by Auma Obama
“What do the young people get out of it if they’re playing on an empty stomach?” asked another member of the group of supporters.
“That’s precisely the point,” I replied. “We have to offer more. Because, as you say, they cannot participate in sports on an empty stomach.”
Then I explained that most of the organizations we work with also promote HIV and AIDS awareness and provide information on other illnesses. In addition, they involve their beneficiaries in income-generating activities.
To help those present better understand what our work was about, I gave an example. “Moving the Goalposts is an organization located in Kilifi, a town on the Kenyan coast in an area with a predominantly Islamic population. What makes it special is that here girls play soccer. Girls, who are normally not permitted to leave the house unaccompanied by a male family member, gain a new awareness of their bodies through the ball game. They learn to value and protect them. Their self-esteem is strengthened. They discover that they can succeed and achieve just as much as boys. In their rural, Islamic environment, they convey a downright revolutionary message: Women, too, can accomplish great things! Women, too, play soccer!”
We continued to discuss this interesting concept, and in the end it was clear to all that when girls succeed in sports, this ultimately achieves far more than a lecture on equal rights does on its own.
“It is not by chance that the motto of Moving the Goalposts is ‘Yes we can!’” I said. “And that’s been the case for a long time, not only since my brother made it his campaign slogan in the United States. And because they can, the soccer-playing girls also learn to say no without fear or hesitation.”
* * *
When, in the midst of my work, I think of my own youth, I am, of course, entirely aware that most girls in Kenya do not have the protective environment I had while struggling through my difficult teenage years. The majority of them face substantially greater challenges. Many work in the fields or as street peddlers to help provide for their families and themselves, in some cases trying to go to school at the same time. Again and again I am impressed by how many girls, despite all the adversities and with a mature, realistic view of their prospects, somehow get by and make use of their limited choices.
And in everything I do, it’s important to me that the children and young people with whom I work, as well as those with whom I worked before my return to Kenya, do not become victims of clichés—whether they are British children who are all too often seen by adults only as troublemakers or East African children who frequently have to serve as puzzle pieces in a prevalent perception of Africa that is all about poverty, wild animals, beautiful beaches, and a few top athletes. Through what I do, I try to show them that there is also another, positive image, which they themselves can help create.
29.
“AREN’T YOU…!?”
I did not let the woman standing excitedly at our table finish her sentence. She had been looking over at us the whole time. She was seated near us in the company of a man who, ever since she had noticed us, unsuccessfully sought her attention. Now she had stopped at our table on the way out, as had the man.
“I just look like her,” I explained with a knowing smile and as if it never ceased to amaze me. The woman continued to look at me intently, though now somewhat uncertainly. However, she seemed to be one of those people who, once they are convinced of something, are hard to talk out of it.
“But … but … you are Auma Obama! I’m sure of it! All evening I’ve been saying that to my husband. Haven’t I?” She turned to her escort in the expectation of a confirmation. But he just stood silently next to her and nodded with embarrassment.
“Come on, let’s go,” the man finally said with a hushed voice. “We’re just bothering the people.” Now he seemed even more self-conscious, and looked as if he would have preferred to be far away. “Please come,” he murmured again, pulling the woman slightly by the arm. But she didn’t budge.
“No, really, I’m always being mistaken for her.” I gave it another try with feigned sympathy.
I sensed Akinyi next to me suppressing her laughter. Under the table, I gave her a slight nudge.
Marvin’s face revealed nothing. I could rely on him; that I knew.
When I saw Akinyi’s face screwing up and anticipated her loss of self-control, I threatened with a sharp glance to ground her or do something similarly unpleasant.
“A mosquito!” my daughter cried. “A mosquito stung me!” She bent down, pretending to scratch her leg under the table, as I turned back to the woman, who was still standing there and staring at me. I was glad that we were sitting in the garden of the restaurant and our table was only dimly lit by candlelight.
Akinyi, Marvin, and I were sitting in this restaurant to celebrate my birthday. It was supposed to be a nice, quiet evening: just the three of us, no big deal, but still something special.
Usually I ignore that day, but this year was different. Weeks earlier, I had made it clear that this time I wanted to celebrate my birthday. “I would really like you to take me out!” I had declared loudly, adding dramatically, “I need it!” Marvin and Akinyi had been astonished. I wasn’t entirely sure of the reason myself, but this time the day should not be like any other. That’s why we were now sitting outside of the Nairobi city center in an Italian restaurant on Argwings Kodhek Road.
It was January 2009. Perhaps I had been overcome by the desire to celebrate all that had happened in the past two years. Big changes had occurred in my life within an extremely short period of time. Among them was not only my brother’s electoral victory in the States, but above all our move to Kenya. And only now did I feel as if I could catch my breath a bit. Or so I thought, at least, until the curious woman had approached me. She was still standing at our table, while her husband had long since walked to the exit.
