If you have been to Addis Ababa, you will probably witness the following scene. A white family will wake up in the morning. They are headed for breakfast. They seem jolly. The man and woman are each cuddling a toddler. They will set up the breakfast table and place a colt for the little one to be part of the morning feast.

The little kids will be struggling to know how to use the various culinary equipment on display before them. The kids will prefer to handle the sausage with their bare hands. They will pick the bowl of porridge and sip. They will lick the fingers, traditional way to enjoy the last bits of the breakfast. The kids are black.

But as this happens, you will see the white attendants not amused. They will stare at the little brutes as though they have no manners. They will chastise them for being backward and not schooled in the art of cutlery. They will seem embarrassed. They cast their eyes from side to side looking at the others having breakfast and trying harder to make these kids "do the right" thing before all these eyes.

These are common scenes.

The last time, I got the courage. I approached this "family" and greeted them. I asked where they came from. Nebraska, United States, the say with pride. I tell them they have cute kids. They thank me. I ask what ages the kids are. They look at each other without an answer. The lady volunteers that the kids are five and seven years old.

I ask whether they are the biological parents. They look me up as though my African stupidity was so well preserved that I could not pick onions from tomatoes. "Are you the parents?" I volunteer. That is when the truth sneaks out. No, these are adopted children who they are processing (like fish) to take back home to Nebraska.

I lie that I also needed to adopt a kid. They tell me the process is not that complicated. As long as you can get the parents to sign off their children into adoption, it is that easy. If you cannot get them from these poor parents, try orphanages. There you will find thousands of children ready to take. Wow!

I stagger back to my breakfast table. My Nigerian friend is staring at me. He asks me what I was up to. I tell him the story. His tongue-in-cheek comment gets me frozen. Thousands of African children have become a perfect target for the many American couples who have no children of their own. They will go around the continent looking for these "unfortunate" kids, who need a real home.

They will form a charity to help "orphans" in the developing world. Armed with two such kids, they will create such a gloomy picture about the plight of African children that you will fall for the bait. And the brisk business goes on and on.

Back home in Kampala, I happen to go to the Immigration Department to renew my passport. There are long queues of people waiting to get their passports. I recognise one person. He is a Ugandan of Asian origin, in finance business. He is called in. His passport is given to him. He mumbles something about the delay to issue him a passport.

I volunteer to say it is unfair. He leaves. Then the Immigration official tells me not to be sorry. His thesis is that, there is a rigorous check on many people who bring in children to take as their children when they are actually in business.

Addis Ababa floods back. Is that true? I ask. Yes, he replies. As I leave Immigration, I am wondering how big this problem is. Could it be that what I saw in Addis is happening back home?

When I went to take passport photos at Kampala's Garden City last week, a scene unfolded. Two white ladies, one younger and the other slightly older, were in the same photo shop. They had come to pick photos of two little twin sisters. The little girls, clearly African, Ugandan, were all over the two ladies. The older lady seemed more parental.

She caressed and spoke softly to the little girls. The younger lady seemed not concerned about the incessant demands of the twins. They picked the photos and left. Like me, another Ugandan was equally absorbed by the scenario. "Do you think those are their mothers?" I break the ice. "No," my new found neighbour answers with finality. "Those are slave traders".

Again I sobered up. While we might have thousands of orphans in this country, we are witnessing another slave trade, this time not in able-bodied men and women but our little children.

The author is a human rights expert and specialist on refugee issues