We said our good-byes around ten, promising to visit each and every relative in turn. As we walked to the door, Jane
pulled us aside and lowered her voice. “You need to take Barry to see your Aunt Sarah,” she whispered to Auma. And
then to me: “Sarah is your father’s older sister. The firstborn. She wants to see you very badly.”
“Of course,” I said. “But why wasn’t she here tonight? Does she live far away?”
Jane looked at Auma, and some unspoken thought passed between them. “Come on, Barack,” Auma said finally. “I’ll
explain it to you in the car.”
The roads were empty and slick with rain. “Jane is right, Barack,” Auma told me as we passed the university. “You
should go see Sarah. But I won’t go with you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s this business with the Old Man’s estate. Sarah is one of the people who has disputed the will. She’s been telling
people that Roy, Bernard, myself-that none of us are the Old Man’s children.” Auma sighed. “I don’t know. A part of
me sympathizes with her. She’s had a hard life. She never had the chances the Old Man had, you see, to study or go
abroad. It made her very bitter. She thinks that somehow my mum, myself, that we are to blame for her situation.”
“But how much could the Old Man’s estate be worth?”
“Not much. Maybe a small government pension. A piece of worthless land. I try to stay out of it. Whatever is there
has probably been spent on lawyers by now. But you see, everyone expected so much from the Old Man. He made
them think that he had everything, even when he had nothing. So now, instead of getting on with their lives, they just
wait and argue among themselves, thinking that the Old Man somehow is going to rescue them from his grave.
Bernard’s learned this same waiting attitude. You know, he’s really smart, Barack, but he just sits around all day doing
nothing. He dropped out of school and doesn’t have much prospect for finding work. I’ve told him that I would help
him get into some sort of trade school, whatever he wants, just so he’s doing something, you know. He’ll say okay, but
when I ask if he’s gotten any applications or talked to the schoolmasters, nothing’s been done. Sometimes I feel like,
unless I take every step with him, nothing will happen.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Yes. Maybe you can talk to him. But now that you’re here, coming from America, you’re part of the inheritance, you
see. That’s why Sarah wants to see you so much. She thinks I’m hiding you from her because you’re the one with
everything.”
The rain had started up again as we parked the car. A single light bulb jutting from the side of the building sent
webbed, liquid shadows across Auma’s face. “The whole thing gets me so tired, Barack,” she said softly. “You
wouldn’t believe how much I missed Kenya when I was in Germany. All I could do was think about getting back
home. I thought how I never feel lonely here, and family is everywhere, nobody sends their parents to an old people’s
home or leaves their children with strangers. Then I’m here and everyone is asking me for help, and I feel like they are
all just grabbing at me and that I’m going to sink. I feel guilty because I was luckier than them. I went to a university. I
can get a job. But what can I do, Barack? I’m only one person.”
I took Auma’s hand and we remained in the car for several minutes, listening to the rain as it slackened. “You asked
me what my dream was,” she said finally. “Sometimes I have this dream that I will build a beautiful house on our
grandfather’s land. A big house where we can all stay and bring our families, you see. We could plant fruit trees like
barré
(Barré)
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