Dreams from My Father

“So tell me, how are these American women?”
    Roy laughed, but he seemed relieved when Salina and Kezia brought in dinner. “You see, Barry,” Billy said, setting down his plate on the low table in front of him, “your father and my father were age-mates. Very close. When Roy and I were growing up, we were also age-mates, so naturally we became very close. Let me tell you, your father, he was a very great man. I was closer to him than to my own father. If I was in trouble, it was my Uncle Barack that I went to first. And Roy, you would also go to my father, I believe.”
    “The men in our family were very good to other people’s children,” Roy said quietly. “With their own, they didn’t want to look weak.”
    Billy nodded and licked his fingers. “You know, Roy, I think there’s truth in what you say. Myself, I don’t want to make the same mistakes. I don’t want to mistreat my family.” With his clean hand, Billy pulled his wallet out of his pocket and showed me a picture of his wife and their two young children. “I swear,
bwana,
marriage
takes
you! You should see me now, Roy. I’ve become so calm. A family man. Of course, there are limits to what a man should take. My wife, she knows not to cross me too often. What do you say, Sayid?”
    I realized that Sayid hadn’t spoken much since we arrived. He washed his hands now before turning to Billy.
    “I am not yet married,” he said, “so perhaps I should not speak. But I admit, I have been giving these matters some thought. I have concluded that the problem that is most serious for Africa is what?” He paused to look around the room. “This thing between men and women. Our men, we try to be strong, but our strength is often misplaced. Like this business with having more than one woman. Our fathers had many wives, so we also must have many women. But we do not stop and look at the consequences. What happens with all these women? They become jealous. The children, they are not close to their fathers. It is—”
    Sayid caught himself suddenly and smiled. “Of course, I have not even one wife, so I shouldn’t carry on so. Where there is no experience, I believe the wise man is silent.”
    “Achebe?” I asked.
    Sayid laughed and clutched my hand. “No, Barry. That one was only me.”
    It was dark by the time we finished dinner, and, after thanking Salina and Kezia for the food, we followed Billy outside onto a narrow footpath. Walking under a full moon, we soon came to a smaller house where the shadows of moths fluttered against a yellow window. Billy knocked on the door, and a short man with a scar along his forehead answered, his lips smiling but his eyes darting around like those of a man about to be struck. Behind him sat another man, tall, very thin, dressed in white and with a wispy goatee and mustache that made him look like an Indian
sadhu
. Together, the two men began shaking our hands feverishly, speaking to me in broken English.
    “Your nephew!” the white-haired man said, pointing to himself.
    The short one laughed and said, “His hair is white, but he calls you uncle! Ha-ha. You like this English? Come.”
    They led us to a wooden table set with an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid and three glasses. The white-haired man held up the bottle, then carefully poured what looked like a couple of shots into each glass. “This is better than whiskey, Barry,” Billy said as he lifted his glass. “It makes a man very potent.” He threw the drink down his throat, and Roy and I followed suit. I felt my chest explode, raining down shrapnel into my stomach. The glasses were refilled, but Sayid took a pass, so the short man held the extra drink in front of my eyes, his face distorted through the glass.
    “More?”
    “Not right now,” I said, suppressing a cough. “Thanks.”
    “You may perhaps have something for me?” the white-haired man said. “T-shirt maybe? Shoes?”
    “I’m sorry…I left everything back in Alego.”
    The short man kept smiling as if he hadn’t understood and again offered me a drink. This time Billy pushed the man’s hand away.
    “Leave him be!” Billy shouted. “We can drink more later. First we should see our grandfather.”
    The two men led us into a small back room. There, in front of a kerosene lamp, sat what looked like the oldest man I had ever seen. His hair was snow-white, his skin like parchment. He was motionless, his eyes closed, his fleshless arms propped on the armrests of his chair. I