Rosa, Before (credit: Dominic Chavez)

I have traveled around the developing world since I was barely out of my teens. I’ve been in more places forgotten than remembered. But people often stay with me. Rosa does.

I met her last fall in a rundown quarter of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. She was 16, with black unruly hair that ran in all directions, and she wore a pout –- partly because a man I was writing about was telling her how disappointed she had made him. The man, Nasir al-Amin, had been spending his vacations for the past five years helping put children through school in Addis. I am in the process of writing a book on how Americans are trying to help children in Africa, and Nasir is a key person in the book.

For Nasir, Rosa was special. He had known her for four years. She had lost both her parents to AIDS. And Nasir was putting Rosa through school, along with 57 other Ethiopian kids. But the other 57 were doing well in school; Rosa was not. She had dropped out of a photography school, and for two days last fall Nasir tried to get her back on track.

Rosa had health problems — an irregular heart beat, and depression, it seemed — and Nasir gave her money to see a doctor and enroll in school. But after seeing her in late September, Rosa never showed for a meeting to give him receipts and a report on how it went. For several months afterward, Nasir thought all was lost. He sent out emissaries to find her, but he heard nothing. Nasir feared she had turned to sex work.

Six months later, I returned to Addis, and went looking for Rosa.

I called a social worker to ask for help. He said he would call around. A few days later, I showed up at his office. An acquaintance of his had found Rosa’s phone number, and had talked to her. Even better, she had agreed to meet me in a few days. But I didn’t have a few days –- I had to meet her that morning. I was flying back to Washington the next day. The social worker said he couldn’t help me right away. I pressed him. He left to speak with his boss; he received permission to go with me.

Rosa had moved to a nearby slum. But when we arrived, she wasn’t there. The social worker called her, and she promised to come immediately. Five minutes passed, and then she called out our names. We rounded a corner, and there was Rosa, older somehow, her hair shorn, bigger, much bigger. I approached and it was obvious: Rosa was pregnant.

She took us to her sister’s house — her sister was a waif, Rosa 20 days from delivery. Her stories poured out. Just the day after we had seen her in the fall, a doctor told her she was pregnant. A day later, her uncle had beat her for going out with boys, beat her so bad that her blood ran down her back and chest. Then the uncle took scissors to her beautiful hair and cut huge clumps indiscriminately. Rosa retreated to her room, and shaved her head. The next morning, her uncle kicked her out of the house with nothing. Rosa moved in with her boyfriend’s family’s home, where she remained still. But her problems hadn’t ended. Her heart was giving her trouble –- racing one minute, causing her to gulp for air another. Two doctors had told her in the past few days that she was in grave danger now, that giving birth put her and her baby at risk.

I sat across from her, wondering what would become of her. She would have a baby in days. She would be caring for her baby, she wouldn’t be going to school. Sixteen-year-old Rosa was a memory. I went looking for her, but she was lost.