most of recorded history. The corruption and exploitation of the Industrial Revolution, the senseless tribal wars-it’s
shameful how the Europeans treated their own, much less colored peoples. So this idea about a golden age in Africa,
before the white man came, seems only natural.”
“A corrective,” Auma said.
“Truth is usually the best corrective,” Rukia said with a smile. “You know, sometimes I think the worst thing that
colonialism did was cloud our view of our past. Without the white man, we might be able to make better use of our
history. We might look at some of our former practices and decide they are worth preserving. Others, we might grow
out of. Unfortunately, the white man has made us very defensive. We end up clinging to all sorts of things that have
outlived their usefulness. Polygamy. Collective land ownership. These things worked well in their time, but now they
most often become tools for abuse. By men. By governments. And yet, if you say these things, you have been infected
by Western ideology.”
“So how should we adapt?” Auma said.
Rukia shrugged. “I leave such answers up to policy makers. I’m only a historian. But I suspect that we can’t pretend
that the contradictions of our situation don’t exist. All we can do is choose. For example, female circumcision is an
important Kikuyu custom. With the Masai also. To a modern sensibility, it is barbaric. Perhaps we could arrange to
have all these operations performed in hospitals and cut down on the death rate. Keep the bleeding to a minimum. But
you cannot really have half a circumcision. This leaves no one satisfied. So we must choose. The same is true of the
rule of law, the notion of independent inquiry-these things may conflict with tribal loyalties. You cannot have rule of
law and then exempt certain members of your clan. What to do? Again you choose. If you make the wrong choice, then
you learn from your mistakes. You see what works.”
I licked my fingers and washed my hands. “But isn’t there anything left that is truly African?”
“Ah, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Rukia said. “There does seem to be something different about this place. I don’t know
what it is. Perhaps the African, having traveled so far so fast, has a unique perspective on time. Or maybe it is that we
have known more suffering than most. Maybe it’s just the land. I don’t know. Maybe I am also the romantic. I know
that I cannot stay away from here too long. People still talk to each other here. When I visit the States, it seems a very
lonely place-”
Suddenly, all the lights in the house went out. Rukia sighed-blackouts were becoming more common, she said-and I
handed her my lighter to light the candles she kept on the mantelpiece. Sitting in the darkness, I remembered the stories
Zeituni had told us, and remarked that the night runners must be out. Rukia lit the candles, their glow shaping her face
into a mask of laughter.
“You know about the night runners, then! Yes, they are very powerful in the darkness. There used to be many in our
area, back home. It was said they walked with the hippos at night. I remember once-”
As suddenly as they had died, the light bulbs popped back on. Rukia blew out the candles and shook her head. “Alas,
in the city the lights do come on eventually. My daughter, she has no use for night runners. You know, her first
language is not Luo. Not even Swahili. It is English. When I listen to her talk with her friends, it sounds like gibberish
to me. They take bits and pieces of everything-English, Swahili, German, Luo. Sometimes, I get fed up with this. Learn
to speak one language properly, I tell them.” Rukia laughed to herself. “But I am beginning to resign myself-there’s
barré
(Barré)
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