Dreams from My Father - Barack Obama [149]
“We can do all that, Auma.”
She shook her head. “Let me tell you what I start thinking then. I think of who will take care of the house if I’m not here? I think, who can I count on to make sure that a leak gets fixed or that the fence gets mended? It’s terrible, selfish, I know. All I can do when I think this way is to get mad at the Old Man because he didn’t build this house for us. We are the children, Barack. Why do we have to take care of everyone? Everything is upside down, crazy. I had to take care of myself, just like Bernard. Now I’m used to living my own life, just like a German. Everything is organized. If something is broken, I fix it. If something goes wrong, it’s my own fault. If I have it, I send money to the family, and they can do with it what they want, and I won’t depend on them, and they won’t depend on me.”
“It sounds lonely.”
“Oh, I know, Barack. That’s why I keep coming home. That’s why I’m still dreaming.”
After two days, I still hadn’t recovered my bag. The airline office downtown told us to call the airport, but whenever we tried the lines were always busy. Auma finally suggested that we drive out there ourselves. At the British Airways desk we found two young women discussing a nightclub that had just opened. I interrupted their conversation to ask about my bag, and one of them thumbed listlessly through a stack of papers.
“We have no record of you here,” she said.
“Please check again.”
The woman shrugged. “If you wish, you can come back tonight at midnight. A flight from Johannesburg comes in at that time.”
“I was told my bag would be delivered to me.”
“I’m sorry, but I have no record of your bag here. If you like, you can fill out another form.”
“Is Miss Omoro here? She—”
“Omoro is on vacation.”
Auma bumped me aside. “Who else can we talk to here, since you don’t seem to know anything.”
“Go downtown if you want to talk to someone else,” the woman said curtly before returning to her conversation.
Auma was still muttering under her breath when we stepped into the British Airways downtown office. It was in a high-rise building whose elevators announced each floor electronically in crisp Victorian tones; a receptionist sat beneath photographs of lion cubs and dancing children. She repeated that we should check the airport.
“Let me talk to the manager,” I said, trying not to shout.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Maduri is in a meeting.”
“Look, miss, we have just come from the airport. They told us to come here. Two days ago I was told my bag would be delivered. Now I’m told that no one even knows it’s missing. I—” I stopped in midsentence. The receptionist had withdrawn behind a stony mask, a place where neither pleading nor bluster could reach. Auma apparently saw the same thing, for the air seemed to go out of her as well. Together we slumped into a pair of lounge chairs, not knowing what to do next, when a hand suddenly appeared on Auma’s shoulder. Auma turned to find the hand attached to a dark, wiry man dressed in a blue blazer.
“Eh, Uncle! What are you doing here?”
Auma introduced me to the man, who was related to us in a sequence that I couldn’t quite follow. He asked us if we were planning a trip, and Auma told him what had happened.
“Listen, don’t worry,” our uncle said. “Maduri, he is a good friend of mine. In fact, just now I am about to have lunch with him.” Our uncle turned crossly to the receptionist, who had been watching our conversation with considerable interest.
“Mr. Maduri already knows you are here,” she said, smiling.
Mr. Maduri turned out to be a heavyset man with a bulbous nose and a raspy voice. After we had repeated our story,