me. There are many possible explanations for that. Perhaps I was only ever performing for my mum’s attention and to make her happy. Or perhaps I recognized, after those conversations with Mum about Frankie, that I didn’t have to practice the piano for eight hours a day, do vocal warm-ups every morning, twist my guts in two and sometimes throw up before going on stage—all just to get people to like me. The immediate gratification of praise from performing seemed no longer necessary. But writing was.

  My songs were always driven by the lyrics. The fact that I could layer music on top was the icing on the cake and I loved it. But I wanted to dig deeper, to be alone and stretch my writing skills. It didn’t matter if it reached an audience at that point. It felt like my soul was crying out for more space on the page and not the stage. But for someone who had been told they were stupid by a teacher, I needed more guts to attempt a novel than it took to sing at Monaco and Cannes.

  Within a year of Mum’s passing, everything changed. I left my husband, I left Canada, and I moved back to Scotland. All my old safety nets were gone: my family, my husband, my career. Like all transitions, it was horrendous but necessary. It was a painful metamorphosis. For a while, I tried to hold onto a past that was no longer available to me. It was terrifying to finally let go. For me, death has always brought about a kind of death of self and a rebirth of some kind. Endings are the other
side of beginnings. I couldn’t see the future as yet but I had to put my faith in the mystery of it all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Breakfast—Children on the Menu

  Uganda, 2012

  Where we are staying is a magnet for bishops, pastors, the clergy and the born-again. You can’t have breakfast without getting a sermon along with your cereal.

  Rony turns around to the purple-robed Bishop flailing his arms and asking What Would Jesus Do and says, “He’d tell you to be quiet—I’m having my cornflakes.”

  The Bishop draws him a look of disdain and carries on delivering his thoughts to the diners on the outside balcony.

  A well-dressed African man takes a seat at our table. He snaps his fingers and summons a waiter to take his order. He reaches across the table and shakes Rony’s hand, then mine. I can’t help but see the Rolex watch he’s flashing. I wonder if it’s as fake as his grin and his perfect row of white veneers.

  “I’m Gilbert. I couldn’t help noticing you both. I was just wondering what brings you to Uganda.”

  I’ve been watching this vulture scan the tables in this room for the past few days and have seen how he slides up to his innocent prey: usually, a wide-eyed gullible Christian couple looking to adopt a baby—the place is full of them. But now he has descended on our table.

  I tell him I’m here because I am writing a novel. I hope that will send him flapping off in another direction.

  “Oh really...a novel...how very interesting.” He shuffles his seat in closer. “I saw you both visiting the Babies’ Home the other day and thought perhaps you were considering adopting.”

  “No. But my brother was adopted. He was Ugandan. We’re just helping out at the Babies’ Home.”

  He fans out his napkin. “Oh. Really. That is very interesting. Very interesting indeed. How much did your brother cost?”

  I almost choke on my breakfast. “Excuse me! We didn’t buy him. He was abandoned in Scotland and my parents adopted him there. They didn’t pay anything for my brother.”

  My face isn’t just red from the sun. Rony puts his hand on my leg and gives it a light squeeze. He knows I’m angry at this guy’s suggestion that my parents bought Frankie.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just that there are so many –muzungus—I mean white people—who come here to adopt children. It can be very costly these days and a long process, unless you know the right people. I’m a lawyer.” He leans in closer. “I can help expedite things, if you know what I mean.”

  Sadly, I do know what he means. I’ve heard about the shady deals getting done with adoptions in this country. The Madonna Syndrome has been as big a hit as her records, with little black babies selling as well as they do. I’m beginning to realize there are as many holes in the legal system as in the worn-out mosquito net hung above my guest room bed.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Gilbert, but I’m afraid we’re not here to adopt.”

  He grins and reaches into his breast pocket. “Well, if you ever change your mind, here’s my card. Just give me a call. Adoption is my specialty.”

  He says it like a chef who only has children on his menu. I leave his card sitting in the middle of the table.

  His English-style breakfast arrives and he picks up his knife and fork. “I do criminal law too. I’m working on a big case right now. A very big case. Child sacrifice—have you heard about that?”

  We nod in unison.

  Rony and I have just come back from Luweero where we were told some villagers still believe in child sacrifice. It was explained to us that most of the children are scarred or pierced somewhere to protect them from the witch doctors, as they will only sacrifice a perfect child. It seems wealthy businessmen pay thousands of dollars to the witch doctors to hunt down impoverished children to harvest their body parts, which many believe can cure impotence and increase wealth.

