the first time around. Away from the countryside, though, life in Kenya seemed to have gotten harder. The economy
had worsened, with a corresponding rise in corruption and street crime. The case of the Old Man’s inheritance
remained unresolved, and Sarah and Kezia were still not on speaking terms. Neither Bernard, nor Abo, nor Sayid had
yet found steady work, although they remained hopeful-they were talking about learning how to drive, perhaps
purchasing a used matatu together. We tried again to see George, our youngest brother, and were again unsuccessful.
And Billy, the robust, gregarious cousin I’d first met in Kendu Bay, had been stricken with AIDS. He was emaciated
when I saw him, prone to nodding off in the middle of conversations. He seemed calm, though, and happy to see me,
and asked that I send him a photograph of the two of us during better days. He died in his sleep before I could send it.
There were other deaths that year. Michelle’s father, as good and decent a man as I’ve ever known, died before he
could give his daughter away. Gramps died a few months later, after a prolonged bout with prostate cancer. As a World
War II veteran, he was entitled to be interred at Punchbowl National Cemetery, on a hill overlooking Honolulu. It was a
small ceremony with a few of his bridge and golf partners in attendance, a three-gun salute, and a bugle playing taps.
Despite these heartaches, Michelle and I decided to go ahead with our wedding plans. Reverend Jeremiah A. Wright,
Jr., performed the service in the sanctuary of Trinity United Church of Christ, on Ninety-fifth and Parnell. Everyone
looked very fine at the reception, my new aunts admiring the cake, my new uncles admiring themselves in their rented
tuxedos. Johnnie was there, sharing a laugh with Jeff and Scott, my old friends from Hawaii and Hasan, my roommate
from college. So were Angela, Shirley, and Mona, who told my mother what a fine job she’d done raising me. (“You
don’t know the half of it,” my mother replied with a laugh.) I watched Maya politely fending off the advances of some
brothers who thought they were slick but who were, in fact, much too old for her and should have known better, but
when I started to grumble, Michelle told me to relax, my little sister could handle herself. She was right, of course; I
looked at my baby sister and saw a full-grown woman, beautiful and wise and looking like a Latin countess with her
olive skin and long black hair and black bridesmaid’s gown. Auma was standing beside her, looking just as lovely,
although her eyes were a little puffy-to my surprise she was the only one who cried during the ceremony. When the
band started to play, the two of them sought out the protection of Michelle’s five- and six-year-old cousins, who
impressively served as our official ring-bearers. Watching the boys somberly lead my sisters out onto the dance floor, I
thought they looked like young African princes in their little kente-cloth caps and matching cumberbunds and wilted
bow ties.
The person who made me proudest of all, though, was Roy. Actually, now we call him Abongo, his Luo name, for
two years ago he decided to reassert his African heritage. He converted to Islam, and has sworn off pork and tobacco
and alcohol. He still works at his accounting firm, but talks about moving back to Kenya once he has enough money. In
fact, when we saw each other in Home Squared, he was busy building a hut for himself and his mother, away from our
grandfather’s compound, in accordance with Luo tradition. He told me then that he had moved forward with his import
business and hoped it would soon pay enough to employ Bernard and Abo full-time. And when we went together to
stand by the Old Man’s grave, I noticed there was finally a plaque where the bare cement had been.
Abongo’s new lifestyle has left him lean and clear-eyed, and at the wedding, he looked so dignified in his black
African gown with white trim and matching cap that some of our guests mistook him for my father. He was certainly
the older brother that day, talking me through prenuptial jitters, patiently telling me for the fifth and sixth time that yes,
barré
(Barré)
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