Dreams from My Father

grandmother, not this one you call Granny. Akumu, the woman who gives your father life—you should be helping her. And me, your brother’s sister. Look how I live. Why don’t you help us, instead of these others?”
    Before I could answer, Zeituni and Sarah began to argue with each other in Luo. Eventually, Zeituni stood up and straightened her skirt. “We should go now, Barry.”
    I began to rise out of my chair, but Sarah took my hand in both of hers, her voice softening.
    “Will you give me something? For your grandmother?”
    I reached for my wallet and felt the eyes of both aunts as I counted out the money I had on me—perhaps thirty dollars’ worth of shillings. I pressed them into Sarah’s dry, chapped hands, and she quickly slipped the money down the front of her blouse before clutching my hand again.
    “Stay here, Barry,” Sarah said. “You must meet—”
    “You can come back later, Barry,” Zeituni said. “Let’s go.”
    Outside, a hazy yellow light bathed the road; my clothes hung limp against my body in the windless heat. Zeituni was quiet now, visibly upset. She was a proud woman, this aunt; the scene with Sarah must have embarrassed her. And then, that thirty dollars—Lord knows, she could have used it herself….
    We had walked for ten minutes before I asked Zeituni what she and Sarah had been arguing about.
    “Ah, it’s nothing, Barry. This is what happens to old women who have no husbands.” Zeituni tried to smile, but the tension creased the corners of her mouth.
    “Come on, Auntie. Tell me the truth.”
    Zeituni shook her head. “I don’t
know
the truth. At least not all of it. I know that even growing up, Sarah was always closer to her real mum, Akumu. Barack, he cared only for my mum, Granny, the one who raised them after Akumu left.”
    “Why did Akumu leave?”
    “I’m not sure. You will have to ask Granny about that.”
    Zeituni signaled for us to cross the street, then resumed talking. “You know, your father and Sarah were actually very similar, even though they did not always get along. She was smart like him. And independent. She used to tell me, when we were children, that she wanted to get an education so that she would not have to depend on any man. That’s why she ended up married to four different husbands. None of them lasted. The first one died, but the others she left, because they were lazy, or tried to abuse her. I admire her for this. Most women in Kenya put up with anything. I did, for a long time. But Sarah also paid a price for her independence.”
    Zeituni wiped the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand. “Anyway, after Sarah’s first husband died, she decided that your father should support her and her child, since he had received all the education. That’s why she disliked Kezia and her children. She thought Kezia was just a pretty girl who wanted to take everything. You must understand, Barry—in Luo custom, the male child inherits everything. Sarah feared that once your grandfather died, everything would belong to Barack and his wives, and she would be left with nothing.”
    I shook my head. “That’s no excuse for lying about who the Old Man’s children are.”
    “You’re right. But…”
    “But what?”
    Zeituni stopped walking and turned to me. She said, “After your father went off to live with his American wife, Ruth…well, he would go to Kezia sometimes. You must understand that traditionally she was still his wife. It was during such a visit that Kezia became pregnant with Abo, the brother you haven’t met. The thing was, Kezia also lived with another man briefly during this time. So when she became pregnant again, with Bernard, no one was sure who—” Zeituni stopped, letting the thought finish itself.
    “Does Bernard know about this?”
    “Yes, he knows by now. You understand, such things made no difference to your father. He would say that they were all his children. He drove this other man away, and would give Kezia money for the children whenever he could. But once he died, there was nothing to prove that he’d accepted them in this way.”
    We turned a corner onto a busier road. In front of us, a pregnant goat bleated as it scuttered out of the path of an oncoming
matatu
. Across the way, two little girls in dusty red school uniforms, their round heads shaven almost clean, held hands and sang as they skipped across a gutter. An old woman with her head under a faded shawl motioned to us to look at her