  As Gilbert slices up his breakfast, he tells us he is prosecuting a wealthy businessman who had a witch doctor cut a child in four pieces. Each section of the child’s body was placed under a corner of the man’s new hotel building in the belief that it would create more riches for him. Gilbert puts his cutlery down and says, “But you know what this man did? Eh, Eh?” He wipes his chin with his napkin. “I will tell you what he did. He bought off the judge and jury and the case was thrown out. Just like that!” He snaps his fingers for effect.

  He picks up his cutlery again and points his fork at me. “But I am a determined guy. I went to the top.” He points his fork in the air. “I went to M7.”

  We look at him quizzically.

  “Museveni. You know, our President. We call him M7. Well, I got an appeal from him. We are back in court soon. Let us hope and pray this guy does not pay off the parents. That is what these rich guys usually do.” He cuts into another piece of sausage and carries on describing the brutal nature of some of the sacrifices: how these witch doctors snatch innocent children on their way home from school or while fetching water and how they sever their limbs and genitals.

  I can’t bear any more. I turn to Rony, “Is it too early for a brandy?”

  Later that day, we are back at the Babies’ Home, helping out, when I overhear an American woman shouting.

  I look over to see the family who I know is in the process of adopting a two-year-old black child from the Home. The mother is shouting at her white daughter, who looks to be about ten years old.

  I have noticed this girl before as she never wants to play, preferring to look huffy and sit on her own. Now she’s being told by her mother that she has to play with her new brother. “He’s going to be part of our family whether you like it or not, young lady. Now go and get your brother. Pick him up and bring him over here.”

  The previous day, I had asked this same woman what made her want to come to Uganda to adopt a child? She answered in her Southern drawl, “Oh my friend along our street had adopted one and I thought it was a cool thing to do. She was so cute, you know, and well, I really think the Lord wants me to do this, to give a child a good home. I already have a girl, so I thought a boy would be a nice addition.” She cuddles her new son to be. “What do you think? Isn’t Henry goooorgeous?” She’s talking about this child like she has just picked out a new handbag. She bounces him on her knee. “It won’t be long now Henry. Soon you’ll be in your new home. With your new mommy and daddy.”

  I wonder if this woman would care if she were to be told that perhaps Henry has parents who may want him back.

  In the short time I have been here I am beginning to see a really dark side to adoption. It’s difficult to know for sure how many children are actually full orphans.

  The term orphan in Africa used to mean a child without both parents. However, today, in most of Africa it doesn’t necessarily mean the child is without parents. Often the child has been put into care because the family cannot afford to keep the child at that moment in time, but they plan to come back for the child as soon as they can see their way clear to support their child. Perhaps the mother has died, and the father has to work full time to support his other children and cannot take care of a baby. Or perhaps the father has left the marital home or married another woman and the mother cannot cope financially.

  Ugandans have big families. There must be more desirable ways of providing support to the existing family and getting the child reunited with his or her family. Surely putting them in a Babies’ Home should be the last resort.

  I ask this adoptive mother if she would mind telling me how much the adoption cost. I pretend I am potentially interested in adopting myself.

  “Oh... I think...all in...about twenty thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money.” I remark.

  “Yes, it sure is. But our church back home helped us raise it all, you know.” She holds Henry up in the air. “I can’t wait to take him back and show him to the congregation!”


  I could just imagine the scene back home at church, parading little Henry as the saved child brought from poverty into the care of this wonderful new Christian family in America.

  I ask, “Is it a difficult process to go through?”

  “Not really. We have a great lawyer helping us and the matron’s been so great. We only met little Henry three weeks ago.” She laughs. “We’re supposed to live here, in Uganda, for three years before we can adopt, but our lawyer knows a loop hole; he’s so good that way. We’ve been granted guardianship by the High Court of Uganda. As long as we intend to adopt Henry once he is with us in the States, we can leave Uganda with him in a few days.”

  “Wow. Are you sure about that?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. Our lawyer is a Christian. I trust him. If you’re interested, I can give you his name. It’s a miracle we found him.”

  I smile and take my leave.

  I wouldn’t want to insult the good intentions of some adoptive parents but I can’t help but wonder if their philanthropic response would be so great without their social media feeds. I’m starting to add up how many people would be out of a job if these adoptions weren’t taking place and these homes didn’t exist. Some of the homes even charge room and board to the parents-to-be and the well-meaning tourists who help out at the homes. At an average of $80 a night, over a three-week period, that’s a lot of cash.