by Auma Obama
* * *
When Barack and Michelle got married in Chicago in 1992, I was still with Ian, however. I was really looking forward to the wedding, not least of all because I had been chosen as one of the bridesmaids. Michelle sent me an elegant, black dress, with just enough time for me to lose a few more pounds before the occasion. I was astonished that black was worn at an American wedding.
In Chicago, I met Michelle’s family and was warmly received by them. She had many relatives, but the immediate family consisted only of her brother, Craig, and her mother. Her father had died the previous year. From our side, Barack’s mother, Ann, and his sister Maya had come, as well as Barack and Maya’s grandmother, whom the grandchildren fondly called “Toot.” Abongo also participated in the ceremony. Unfortunately, Ian had not been able to join me, for he had to work. Barack’s old school friends from Hawaii came, too, and I had great fun asking them questions about my brother and hearing what he’d been like as a child.
The ceremony took place in late summer in magnificent weather. The sun was high in a cloudless sky and offered the perfect backdrop for a storybook wedding. And that’s really what it was. I still remember how impressed I was that we were driven around in a limousine. Michelle looked heavenly in her long, white wedding gown. And the sight of Barack in a classically tailored tux, which accentuated his slender figure and his good looks, filled me with pride. If only our father had been able to witness this day—that sad thought went fleetingly through my head several times, like a dark cloud, which I quickly drove away.
We bridesmaids and groomsmen were nothing to sneeze at, either, as we accompanied the couple into the church and then stood near the altar. A great party ended the big day.
After the celebration, I stayed with my brother and his new wife for a few more days. Their honeymoon would only begin several days after the wedding. At the time, the two of them were living in a small apartment attached to Michelle’s parents’ house. I was glad to spend a few days alone with Barack and Michelle again, without relatives and friends, for I got to see my brother and his wife so rarely.
* * *
When I returned from America, I spent most of my time in Berlin. I had completed my required courses in Bayreuth and now only had to finish my dissertation before taking my final exams. In Berlin, I experienced firsthand the far-reaching effects of the fall of the Wall, including its negative ramifications, such as the racist attacks that ensued in the German towns of Hoyerswerda, Rostock, Mölln, and Solingen.
* * *
One day a letter arrived from Ben, one of my mother’s younger sons. He wrote that he was barely able to feed himself in Nairobi, found no work, and could no longer fend for himself. He sounded desperate.
Ben was my mother’s fourth child, one of two sons born after she had separated from my father; the other was named Samson. I had gotten to know these two brothers better when, while studying at Kenyatta University, I spent more time at Aunty Jane’s house, where Ben lived and Samson was a frequent visitor.
Ben now asked me whether he could come and stay with me in Germany. After careful consideration—I wasn’t sure whether Germany, especially in winter, was really the right place for him–I said yes and sent him a plane ticket.
The stay was, in fact, largely ruined for him by the winter cold. On top of that, I was afraid of the racist attacks the media frequently reported. He felt the same way and practically never left my home. I lived in a small apartment near the Spree River at the time, and he felt really isolated, because I often had to leave him alone to go to the film school or the library.
When we parted, I hoped that he was at least flying back in a somewhat better frame of mind and would now appreciate warm Kenya more. For me, his visit had also been an attempt to do my duty as a modern “chosen one,” so to speak, and help my little brother. But the feeling remained that there wasn’t much I could have done for him.
* * *
My mother visited me a year later in Berlin, also in winter. But this time I was the one who needed emotional support. I had just gone through a very difficult phase. Although I had some friends in Berlin by then and had joined a group of black women who met regularly, I was afflicted by a profound sense of loneliness that I couldn’t talk about with my new friends. This difficulty communicating about personal problems transported me back to the time at Kenya High School, when I had also usually kept them to myself. As I had been then, now, too, I was outwardly friendly, lively, and fun. As was the case back then, people probably couldn’t tell now by looking at me how much forlornness and sadness I was carrying around with me.
I sank deeper and deeper into a gloomy state, and often my participation in activities was only mechanical. When I began to fear that I might end up hospitalized for depression, I asked my mother to visit me in Berlin and stay for a while.
It was a cold and snowy winter, so we didn’t go out much and often sat at home. Most of the time, I worked on my dissertation while my mother busied herself with domestic activities. I was happy to have her around. But her presence ultimately could not dispel my sense of dissatisfaction with my overall situation.
As she had in Heidelberg, my mother worried about the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend—Ian and I had broken up. I explained to her that I didn’t even want a boyfriend. Then she began to get worked up about Karl, and accused him of robbing me of my time and deceiving me for six years. But I didn’t accept that.
“We broke up,” I said emphatically. “It always takes two.”
The argument did not convince her.
“I had asked him when he was with you in Kenya what plans he had with you,” she said. “But he couldn’t give me an answer to that. Now I know why. He didn’t have any at all.”
