Dreams from My Father

world I was raised in. I only know what I have seen. What I have not seen doesn’t make my heart heavy.”
    I leaned back on the mat and thought about what Granny had said. There was a certain wisdom there, I supposed; she was speaking of a different time, another place. But I also understood Auma’s frustration. I knew that, as I had been listening to the story of our grandfather’s youth, I, too, had felt betrayed. My image of Onyango, faint as it was, had always been of an autocratic man—a cruel man, perhaps. But I had also imagined him an independent man, a man of his people, opposed to white rule. There was no real basis for this image, I now realized—only the letter he had written to Gramps saying that he didn’t want his son marrying white. That, and his Muslim faith, which in my mind had become linked with the Nation of Islam back in the States. What Granny had told us scrambled that image completely, causing ugly words to flash across my mind. Uncle Tom. Collaborator. House nigger.
    I tried to explain some of this to Granny, asking her if our grandfather had ever expressed his feelings about the white man. Just then, Sayid and Bernard emerged, groggy-eyed, from the house, and Zeituni directed them to the plates of food that had been set aside for them. It wasn’t until they had settled down to eat, and Auma and the neighbor’s girl resumed their positions in front of the older women, that Granny returned to her story.
             
    I also did not always understand what your grandfather thought. It was difficult, because he did not like people to know him so well. Even when he spoke to you, he would look away for fear that you would know his thoughts. So it was with his attitude towards the white man. One day he would say one thing, and the next day it was as if he was saying something else. I know that he respected the white man for his power, for his machines and weapons and the way he organized his life. He would say that the white man was always improving himself, whereas the African was suspicious of anything new. “The African is thick,” he would sometimes say to me. “For him to do anything, he needs to be beaten.”
    But despite these words, I don’t think he ever believed that the white man was born superior to the African. In fact, he did not respect many of the white man’s ways or their customs. He thought many things that they did were foolish or unjust. He himself, he would never allow himself to be beaten by a white man. This is how he lost many jobs. If the white man he worked for was abusive, he would tell the man to go to hell and leave to find other work. Once, an employer tried to cane him, and your grandfather grabbed the man’s cane and thrashed him with it. For this he was arrested, but when he explained what had happened, the authorities let him off with a fine and a warning.
    What your grandfather respected was strength. Discipline. This is why, even though he learned many of the white man’s ways, he always remained strict about Luo traditions. Respect for elders. Respect for authority. Order and custom in all his affairs. This is also why he rejected the Christian religion, I think. For a brief time, he converted, and even changed his name to Johnson. But he could not understand such ideas as mercy towards your enemies, or that this man Jesus could wash away a man’s sins. To your grandfather, this was foolish sentiment, something to comfort women. And so he converted to Islam—he thought its practices conformed more closely to his beliefs.
    In fact, it was this hardness that caused so many problems between him and Akumu. By the time I came to live with him, she had already borne Onyango two children. The first was Sarah. Three years later came your father, Barack. I did not know Akumu well, for she and her children lived with Helima on your grandfather’s compound in Kendu, while I stayed with him in Nairobi, to help him with his work there. But whenever I accompanied your grandfather to Kendu, I could see that Akumu was unhappy. Her spirit was rebellious, and she found Onyango too demanding. He would always complain that she kept a bad house. Even in child rearing, he was strict with her. He told her to keep the babies in cribs and dress them in fancy clothes that he brought from Nairobi. Whatever the babies touched had to be even cleaner than before. Helima tried to help Akumu, and cared for the children as if they were her own, but it didn’t help.