Dreams from My Father

told.”
    He tossed the ball into the air. “Me, I’m not so interested in books. I’m a man of action. Like Rambo.”
    I smiled. “Okay, Rambo,” I said, standing up and opening the door. “Let’s see how you do running down to the courts.”
    Bernard looked at me doubtfully. “The courts are far away. Where’s the car?”
    “Auma took it to work.” I went out onto the veranda and started stretching. “Anyway, she told me it’s just a mile. Good for warming up those young legs of yours.”
    He followed me halfheartedly through a few stretching exercises before we started up the graveled driveway onto the main road. It was a perfect day, the sun cut with a steady breeze, the road empty except for a distant woman, walking with a basket of kindling on top of her head. After less than a quarter of a mile, Bernard stopped dead in his tracks, beads of sweat forming on his high, smooth forehead.
    “I’m warmed up, Barry,” he said, gulping for air. “I think now we should walk.”
    The University of Nairobi campus took up a couple of acres near the center of town. The courts were above the athletic field on a slight rise, their pebbled asphalt cracked with weeds. I watched Bernard as we took turns shooting, and thought about what a generous and easy companion he’d been these last few days, taking it upon himself to guide me through the city while Auma was busy grading exams. He would clutch my hand protectively as we made our way through the crowded streets, infinitely patient whenever I stopped to look at a building or read a sign that he passed by every day, amused by my odd ways but with none of the elaborate gestures of boredom or resistance that I would have shown at his age.
    That sweetness, the lack of guile, made him seem much younger than his seventeen years. But he was seventeen, I reminded myself, an age where a little more independence, a sharper edge to his character, wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I realized that he had time for me partly because he had nothing better to do. He was patient because he had no particular place he wanted to go. I needed to talk to him about that, as I’d promised Auma I would—a man-to-man talk….
    “You have seen Magic Johnson play?” Bernard asked me now, gathering himself for a shot. The ball went through the netless rim, and I passed the ball back out to him.
    “Just on TV.”
    Bernard nodded. “Everybody has a car in America. And a telephone.” They were more statements than questions.
    “Most people. Not everybody.”
    He shot again and the ball clanged noisily off the rim. “I think it is better there,” he said. “Maybe I will come to America. I can help you with your business.”
    “I don’t have a business right now. Maybe after I finish law school—”
    “It must be easy to find work.”
    “Not for everybody. Actually, lots of people have a tough time in the States. Black people especially.”
    He held the ball. “Not as bad as here.”
    We looked at each other, and I tried to picture the basketball courts back in the States. The sound of gunshots nearby, a guy peddling nickel hits in the stairwell—that was one picture. The laughter of boys playing in their suburban backyard, their mother calling them in for lunch. That was true, too. The two pictures collided, leaving me tongue-tied. Satisfied with my silence, Bernard returned to his dribbling.
    When the sun became too strong, we walked to an ice-cream parlor a few blocks from the university. Bernard ordered a chocolate sundae and began eating methodically, measuring out the ice cream half a teaspoon at a time. I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair.
    “Auma tells me that you’re thinking about trade school,” I said.
    He nodded, his expression noncommittal.
    “What kind of courses are you interested in?”
    “I don’t know.” He dipped his spoon in his sundae and thought for a moment. “Maybe auto mechanics. Yes…I think auto mechanics is good.”
    “Have you tried to get into some sort of program?”
    “No. Not really.” He stopped to take another bite. “You must pay fees.”
    “How old are you now, Bernard?”
    “Seventeen,” he said cautiously.
    “Seventeen.” I nodded, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “You know what that means, don’t you? It means you’re almost a man. Somebody with responsibilities. To your family. To yourself. What I’m trying to say is, it’s time you decided on something that interested you. Could be auto mechanics. Could