by Barack Obama
At night, after dinner, we spoke further with our Masai guardsmen. Wilson told us that both he and his friend had recently been moran, members of the bachelor class of young warriors who were at the center of the Masai legend. They had each killed a lion to prove their manhood, had participated in numerous cattle raids. But now there were no wars, and even cattle raids had become complicated—only last year, another friend had been shot by a Kikuyu rancher. Wilson had finally decided that being a moran was a waste of time. He had gone to Nairobi in search of work, but he had little schooling and had ended up as a security guard at a bank. The boredom drove him crazy, and eventually he had returned to the valley to marry and tend to his cattle. Recently one of the cattle had been killed by a lion, and although it was illegal now, he and four others had hunted the lion into the preserve.
“How do you kill a lion?” I asked.
“Five men surround it and throw their spears,” Wilson said. “The lion will choose one man to pounce. That man, he curls under his shield while the other four finish the job.”
“It sounds dangerous,” I said stupidly.
Wilson shrugged. “Usually there are only scratches. But sometimes only four will come back.”
The man didn’t sound like he was boasting—more like a mechanic trying to explain a difficult repair. Perhaps it was that nonchalance that caused Auma to ask him where the Masai thought a man went after he died. At first, Wilson didn’t seem to understand the question, but eventually he smiled and began shaking his head.
“This is not a Masai belief,” he said, almost laughing, “this life after you die. After you die, you are nothing. You return to the soil. That is all.”
“What do you say, Francis?” Mauro asked.
For some time Francis had been reading a small, red-bound Bible. He looked up now and smiled. “These Masai are brave men,” he said.
“Were you raised a Christian?” Auma asked Francis.
Francis nodded. “My parents converted before I was born.”
Mauro spoke, staring into the fire. “Me, I leave the Church. Too many rules. Don’t you think, Francis, that sometimes Christianity not so good? For Africa, the missionary changes everything, yes? He brings…how do you say?”
“Colonialism,” I offered.
“Yes—colonialism. White religion, no?”
Francis placed the Bible in his lap. “Such things troubled me when I was young. The missionaries were men, and they erred as men. Now that I am older, I understand that I also can fail. That is not God’s failure. I also remember that some missionaries fed people during drought. Some taught children to read. In this, I believe they were doing God’s work. All we can do is aspire to live like God, though we will always fall short.”
Mauro went to his tent and Francis returned to his Bible. Beside him, Auma began to read a story with Elizabeth. Dr. Wilkerson sat with his knees together, mending his pants while his wife stared at the fire beside him. I looked at the Masai, their faces silent and watchful, and wondered what they made of the rest of us. They might be amused, I decided. I knew that their courage, their hardness, made me question my own noisy spirit. And yet, as I looked around the fire, I thought I saw a courage no less admirable in Francis, and in Auma, and in the Wilkersons as well. Maybe it was that courage, I thought, that Africa most desperately needed. Honest, decent men and women with attainable ambitions, and the determination to see those ambitions through.
The fire began to die, and one by one the others made their way to bed, until only Francis and I and the Masai remained. As I stood up, Francis began to sing a deep-voiced hymn in Kikuyu, with a melody that I vaguely recognized. I listened a while, lost in my own thoughts. Walking back to my tent, I felt I understood Francis’s plaintive song, imagining it transmitting upward, through the clear black night, directly to God.
The day we got back from Mara, Auma and I received word that Roy had arrived, a week earlier than expected. He had suddenly appeared in Kariakor with a suitcase in hand, saying that he’d felt restless waiting around in D.C. and had managed to talk his way onto an earlier flight. The family was thrilled by his arrival and had held off on a big feast only until Auma and I returned. Bernard, who brought us the news, said that we were expected soon; he fidgeted as he spoke, as if every minute away from our eldest brother were a dereliction of duty. But Auma, still stiff from sleeping in tents for the past two days, insisted on taking the time for a bath.
“Don’t worry,” she said to Bernard. “Roy just likes to make everything seem so dramatic.”