I let her talk. There was no sense in arguing with her. After all, I was burdened by all that myself. Deep inside, I knew that I had not yet recovered from the breakup. We had been together for so long and had done so much together; I had imagined all sorts of things for the future, only to realize in the end that he didn’t love me as much as I loved him. He had definitely loved me at the time, just not enough to marry me after being together for six years. That experience had taken the wind out of my sails and left me drifting aimlessly in a sea called Germany. My brief relationship with Ian had been an attempt for me to cast anchor on more solid ground. But it hadn’t worked.
Eventually, I told my mother about Ian and our relationship. I hadn’t actually wanted to do so at all, because I did not regard the episode with him as worth mentioning.
“Why did you leave him?” she asked me, when I had finished.
My answer confused her.
“Boredom?” she repeated. “But that’s no reason, especially since he was apparently good to you.”
What could I say to that? My mother and I lived in two different worlds. She had grown up in a traditional Luo setting, in which a woman demands nothing of her husband but to feed the family and help raise the children. The husband is not necessarily expected to be a fun life companion for the wife.
“You expect too much of a man,” my mother now said emphatically.
When I thought back on my previous year, I wondered whether she might be right.
As if a higher power had answered her prayers, just a few days later I received a call from my brother Abongo in the United States. He explained to me that he was planning to import a car to Kenya, but wanted to buy it in England, because people drove on the left side of the road there, too. He wanted to know whether I had any contacts there. I immediately thought of Ian, and a bit later I spoke to him and got his permission to give my brother his telephone number.
It felt strange to talk with him again after all those months. And I was surprised to realize that I secretly missed him. He really was a “good” man, as my mother had assumed; I actually had nothing to reproach him for. He wasn’t responsible for my restlessness.
But he faded into the background again—until February 14, 1995, when I received
a large, stiff envelope in the mail. It was obviously a card. There was no return address on the envelope. My mother, who was still staying with me, could hardly wait to find out its contents.
“Go ahead, open it!” she encouraged me impatiently. “Who’s the secret admirer you’ve told me nothing about?”
I think her greatest fear was that I, in my stubbornness, with which she was all too familiar, would refuse to marry once and for all and she would ultimately get no grandchild from me. For her, a woman had to be with a man, had to be married. Anything else seemed unnatural to her.
I wanted to take my time opening the card, but that did not suit my mother at all.
“Come on, Auma! Let’s see who it’s from.”
I surrendered, opened the envelope, and took out what was indeed a Valentine’s Day card. To my surprise, Ian had sent it to me. You will always be my valentine, he had written on it in his neat handwriting, a few words that spoke volumes. I was confused. What was I supposed to do with that?
My mother had read along with me, of course.
“Wonderful, wonderful!” she cried, clapping her hands joyfully. “The good man loves you!”
Shaking my head, I looked at her. Was she crazy?
“How do you know? It’s only a card.”
“No, he’s still thinking about you! Just look at the size of the card.”
I had to admit that it was huge, almost tastelessly huge. Ian wanted to tell me something in no uncertain terms.
“Give him another chance, Auma. You have nothing to lose.”
When I heard my mother talking like that, I suddenly thought: She’s actually right. What do I have to lose? I was alone and had the sensation that I was drifting. I was not sure what I felt for Ian, but it was clearly not anything negative. So why not give it another shot with him? Something about me really seemed to appeal to him. If the size of the card corresponded to his love, I couldn’t really go wrong.
I reached for the telephone. For a start, I could at least thank him for the beautiful big Valentine’s Day card, and then we would see.
ENGLAND and KENYA
23.
I SEEMED DESTINED to shuttle back and forth. Ian and I had gotten back together, and so I resumed my trips between Germany and England. But because our relationship had now strengthened, I had decided to move in with him.
“You can make films here, too,” Ian assured me confidently. “I’ll help you with it.”
The way he said this, it sounded like the simplest thing in the world. Might I have found in him exactly the person I needed, who would help me realize my dream of telling stories in images? I could no longer really imagine an academic career, neither in Germany nor in Kenya.
“I’ve even put some money aside,” he said. “We can put that into your film.”
What more did I want? My mother had been right after all, I thought. Here was someone who not only loved me but also had an interest in my career. And what about the boredom? I nonetheless heard her ask in my mind. Surely, only my restless nature was to blame for that. As soon as I settled down in England, that would be over. At that time, it was precisely Ian’s calm temperament that I needed.
But moving to England was not as smooth a transition as I had imagined it would be. By then, Kenyans were no longer exempt from the requirement of a British visa, as they had been in the past when being part of the Commonwealth was enough. Now I had to fill out numerous forms and wait for hours at the British consulate in Düsseldorf to undergo a grueling interview about my plans in England. A visa was by no means guaranteed.
To expedite the bureaucratic procedure to some extent, I applied immediately for a fiancée visa, for Ian had asked me to marry him on one of my visits to England. I had said yes.
On that occasion, we were sitting in a small French restaurant in a village near London. Ian had picked me up from the airport the day before, and despite the rainy weather I was glad to be back in England—with him.