“I’m not her,” I repeated, now sharply. I was no longer in a polite mood. The woman did not seem to notice that her stubborn persistence was starting to get on my nerves.
I only rarely revealed my identity as Barack Obama’s sister. Only in that way could I move around in Nairobi without arousing a lot of attention. I didn’t want to forgo this luxury now, either—even if the woman only reluctantly followed her husband and still looked back at us several times, shaking her head.
No sooner was the married couple out of sight than Akinyi burst out laughing. “Mum! You can’t do things like that.”
“Did you want the woman to stay with us all evening?” I replied.
“All she wanted was confirmation. Then she probably would have moved on,” my daughter said, defending the stranger.
“No,” said Marvin. “She would have sat down and questioned your mother at length about your uncle. I’ve already witnessed that on several occasions. People take many liberties. They think that because they are so enamored with your uncle, they somehow have a claim on him and therefore on his family, too.”
Gratefully, I nodded in agreement with Marvin.
“Yes, if I didn’t react that way, I would be nothing but a prisoner of myself. Then I would no longer be able to turn away people like that woman, or else people would say that Obama’s sister is rude.” I sighed. “Basically, I understand how people feel. They’re excited and want to share with me their enthusiasm for Barack. Or they are simply curious, because they have spotted a family member of such a prominent person—and in the process, they completely forget that I, too, have a private life.”
My daughter listened to both of us and merely shrugged.
“I don’t understand. I would have told her.” Akinyi loved the spotlight. Her goal was to one day become a big star, for which she would, of course, need her audience. Marvin and I looked at each other—and began to laugh.
“We don’t understand, either,” the two of us said at the same time. And once again I caught myself wishing I possessed the innocence of an eleven-year-old.
* * *
In early 2007, the life-changing annou
ncement had reached me: My brother Barack informed me by telephone that he intended to run for the presidency of the United States. Previously, on one of my last visits to America, we had speculated about whether he would have a chance at a victory if he ran.
But this latest plan of my brother’s was truly on an entirely different scale than the winning of a senate seat. The fact that this step would affect my life, too, was made clear to me by the photographer who one day hid behind bushes in the front garden of my house while his accomplice—they can hardly be described as serious journalists—rang my doorbell and immediately pressed himself against the wall next to the door so that the photographer could quickly jump out and take a picture of me. Paparazzi! Outside my own front door!
What particularly alarmed me in retrospect was the fact that my daughter had answered the door that afternoon. We were still living in England at the time and were expecting Malcolm, a mechanic who was to pick up some money for a repair job he had done for me. When the bell rang, Akinyi opened the door, but saw no one standing outside. Presumably, the photographer did not dare to take a picture of the child who had stepped in front of his lens—or he simply wasn’t interested in her, because he had been after me.
“Who’s at the door, Muu?” I called from the kitchen, when after a while I still heard no voices.
“No one,” answered Akinyi. She sounded surprised.
“But the doorbell rang.”
“Yes, but no one is there.”
I went into the living room and saw my daughter standing at the wide-open front door. When I came up to her and looked around outside, I suddenly glimpsed to my left the figure of the man trying to hide next to the door. At that same moment, something moved behind the bushes next to the garage. Instinctively and as fast as lightning, I closed the front door, just as a tall, thin man came out from behind the bushes. Inside I leaned, frozen in shock, against the door. Who were those men? And what did they want from us? Akinyi stood next to me and fortunately seemed more curious than scared. I, however, was trembling all over. I simply could not get past the image of my daughter opening the door to two completely strange men.
Then the bell rang again. I started. Did they really dare to make a second attempt? Cautiously, I looked through the peephole. At the sight of Malcolm’s friendly face, I heaved a sigh of relief. I carefully opened the door, in such a way that I could not be seen from outside.
“Am I glad it’s you,” I said to Malcolm.
“Oh, you’ve never greeted me so effusively before.” He laughed. “What have I done to deserve it? I guess I should bring you a bill more often.”
With a serious expression, I told him what had just happened. We were sitting in the dim living room, for I had asked him to close the curtains.
“What on earth did they want?”
“As harmless as it might sound to you, they undoubtedly wanted a photo of me. The man behind the bushes had a camera in his hand. They didn’t even intend to ask me, but instead planned to take the picture then and there!”
“Probably it’s more fun to take someone by surprise with the camera.”
“I don’t find it funny at all, Malcolm. What should I do now? Tomorrow I have to go to work. What if they are still waiting for their chance behind the bushes then?”
What could he have said to that? He had only come by to pick up his money. Still, I didn’t let him leave until I had calmed down a bit.
Only hesitantly did I leave the house the next day with Akinyi. Were the paparazzi still nearby? Would they follow my every step from then on? It was a scary thought.