Jane’s apartment was in a hubbub when we arrived. In the kitchen, the women were cleaning collards and yams, chopping chicken and stirring ugali. In the living room, younger children set the table or served sodas to the adults. And at the center of this rush sat Roy, his legs spread out in front of him, his arms flung along the back of the sofa, nodding with approval. He waved us over and offered us each a hug. Auma, who hadn’t seen Roy since he’d moved to the States, stepped back to get a better look.
“You’ve become so fat!” she said.
“Fat, eh?” Roy laughed. “A man needs a man-sized appetite.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Which reminds me…where’s that other beer?”
No sooner had the words fallen from his mouth than Kezia came up with a beer in hand, smiling happily. “Barry,” she said in English, “this is the eldest son. Head of the family.”
Another woman whom I had never seen before, plump and heavy-breasted, with bright red lipstick, sidled up beside Roy and put her arm around him. Kezia’s smile subsided, and she drifted back into the kitchen.
“Baby,” the woman said to Roy, “do you have the cigarettes?”
“Yeah, hold on….” Roy patted his shirt pockets carefully. “Have you met my brother, Barack? Barack, this is Amy. And you remember Auma.” Roy found the cigarettes and lit one for Amy. Amy took a long drag and leaned forward toward Auma, exhaling round puffs of smoke as she spoke.
“Of course I remember Auma. How are you? Let me tell you, you look wonderful! And I like what you’ve done to your hair. Really, it’s so…natural!”
Amy reached for Roy’s bottle, and Roy went to the dinner table. He grabbed himself a plate and bent down to smell the steaming pots. “Chapos!” he exclaimed, dropping three chapatis onto his plate. “Sukuma-wiki!” he shouted at the collard greens before spooning a heap onto his plate. “Ugali!” he hollered, cutting off two big wedges of cornmeal cake. Bernard and the children followed his every step, repeating Roy’s words at a more tentative volume. Around the table, our aunts and Kezia beamed with satisfaction. It was the happiest I had seen any of them since my arrival.
After dinner, while Amy helped the aunts wash up, Roy sat between Auma and me and announced that he had come back with big plans. He was going to start an import-export company, he said, selling Kenyan curios in the States. “Chondos. Fabrics. Wood carvings. These things are big over there! You sell them at festivals, art shows, specialty stores. I already bought some samples to take back with me.”
“That’s a great idea,” Auma said. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Roy told Bernard to fetch several pink plastic bags from one of the bedrooms. Inside the bags were several wood carvings, the sort of slick, mass-produced pieces that were sold at quick turnover to the tourists downtown. Auma turned them around in her hands with a doubtful expression on her face.
“How much did you pay for these?”
“Only four hundred shillings each.”
“So much! Brother, I think you’ve been cheated. Bernard, why did you let him pay so much?”
Bernard shrugged. Roy looked a bit wounded.
“I told you, these are Just samples,” he said as he folded the carvings back in their wrapping. “An investment, so I will know what the market wants. You can’t make money unless you spend money, eh, Barack?”
“That’s what they say.”
Roy’s enthusiasm quickly returned. “You see? Once I know the market, then I w
ill send orders back to Zeituni. We’ll build the business up slowly, you see. Slow-ly. Then, when we have a regular system, Bernard and Abo can go to work for the company. Eh, Bernard? You can work for me.”
Bernard nodded vaguely. Auma studied her younger brother, then turned back to Roy. “So what’s the other big plan?”
Roy smiled. “Amy,” he said.
“Amy?”
“Amy. I’m going to marry her.”
“What? How long has it been since you last saw her?”
“Two years. Three. What does it matter?”
“You haven’t had much time to think about it.”
“She’s an African woman. I know that! She understands me. Not like these European women, always arguing with their men.” Roy nodded emphatically, and then, as if he were being yanked by an invisible string, he jumped out of his seat and headed toward the kitchen. Taking Amy in one arm, he lifted his bottle of beer toward the ceiling.
