by Auma Obama
We had parked in front of a building that looked like a church community center. Barack explained to me that he worked for a priest and that his office and his colleagues’ offices were in this community center. We went in through a side entrance, and shortly thereafter we stood in a large, very simply furnished room teeming with people. Barack went from one person to another and introduced me to his colleagues. Everyone greeted me very warmly. Afterward he led me into a room. He wanted me to meet his boss, an older white man with a charismatic aura. Finally, he showed me his own small workstation.
I liked the atmosphere in the community center. Everyone gave the impression that they believed in what they were doing. Their commitment was palpable. After we had stayed there for a while longer so that Barack could take care of a few things, he showed me the projects and described his work to me in detail. Meanwhile, we kept returning to the subject of our families. He told me about his little sister, Maya, his mother’s second child. Maya’s father was Indonesian, and she lived with her maternal grandmother in Hawaii.
“You’ll like her,” he said. “She’s charming.” It sounded as if he loved her. Might he talk about me the same way one day? I thought fleetingly.
“My mother lives in Indonesia. She’s diligently doing research there for her dissertation,” Barack went on with a laugh. “And I think she’ll stay there for a long time. She loves the country and simply can’t stop pursuing her research. Anthropology is her life.” As he said that, he shook his head with amusement, as if he had long ago given up the attempt to understand her.
“I’d like to meet her. I’ve heard a lot about her from our father.”
“Did he talk about her? What did he say?” Barack asked with curiosity.
“Only good things. After Ruth left, he kept promising us that you and your mother would come visit us in Kenya.” I smiled somewhat wearily. “I believed him and waited a long time in vain for your visit.”
Barack looked at me with astonishment. “I knew absolutely nothing about that,” he replied after a brief silence.
“They wrote to each other. But you know that, right? Your mother always sent him your school report cards and regularly told him how you were doing. He always knew what was going on with you. He told us and anyone who would listen about you. From his descriptions, I knew you pretty well. So I thought at the time anyway.”
I couldn’t interpret the expression on Barack’s face, but I nonetheless had the sense that what I had just said moved him.
“But that wasn’t enough,” he said finally.
* * *
It was evening and we were back in Barack’s apartment. The day had gone by fast. We had done a lot, and my brother had shown me his neighborhood so that I would find my way around on my own while he had to work. He showed me the small shopping center and explained to me how to get to the city center and to nearby Lake Michigan, on the shore of which there were several museums.
We were again sitting on his couch and continuing to talk about our complicated family.
“Maybe you were even lucky that you didn’t grow up with him. You missed his presence, but on the other hand, precisely because you didn’t know him, you could also imagine him however you wanted. You didn’t have to deal with him.” I began our conversation with a bold hypothesis.
“You’re right.” Barack laughed. “Instead, I had my grandfather, my mother’s father. I always called him Gramps. He assumed the role of father.” He paused briefly. “Do you have photos with you?” he suddenly went on.
“Yes.” I nodded and went to get my bag. In all my excitement, I had not forgotten to pack photos of our family to show my brother. Among them were some of our father. For fun, I had also brought old pictures of Barack himself, which his mother had sent our father. These were from the time he was studying at Occidental College in Los Angeles. One photo showed a serious-looking young man with a full Afro in a white blazer and a dark shirt with a wide collar, entirely in the style of the 1970s. He smiled confidently at the camera. It was probably taken for the school yearbook. Another showed him playing basketball. It had been taken at the exact moment he jumped up to shoot.
Barack smiled as he looked at the photos.
“That’s right. I sent these photos to my mother.”
“Imagine,” I said, for I had suddenly remembered something amazing. “When I was studying German in Saarbrücken, a German city on the French border, an American exchange student was living with me in the residence hall. She happened to study at Occidental. One day, we were looking at my photos, and suddenly she pointed to this photo with the Afro. She recognized you as one of her classmates. Crazy, right?”
Barack nodded as he continued to look at the picture.
“Back then the old man was still alive,” I added, without knowing exactly why I did so. I suddenly wondered why I hadn’t sought out Barack back then. I could have given the exchange student a message to pass on to him. Somehow it now struck me as strange that I always proudly had the picture of this younger brother by one year with me but hadn’t done anything to get in contact with him when an opportunity arose. The only explanation that occurred to me was that I viewed Barack at the time as my father’s business and feared opening another Pandora’s box with the attempt to get to know him.
“You wanted to explain to me why our father was so complicated, at least from your perspective. Last night you started to go into it.” Barack put aside the pictures and leaned back on the couch. “I’d like to understand what drove him.”
I took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be simple to explain who Barack Obama Sr. had been, especially to a son who had never lived with him for an extended period of time or had more in-depth experiences with him. It seemed to me that I had to go back a long way. I began to explain.