* * *
Indeed, scarcely two days had passed before a paparazzo again ambushed me, this time near my workplace. I had just finished work and was leaving the building in which my office was located. Lost in thought, I walked to my car. Suddenly I noticed someone half hidden behind a wall, watching me. When he saw that I had spotted him, he quickly retreated. But the camera in his hand had not escaped my notice. Hastily, I ran back into the building. I felt naked and vulnerable. How was I supposed to get home now?
“You’ll have to give him something so that he leaves you alone,” said the director of our communications department. I had sought her advice, and she had gone down to talk to the man. Now she had returned with this proposal.
“I can’t do that. As soon as I give him something, the next one will come and want something, too. Then it will never stop. That’s why I can’t agree to that.”
I certainly did not want to hand myself over to the British tabloid press. I was annoyed by the gall of the journalist, who had replied to the communications director’s request to leave me alone that he would get a photo of me one way or the other.
“Then it would be best if you wrote a general statement as a press release. We will then pass it on to the media on your behalf,” the director suggested.
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” I replied, relieved. “But what do we do now?”
“Good point,” said Andrea, who also worked in the communications department and had joined us. “The photographer knows that you’re here in the building. So he won’t leave that easily. We have to think of a way to smuggle you out unnoticed.”
And that was just what the two women did. They planned that I would leave the building through a side exit. From there, I would cover the first stretch of my way home on foot, taking a roundabout route. In the meantime, Andrea would get my car from the parking lot and drive after me. Along the way, I would take the car, and Andrea would walk back to the office. Following our plan, I felt as if I were in a James Bond movie.
Because I now had to reckon with paparazzi at any time, I sought support in dealing with the press from a friend who was himself in the public eye. Fortunately, with his help the unpleasant surprises soon stopped.
* * *
My brother Barack was now undeniably making history, and although I had over the past several years watched him from the sidelines, so to speak, and participated in his progress only in small ways, I hoped for his success—no matter what effect this might have on my life.
In any case, due to the shared family name alone, I was catapulted into a world in which the media would continue to show an interest in me and in my life. They wanted to get closer to this prominent person—possibly the next president of the United States—even if only indirectly.
Suddenly, old friends, family members, and acquaintances with whom I had long ago lost touch resumed contact with me and wanted to make up for lost time. I was invited to all sorts of meetings and events. I declined most of the invitations and shunned the newly aroused interest in me. Only with difficulty could I accept the changed attitude toward me.
In defiance of the “onslaught” on me from all sides, I made a point of behaving as “normally” as possible toward everyone. In a way, that was an attempt to force the people around me to act no differently toward me than before. That led, however, to many people finding me somewhat peculiar, incapable of grasping the enormity and significance of the situation. A question that I heard again and again, even before the presidential election, was: “Don’t you get it?” Most of the time, this was asked in a casual way, but sometimes it was tinged with a serious, somewhat unsettling undertone, which made clear to me that, as far as my conversation partners were concerned, I was not behaving in keeping with the situation. Usually I responded equally jokingly: “What am I supposed to get?” Most of the time, they would then laugh, roll their eyes, and reply with a slap on the forehead: “Your brother might become president of the United States of America!”
Ordinarily, I then declared that my brother had always been my brother above all else and that wouldn’t change no matter what great things he went on to achieve. Ultimately, that was the most important thing to me. That fact would never change. And because that was true, I told myself, I didn’t need to change either.
Now, I was not so naïve, however, to think that everything could remain the way it was. I knew I would not be able t
o hide forever and that it was only a matter of time before I had to deal with being in the public eye. I was, after all, Barack Obama’s sister, whom the media liked to refer to as his “half-sister.” I find that term odd to this day, because in our polygamous Luo culture we never speak of “half” or “full” siblings, but only of brothers and sisters—unlike in the Western, “pseudo-monogamous” culture, where people are classified as full and half siblings, creating a hierarchy that does not actually exist in Luo culture.
* * *
In the year that followed Barack’s decision to run, up to the day of the presidential election, I limited my communication with the media to conveying a somewhat better sense of what he meant to his family in Kenya. I explained, for example, that he had always been regarded as a son of the family, despite the distance and the fact that he first visited Africa only as an adult. It was understandable that people wanted to learn more about the Kenyan part of his background, in order to understand him better. So my grandmother and I, as well as other close family members, made ourselves available to the press to help tell Barack’s “Kenyan story.”
After Barack won the election, I was virtually bombarded with interview requests, which I mostly turned down. The Kenyan story was now “out,” it was known, and I did not feel as if I had anything essential to add to it.
30.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK of Iowa?” the young journalist, who was visibly nervous, asked me.
Without thinking, I answered, “Very white!” I noticed how Iris, standing by my side, cringed. The journalist was diligently taking notes. I was in Iowa to take part in my brother’s primary campaign.
“She doesn’t mean it like that,” Iris said quickly. “But more…” She groped for words to rephrase my answer. For a second, I was confused, and then I understood.
“Oh, I meant the weather! All the snow everywhere…” I smiled at everyone. “It looks really pretty. But it is a lot of snow, isn’t it?”