Dreams from My Father

injuring such books,
are liable to a fine not exceeding one hundred shillings or to imprisonment not exceeding six months or to both
. And then, the particulars of said Registered Servant, filled out in the elegant, unhurried script of a nameless clerk:
             
    Name:
Hussein II Onyango.
    Native Registration Ordinance No.:
Rwl A NBI 0976717.
    Race or Tribe:
Ja’Luo.
    Usual Place of Residence When Not Employed:
Kisumu.
    Sex:
M.
    Age:
35.
    Height and Build:
6'0"
Medium.
    Complexion:
Dark.
    Nose:
Flat.
    Mouth:
Large.
    Hair:
Curly.
    Teeth:
Six Missing.
    Scars, Tribal Marks, or Other Peculiarities:
None.
             
    Toward the back of the book, we found the particulars of employment,
signed and
testified to by various employers. Capt. C. Harford of Nairobi’s Government House said that Onyango
performed his duties as personal boy with admirable diligence
. Mr. A. G. Dickson found his cooking excellent—
he can read and write English and follows any recipes…apart from other things his pastries are excellent
. He no longer needed Onyango’s services since
I am no longer on Safari
. Dr. H. H. Sherry suggested that Onyango
is a capable cook but the job is not big enough for him
. On the other hand, Mr. Arthur W. H. Cole of the East Africa Survey Group says that after a
week on
the job, Onyango was
found to be unsuitable and certainly not worth
60
shillings per month
.
    We moved to the stack of letters. They were from our father, addressed to various universities in the States. There were more than thirty of them, to the presidents of Morgan State, Santa Barbara Junior College, San Francisco State.
    Dear President Calhoun,
one letter began.
I have heard of your college from Mrs. Helen Roberts of Palo Alto, California, who is now in Nairobi here. Mrs. Roberts, knowing how much desirous I am to further my studies in the United States of America, has asked me to apply to your esteemed college for admission. I shall therefore be very much pleased if you will kindly
forward me your application form and information regarding the possibility of such scholarships as you may be aware of.
Attached to several letters were recommendations from Miss Elizabeth Mooney, a literacy specialist from Maryland.
It is not possible to obtain Mr. O’Bama’s school transcripts,
she wrote,
since he has been out of school for some years
. However, she expressed confidence in our father’s talents, noting that she had
observed him making use of algebra and geometry
. She added that there was a great need in Kenya for capable and dedicated teachers and that,
given Mr. O’Bama’s desire to be of service to his country, he should be given a chance, perhaps on a one-year basis
.
    This was it, I thought to myself. My inheritance. I rearranged the letters in a neat stack and set them under the registry book. Then I went out into the backyard. Standing before the two graves, I felt everything around me—the cornfields, the mango tree, the sky—closing in, until I was left with only a series of mental images, Granny’s stories come to life.
    I see my grandfather, standing before his father’s hut, a wiry, grim-faced boy, almost ridiculous in his oversized trousers and his buttonless shirt. I watch his father turn away from him and hear his brothers laugh. I feel the heat pour down his brow, the knots forming in his limbs, the sudden jump in his heart. And as his figure turns and starts back down the road of red earth, I know that for him the path of his life is now altered irreversibly, completely.
    He will have to reinvent himself in this arid, solitary place. Through force of will, he will create a life out of the scraps of an unknown world, and the memories of a world rendered obsolete. And yet, as he sits alone in a freshly scrubbed hut, an old man now with milky eyes, I know that he still hears his father and brothers laughing behind him. He still hears the clipped voice of a British captain, explaining for the third and last time the correct proportion of tonic to gin. The nerves in the old man’s neck tighten, the rage builds—he grabs his stick to hit at something, anything. Until finally his grip weakens with the realization that for all the power in his hands and the force of his will, the laughter, the rebukes, will outlast him. His body goes slack in the chair. He knows that he will not outlive a mocking fate. He waits to die, alone.
    The picture fades, replaced by the image of a nine-year-old boy—my father.