“Listen, everybody! Now that we are all here, we must have a toast! To those who are not with us! And to a happy ending!” With solemn deliberation, he started to pour his beer onto the floor. At least half of the beer splashed on Auma’s shoes.
“Aggh!” Auma shouted, jumping back. “What are you doing?”
“The ancestors must drink,” Roy said cheerfully. “It is the African way.”
Auma grabbed a napkin to wipe the beer off her legs. “That’s outdoors, Roy! Not in somebody’s house! I swear, sometimes you’re so careless! Who will clean this up now? You?”
Roy was about to answer when Jane rushed up with a rag in her hand. “Don’t worry, don’t worry!” she said, wiping up the floor. “We are just happy to have this one home.”
It had been decided that after dinner we would all go out dancing at a nearby club. As Auma and I headed down the stairs ahead of the others, I heard her muttering to herself in the darkness.
“You Obama men!” she said to me. “You get away with anything! Have you noticed how they treat him? As far as they are concerned, he can do no wrong. Like this thing with Amy. This is just an idea that has popped into his head because he’s lonely. I have nothing against Amy, but she’s as irresponsible as he is. When they’re together, they make each other worse. My mum, Jane, Zeituni—they all know this. But will they say anything to him? No. Because they’re so afraid to offend him, even if it’s for his own good.”
Auma opened the car door and looked back at the rest of the family. They had just emerged from the shadows of the apartment building, Roy’s figure towering over the others like a tree, his arms spread out like branches over the shoulders of his aunts. The sight of him softened Auma’s face just a bit.
“Yah, it’s not really his fault, I suppose,” she said, starting up the car. “You see how he is with them. He’s always been more of a family person than me. They don’t feel judged with him.”
The club, Garden Square, turned out to be a low-roofed, dimly lit place. It was already packed when we arrived, the air thick with cigarette smoke. The clientele was almost all African, an older, after work crowd of clerks, secretaries, government workers, all gathered around wobbly Formica tables. We pushed together two empty tables away from the small stage, and the waiter took our orders. Auma sat down next to Amy.
“So, Amy. Roy tells me you two are thinking about getting married.”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful! He’s so much fun! When he settles down, he says I can come to stay with him in America.”
“You don’t worry about being apart? I mean…”
“Other women?” Amy laughed and winked at Roy. “I tell you honestly, I don’t care about that.” She swung her fleshy arm over Roy’s shoulder. “As long as he treats me well, he can do what he likes. Right, baby?”
Roy maintained a poker face, as if the conversation didn’t concern him. Both he and Amy had the sheen of too many beers, and I saw Jane sneak an anxious look at Kezia. I decided to change the subject, and asked Zeituni if she’d been to Garden Square before.
“Me?” Zeituni raised her eyebrows at my impertinence. “Let me tell you, Barry—if there is dancing somewhere, then I have been to that place. These people here will tell you that I am the champion dancer. What do you say, Auma?”
“Zeituni’s the best.”
Zeituni tilted her head proudly. “You see? Really, Barry, your auntie can dance! And you want to know who was always my best partner? Your father! That guy, he really loved to dance. We entered many contests together when we were young. In fact, I’ll tell you this story about his dancing. It was when he had come home to Alego one time to visit with your grandfather. He had promised that evening to do some chore for the old man—I don’t remember what it was—but instead of doing his work, he went out to meet Kezia and take her dancing. You remember, Kezia? This is before they were married. I wanted to go with them, but Barack said I was too young.
“Anyway, they came home late that night, and Barack had had a few too many beers. He tried to sneak Kezia into his hut, but the old man was still awake and heard their footsteps in the compound. Even as an old man, your grandfather’s hearing was very keen. So right away he shouts for Barack to come. When Barack comes in, the old man doesn’t say a word. He just looks at Barack and snorts like an angry bull. Hmmmph! Hmmmph! And this whole time, I am peeking through the window of the old man’s house, because I’m sure that the old man will cane Barack and I’m still angry at Barack, for not letting me go to the dance hall.
