Free And Then Life Happens by Auma Obama Page A

the private sector into government service, taking a post in the Ministry of Finance, where he was convinced he could be of real service. But the first thing he discovered was that he would have to align his visions of the country’s development with the prevailing political climate. The powers that be seemed to have no real interest in fostering Kenya’s progress. They seemed much more concerned with consolidating their own positions. My father’s honest efforts to support the government in word and deed were met with inaction and even hostility.
    What ultimately became my father’s undoing was the fact that, with his academic background in economics, he was frequently more competent than his superiors and did not shy away from making that clear to them. On top of that, he was Luo, which did not make things easy for him in the political landscape at that time, since the government posts were occupied mainly by the Kikuyu. In the conflict resulting from the mistrust that had developed between the various ethnic groups under colonial rule, and through ethnically motivated cronyism, the Kikuyu had gained the most advantages for themselves. My father refused to play along with the game of corruption and nepotism. He criticized vocally those two elements of political praxis—and was thus systematically chastised as a “know-it-all” Luo and marginalized to the point that he ultimately lost his position. His efforts to find a new job were blocked nationwide. He even had to surrender his passport so that he could not go abroad.
    His growing professional discontent also put ever-greater strains on his relationship with my stepmother, Ruth, until it finally fell apart. Thus, on top of his lost job, he no longer had familial support either. In this situation, he tried in vain to be there for my brother and me. Today, I can understand why he didn’t succeed in that. Without employment and without money, and politically ostracized to boot, he couldn’t get back on his feet no matter how hard he tried.
    I’ve often wondered how things would have gone for us if my father had held his tongue and bowed to the pressure of the power relations at that time. Would he have managed to move his country forward, stay true to himself, and hold his family together at the same time? Would things have gone better for us? But there’s no answer to this question. My father simply could not hold his tongue.
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    Under the prevailing circumstances, school break was always particularly trying for me. The boarding school shut its gates, and all the students had to go home, whether they wanted to or not. Now came hard weeks—for in our motherless household there was always something new to contend with. One day stuck in my mind with particular clarity, when my father appeared at home with friends and asked me to prepare lunch for all of them. Obanda was gone by then. I was told that my stepmother had fired him shortly before her separation from my father because he had shown up drunk for work. And she had taken our domestic help, Juliana, with her.
    For us, a warm meal typically consists of vegetables, meat with sauce, and the traditional ugali, a cooked maize flour paste. The vegetables and meat sauce needed only to be warmed up, but I was supposed to prepare the ugali . My father was not aware that I didn’t know how to do it. And I didn’t dare to confess this to him.
    First, I put water on the stove, as I had observed Obanda and the various maids do. Then I waited for it to heat up. But that seemed to take forever—and my father was inquiring about the food from the next room. Nervously and uncertainly, I stared at the slowly heating water. Once again I heard him call. On the spur of the moment, I reached for the packet of maize flour, which was only a third full, and poured the whole contents into the steaming water. It bubbled up, flour spraying out of the pot onto the