“Our father lived in two cultures. He was always straddling two worlds. Like almost all Africans, he was a victim of colonialism. This had destroyed the established tradition, and our father, in order to have a chance in the changed society, had been forced to adapt to a foreign, Western way of life, which was opposed in many ways to his customary existence. That intensified when he married Ruth, who represented this Western world in every respect. And although he was exposed to her lifestyle and even practiced it himself for a long time, our father was at the same time thoroughly Luo. He respected the traditions and adhered to them. Ruth, on the other hand, did not manage to adapt, might not have even tried to grasp his African roots. She had married the man she had met in her country, in America, who was a scholar, had the charm of a Romeo, and had assimilated so wonderfully, as far as her culture was concerned.
“I imagine that Ruth’s ideal image of a happy marriage did not include another woman’s two small African children, an extended family that constantly needed financial help, and all the African friends who took her husband away on many evenings to go out for a drink and sometimes stay out until the early hours of the morning. In his own house, these two worlds collided with full force, and the old man didn’t know how these differences could be reconciled. It almost tore him apart. There was his old African identity, his new one as the husband of an American woman, and his traditional obligations.”
Barack looked at me inquisitively.
“As for why things didn’t work out between our father and Ruth,” I continued, “one of his friends at the time once said something interesting to me about that: ‘To make Ruth happy, your father would have had to turn his back on his family and all his friends.’ Yes, and I remember that during school breaks in those days Abongo and I were always sent upcountry to visit our grandmother Sarah. Probably so that Ruth, even if only temporarily, could have the semblance of a small nuclear family with her husband and the two sons they had together.”
I talked on and on, completely transported back in time.
“I will never forget the day when, after Ruth was gone, I found in a closet somewhere an unfinished letter she had been writing to her sister in the United States. In it, she had
complained to her sister that she just couldn’t relate to us, her husband’s black children. She described to her, for example, how hard it was for her to bathe us, because she so disliked touching us. Imagine how awful it was for me to read that.
“Our father must have known what was going on and what Ruth thought of his family and friends. How could he have accepted that, without denying himself? His disappointment and bitterness must have been really intense, probably as intense as Ruth’s.
“On top of that, there were his difficulties with work. As a young man, he had gone to America to complete his studies, which would enable him to help steer the development of his country. After he graduated, he was brimming with enthusiasm and devoted himself to his new duties full of optimism. And then, after a short time, he already had to face the fact that in Kenya one dictatorship had replaced another. And it seemed to continue the work of the colonial rulers: Through nepotism and favoritism, those in power divided the various ethnic groups and played them off against each other. With his work ethic and idealism in the ministry where he worked, our father made some enemies. Among them were colleagues as well as superiors, who mistrusted him. They could not understand why he didn’t try as they did to enrich himself—according to the principle: ‘Now it’s our turn.’ I think he was basically a very lonely man.”
After my long explanations, I briefly paused for breath, but only to resume my reflections immediately.
“I could imagine that in his personal life our father tried for a long time to make the best of his difficult situation—and also that he and Ruth noticed very early on that their relationship wasn’t working. But instead of ending it, they stayed together until nothing was salvageable. When, after those hard times, our father also had the serious car accident and lost his job, we were all in tough straits. Though distraught at the collapse of our family, I could take refuge at boarding school, but Abongo, who was a day student, was completely derailed by the events. I don’t think that he ever forgave them for putting him through all that.”
“Forgave whom?” Barack asked. He had sat there silently and pensively the whole time. I was startled. His voice brought me back into the present. I had been so absorbed in my father’s story that I had almost forgotten my brother’s presence. As I was talking, it had dawned on me that I was trying to explain Barack Sr. to myself, too.
“His father, his mother, Ruth, and even me,” I answered sadly. “The relationship between Abongo and me was always difficult.”
“What a shame. One might have thought that going through all that together would have brought the two of you closer.”
“True, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. We never managed to share our pain.” It hurt to say that. I had tried for years to get closer to Abongo, but he had never allowed it. Although we remained in contact and now and then got in touch with each other, there was no close relationship between us.
I looked at Barack Jr. sitting opposite me, and suddenly my heart warmed. Thank God I had found him. He seemed to understand me instinctively, my longings and hopes, my motivations and my disappointments. He listened without evaluating or judging and took each of my words seriously. It felt good to know that this was only the beginning, that he was now part of my family, of my life.
During the time with him we spoke daily about our family, but also about his work, about my studies and my experiences in Germany, and I sensed that he grappled intensely with many things. For the first time, I had found someone in my family with whom I could really talk about anything that was important to me without having to constantly explain and justify myself. Our encounter was an enormous gift for me.
* * *
When we weren’t sitting together and talking, Barack showed me Chicago. We visited museums together, took walks, and went shopping. I posed in front of the Picasso sculpture and Barack took a photograph of me.
I also did some things on my own while he was working. I wandered through Chicago’s streets and looked at the beautiful buildings.