“What happened next, I couldn’t believe. Instead of apologizing for coming home late, Barack walked over to the old man’s phonograph and started to play a record! Then he turned and shouted to Kezia, who was hiding outside. ‘Woman!’ Barack shouted. ‘Come here!’ Right away Kezia came into the house, too frightened to refuse, and Barack took her in his arms and began to dance with her, around and around in the old man’s house, as if he were dancing in a palace ballroom.”
Zeituni shook her head and laughed. “Well now…no one treated your grandfather this way, not even Barack. I was sure now that for this thing Barack must be beaten severely. For a long time, your grandfather said nothing. He just sat there, watching his son. Then, like an elephant, he shouted out even louder than Barack. ‘Woman! Come here!’ And right away my mum, the one you call Granny, rushed in from her own hut, where she had been mending clothes. She asked why everyone was shouting, and your grandfather stood up and held out his hand. My mum shook her head and accused your grandfather of trying to make a fool of her, but the old man was so determined that soon all four of them were dancing in the hut, the two men looking very serious, the women looking at each other as if now they were sure that their husbands were crazy.”
We all laughed at the story, and Roy ordered another round for everyone. I started to ask Zeituni more about our grandfather, but just then the band took up their positions on stage. The group looked a bit ragged at first, but the moment they struck their first note, the place was transformed. Immediately, people began pouring out onto the dance floor, stepping to the soukous beat. Zeituni grabbed my hand, and Roy took Auma’s, and Amy took Bernard’s, and soon we were all dancing into a sweat, arms and hips and rumps swaying softly; tall, ink-black Luos and short, brown Kikuyus, Kamba and Meru and Kalenjin, everyone smiling and shouting and having a ball. Roy threw his arms over his head to do a slow, funky turn around Auma, who was laughing at her brother’s silliness, and right then I saw in my brother’s face the same look I had seen years ago in Toot and Gramps’s apartment back in Hawaii, when the Old Man had first taught me how to dance—that same look of unquestioned freedom.
After three or four numbers, Roy and I both relinquished our partners and carried our beers into the open courtyard out back. The cool air tickled my nose, and I felt a bit tipsy.
“It’s good to be here,” I said.
“You know it. Like a poet.” Roy laughed, sipping his beer.
“No, really, I mean it. It’s just good to be here, with you and Auma and everyone. It’
s as if we—”
Before I could finish, we heard a bottle crash to the floor behind us. I spun around to see two men at the far side of the courtyard pushing another, smaller, man down onto the ground. With one hand, the man on the ground appeared to be covering a cut on his head; with his free arm he was trying to shield himself from the swings of a billy club. I took a step forward, but Roy pulled me back.
“Mind your own business, brother,” he whispered.
“But—”
“They may be police. I tell you, Barack, you don’t know what it’s like to spend a night in a Nairobi jail.”
By now, the man on the ground had curled up into a tight ball, trying to protect himself from the haphazard blows. Then, like a trapped animal who senses an opening, the man suddenly jumped to his feet and climbed onto one of the tables to scramble over the wooden fence. His assailants looked as if they were going to give chase but apparently decided that it wasn’t worth it. One of them noticed Roy and me but said nothing, and together the two of them sauntered back inside. I suddenly felt very sober.
“That was terrible,” I said.
“Yah, well…you don’t know what the other guy did first.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “When were you in jail anyway?”
Roy took another swig of beer and fell into one of the metal chairs. “The night David died.”
I sat down beside him and he told me the story. They had gone out to drink, he said, in search of a party. They had taken Roy’s motorcycle to a nearby club, and there Roy had met a woman. He had taken a fancy to her, and they started talking. He had bought her a beer, but before long another man had come up and started getting in Roy’s face. The man said he was the woman’s husband and grabbed her by the arm. The woman struggled and fell, and Roy told the man to leave her alone. A fight broke out. The police came, and Roy didn’t have his identification papers, so they took him down to the station. He was thrown in a cell and left there for several hours, until David finally managed to get in to see him.