“Close your eyes,” he said, after we had ordered and the waiter had left.
“Why?” I asked with curiosity. To fulfill a request without asking about the reason was simply not in my nature.
“Just do it!” Ian said in mock exasperation. At the same time, there was a smile in his voice. “Just this once,” he added softly.
Reluctantly and curiously, I obeyed. Then I felt him gently taking my hand and putting a small box in it. I suspected what this act meant, but I kept my eyes closed. I wanted to give myself time to digest the significance of this moment.
“Don’t you want to open your eyes?” I heard Ian asking. I opened them and looked at him, still holding the box in my hand. He was looking at me so lovingly that I kissed him on the mouth.
“Is that a yes?”
I still hadn’t said anything. “I have to think about it,” I finally answered with a wink. “A yes would mean that I was defecting to the enemy.”
Ian gave me such a confused look that I had to laugh out loud. “You must have forgotten history,” I added. “England. Kenya. The colonial era!”
Finally, he understood. He burst out laughing and raised his arm with a balled fist. Lowering it again, he shouted: “YES!”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” I said, laughing.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Ian continued, and made the same triumphant gesture with each yes. Completely unromantic, but fitting. When I met him, I had claimed smugly that I could never imagine living in England, let alone marrying an Englishman, because England had done so much damage to my fellow Kenyans through colonialism.
The waiter, who was approaching with our drinks, stopped uncertainly a few paces away. “Is everything all right, sir and madam?” he asked worriedly.
“Everything’s great!” Ian replied happily and looked over at me with raised eyebrows. “Right?”
I nodded, grinning. “Everything’s perfect.”
“Will there be champagne now or not?”
“Yes!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Ian exclaimed a second time, before turning to the waiter. “You heard it, sir. Champagne! We’re getting married!” With these words, he leaned over to me, took the box from my hand, opened it, pulled out a ring, and put it carefully on my finger.
“And you thought you could escape the British,” he whispered in my ear, kissing me on the neck.
* * *
Ian and I got married in August 1996. It was a wonderful, very happy day. Not only was the weather gorgeous, but also my closest family members and many friends came from Kenya, Germany, and the United States. Even Toot, Barack’s maternal grandmother, made the long journey from Hawaii to England. We only missed Ann, Barack’s mother, who had died the previous year of cancer.
* * *
I had not managed to finish my graduation film at the DFFB before the wedding. The editing still needed to be done, for which I had to travel to Berlin several times. I was able to stay with Elke, who after sixteen years in America had moved to Potsdam, near Berlin, with Robert, who was now her husband, and their two children, Jan and Lena.
During one of those stays, I felt tired all the time and wanted to do nothing but sleep. When I lost my appetite, too, and told Elke that certain smells nauseated me, she said with a knowing expression, “I think you’re pregnant!”
Taken aback, I stared at her. “You really think so?”
I must have sounded pretty naïve. And I was, in fact, naïve.
“We can find out quickly. Take a pregnancy test.”
Ian and I had spoken about children only once, and that was when I had worked for him and we were not yet a couple. He had explained at the time, full of conviction, that he didn’t want any more children, because he already had a daughter from a previous marriage. In response, I had asked him, “And what if you have a girlfriend who absolutely wants to get pregnant?”
“Then she’s out of luck,” he answered with a laugh.
Just as convinced of my words as he was of his—only very seriously—I had replied, �
�If I were that woman, I wouldn’t go out with you! I definitely want to have children one day.”
After that, we had never talked about the topic again. And now, a few years later, we were married. And I might be pregnant. How would Ian react if it were true?
* * *
“You’re pregnant! You’re pregnant! Hooray!”
Elke hopped from one leg to the other. I had come out of the bathroom with the colored test strip, after I had let out a telltale cry. Suddenly, everything seemed like a dream to me. I tried to imagine that a little person was growing inside me, but the thought was completely strange to me. Nor could I connect my nausea with the emerging life inside me, no matter how hard I tried.
“It’s really true! You’re pregnant! I’m happy for you, Auma!”
Elke hugged me tight; her excitement was palpable. When she was pregnant with Jan and Lena, she could imagine nothing more wonderful. When I had visited her in Carbondale for the first time, she had walked around the room with a pillow under her overalls for fun and played mother-to-be.
And now I was pregnant, and she was again seized with euphoria. Her high spirits were downright contagious.
“We’re having a baby,” I said to her, smiling, but my voice wavered a little. “And you’ll be an aunt. I’m happy about that.”
The rest of the afternoon, we sat together and imagined my future.
“It will be a girl!” I said confidently.
“You can’t know that.” Elke laughed.
“Yes, it will be a girl.”
“And why are you so sure?”
“I just know. I want a girl, and I know that this child will be a girl.”
Elke gave up trying to convince me that the opposite was possible, but in my head the discussion went on. I really wanted a girl. I could not imagine having a boy. A girl simply suited my temperament much better.
* * *
