Sayid paused, choosing his words carefully.
“This is what made my brother such a good man, these things. But I think also that once you are one thing, you cannot
pretend that you are something else. How could he be a matatu driver, or stay out all night drinking, and also he is
writing Kenya’s economic plan? A man does service for his people by doing what is right for him, isn’t this so? Not by
doing what others think he should do. But my brother, although he prided himself on his independence, I also think that
he was afraid of some things. Afraid of what people would say about him if he left the bar too early. That perhaps he
would no longer belong with those he’d grown up with.”
“I don’t want to be that way,” Bernard said.
Sayid looked at his nephew with something like regret. “I did not mean to speak so freely, Bernard. You must respect
your elders. They clear the way for you so that your path is easier. But if you see them falling into a pit, then you must
learn to what?”
“Step around,” Bernard said.
“You are right. Diverge from that path and make your own.”
Sayid put his arm over the younger man’s shoulders. As we approached Salina’s house, I looked back behind me. I
could still see the dim light of the old man’s window, and sense his blind eyes staring out into the darkness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
R OY AND ABO BOTH woke up with bad headaches, and along with Kezia stayed in Kendu for another day. In
slightly better shape, I decided to make the trip back to Home Squared with Sayid and Bernard by bus, a decision I
soon regretted. We had to stand for most of the way, our heads forced down by the bus’s low roof. To make matters
worse, I’d come down with a case of the runs. My stomach lurched with every bump. My head throbbed with each
wayward turn. And so it was in a cautious trot that I first appeared to Granny and Auma upon our return, offering them
a curt wave before racing across the backyard, around an errant cow, and into the outhouse.
Twenty minutes later I emerged, blinking like a prisoner in the light of the early afternoon. The women were gathered
on straw mats under the shade of a mango tree while Granny braided Auma’s hair and Zeituni braided the hair of a
neighbor’s girl.
“Did you have a nice time?” Auma said, trying not to smile.
“Wonderful.” I sat down beside them and watched as a skinny old woman came out of the house and took a spot next
to Granny. The old woman was in her early seventies, I guessed, but was dressed in a bright pink sweater; she folded
her legs to the side like a bashful schoolgirl. She peered at me and spoke to Auma in Luo.
“She says you don’t look so well.”
The old woman smiled at me, revealing two missing bottom front teeth.
“This is our grandfather’s sister, Dorsila,” Auma continued. “The last child of our great-grandfather Obama. She lives
in another village, but when she heard-Ow! I tell you, Barack, you are lucky you don’t have braids to undo. What was I