I laughed and explained, with Auma’s help, that I was black through and
through, basically as black as we come in America.
Granny Sarah found this funny. She seemed to find everything funny,
teasing Barack for not being able to speak her language. I was bowled over by her
easy joy. As evening fell, she butchered us a chicken and made us a stew, which
she served with a cornmeal mush called ugali. All the while, neighbors and
relatives popped in to say hello to the younger Obamas and to congratulate us on
our engagement. I gobbled the food gratefully as the sun dropped and night
settled over the village, which had no electricity, leaving a bright spray of stars
overhead. That I was in this place seemed like a little miracle. I was sharing a
rudimentary bedroom with Barack, listening to the stereo sound of crickets in the
cornfields all around us, the rustle of animals we couldn’t see. I remember feeling
awed by the scope of land and sky around me and at the same time snug and
protected inside that tiny home. I had a new job, a fiancé, and an expanded
family—an approving Kenyan granny, even. It was true: I’d been flung out of my
world, and for the moment it was all good.