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.