The days went by really fast. Soon, Elke and Robert arrived in Chicago, as we had planned before my departure from Carbondale.
We all spent one night in Barack’s small apartment and had a big breakfast the next morning before we headed to Wisconsin.
I was sorry to have to say good-bye to the new brother I had gained. I had only just discovered him and was reluctant to let him go. The visit had exceeded all my expectations. I not only liked Barack as a person, but I also immediately felt incredibly comfortable with him. In the brief time we had spent with each other, we had gotten so close that we had actually managed to bridge the years of separation between us.
We didn’t even need to promise each other to stay in touch. For both of us, that went without saying. When I hugged him tightly in parting before getting into Elke’s car, I said only, “Now it’s my turn to show you my hospitality. Next time we’ll see each other in Kenya.”
18.
I LEFT MY BROTHER and my best friend behind in the United States with a heavy heart, but at the same time I was really looking forward to seeing Karl again.
Karl studied law. We met through a carpool. I fell in love with him. Shortly after my return from America, we saw each other almost daily. I told him in detail about my moving journey to visit my brother.
Karl was tall and athletic. He played handball, a sport with which I hadn’t previously been familiar. He was also a passionate fan of the German rock band BAP. I liked his energy and charisma, his cheerful nature. To this day, I can see his dimples in my mind’s eye, when he smiled at me or burst out laughing.
Shortly after our relationship had begun, he invited me to his home. He was still living with his parents in a village near Heidelberg. I was excited about the visit with his family. Karl had a younger sister, Gerda. His father, who had since retired, had been a baker, and the family lived in the house in which the bakery had once been.
When we got out of the car and his parents came toward us, I looked into two astonished faces. I sensed how both of them almost imperceptibly but instinctively recoiled. Oh no, I thought, Karl forgot to tell them that I’m black! My boyfriend approached his parents with a smile and introduced me. Hesitantly, I held out my hand to his father, who stood directly in front of me. He, too, hesitated, but then took my hand and shook it vigorously.
“Guten Tag, Fräulein Auma,” he said. “Guten Tag.”
The mother stared at me and also said, “Guten Tag.” She gave me her hand only reluctantly. Immediately, I knew: It bothered her that her son was with an African.
However, the visit with Karl’s parents did no harm to our young love. Not long after, my boyfriend moved out of the house, but continued to insist on us visiting his parents together. In his view, they had to accept me. He didn’t want to have to choose between us. I respected that. As an African, I set great store by family, and didn’t doubt that, if I loved Karl, I would have to accept his, too. Still, each time I noticed how much trouble his mother had with me. I simply did not fit into the picture. That became clear to me when Karl’s sister got married.
The upcoming wedding was a constant topic of conversation in the family, because Karl’s sister’s fiancé was the owner of the largest company and thus also the most important employer in the village. Of course, I assumed that I would be invited together with Karl. I was the girlfriend of the brother of the bride, after all. I had also already met the groom. So I was all the more surprised one evening when my boyfriend, somewhat embarrassed, said, “Unfortunately, I have to go to the wedding alone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, taken aback. I noticed how he shifted on his feet and searched for the right words.
“It’s because…” In his embarrassment, he could not continue speaking.
I looked at him expectantly.
“Uh, um … Not many guests are being invited, so I have to go alone.”
“What you actually mean is that your parents are embarrassed to introduce a black woman to the g
uests as their son’s girlfriend, right?”
Karl looked at me helplessly, and I didn’t want to make it easy for him. I was angry about his behavior. He had simply accepted that his family excluded me from this event. So now it had happened, after all: He had been forced to choose between me and his family. And he had chosen the latter.
“What am I supposed to do?” he pleaded with me. “I can’t abandon my sister on that day. But my parents are afraid of what people might think when they see you. They haven’t really accepted yet that we’re together.”
“And you?” I asked him. “What do you think about it?”
“You know the answer. I stand by you!” Karl sounded distraught. “But I have to participate in the wedding. Please understand.”
But at that moment I didn’t want to understand. I wished that he had made a different decision, if only to make his position clear. But deep inside I knew that I was neither able nor willing to compete with his family—especially since I was always telling him to respect his family. In the beginning of our relationship, I had witnessed a few times how harshly he could behave toward his parents. The first time, I was really shocked. If I had spoken that way to my parents, I would have regretted it forever! Even when I had not agreed with something and was right, as was also sometimes the case with Karl, I had always had to find a way to make it clear to them without being disrespectful or even sounding annoyed. I told my boyfriend that in my whole life—and I was already twenty-five years old at the time—I had never really argued with my parents.
* * *
Despite the unpleasant family situation, we spent wonderful times together. One of the high points was our ten-day trip to Italy in the summer of 1985.
We planned to drive to Tuscany and spend the nights at campgrounds there, which I could not really imagine. Previously, I had only gone camping during my school days, and it had always been in the wild and without any comforts.
