I have finished reading Barrack Obama’s Dreams from My Father.
To say the book is ‘interesting’ would mean a total untruth; I would say it is ‘spectacular’. Barrack Obama is indeed a prolific writer. The book is like a song: one verse after another, and then another; and all the verses together making a wonderful piece. From the first page to the last – like cool water flowing down one’s throat, smooth and refreshing, with one thought leading into another, one chapter flowing into the other. Even after reading the last page, I wished it wouldn’t end.
Dreams from My Father is unlike other books that would need a flip-back to previous chapters before a reader can get the real picture. This one is clear as crystal, just wonderful.
I particularly like Barrack Obama’s narrative style. If there is a ‘power of narrative skill’ somewhere, I would give it Barrack Obama. And if not that the book was written years ago, permit me to say that I might even be able to locate Barrack’s hometown, village and people by using some chapters in the book as my tour-guide. His ability to describe people physically(features, facial expression, moods); describe physical environments: places, streets corners, lights; describe emotions: joy or sadness and just the thin line in-between, silence, the hustle and bustle of life; describe himself: his feelings, thoughts here and there is just wonderful – giving the book a complete balance.
The chapters are like pieces of a puzzle, carefully arranged and fitted one into another in such a way that one chapter cannot be taken out to have a complete meaning as a standalone without all the others supporting it in one way or the other.
Barrack Obama talks of himself in the divide of races – black and white; between his Christianity and Islam’city’ as far as he is concerned; between choices to seek after the good of self or the good of his community; influences from his father, mother, Gramps and Toots; an interest to meet his brothers who know more about him than he knows about them; between journeys far and near, between a family at hand and one far away; thoughts dividing what people think, what they should think and what he thinks and feels.
These almost make the book swallow the reader – leaving a feeling that one was actually walking in the shoes of the author, page by page. Its indeed a story of race and inheritance. From Kansas to Hawaii to Indonesia to New York to Kenya, and back, unless you are in the picture: right there in the many crossroads of life, No, its not possible to know ‘how it feels’.
This book would be another in my ‘can’t lend to you’ collection. I would rather you get your own copy – and re-reading it over and over again will make it newer every time.
A quote on the cover page, written by Marian Wright Edelman says “Perceptive and wise, this book will tell you about yourself whether you are black or white”. What this book told me, and the challenge it rang in my ears is for me to go digging for more information about my own roots.
And I have been thinking:
One: I think its unfortunately taken for granted as an African, a Nigerian in this case, that living at home(in Africa) means being ‘connected to one’s roots’. I see another dimension all together, more than living in Africa, more than living in Nigeria for example, which is: are we, the average Africans / Nigerians(for example) interested in knowing details of who and who gave birth to whom and whom, when and where, why and how did ‘we all’ all happen? What percentage of Nigerians, for example can say they are informed(names, dates and places) about 10-generations of their family members(upwards).
Especially, for those who parents came from Polygamous homes, there is usually ‘something that happened a long time ago’ in/outside the family, amongst wives or children that makes generations to come mind their own business permanently. An issue unresolved – which parents pass down to the Children, informing them “see, just make sure whenever you go there, don’t stop by that house, don’t greet that woman, don’t greet that man, they are evil, they are wicked etc, etc.” And then you ask why, you’ll be surprised that you don’t have ears enough for the whole story.
Two: this puzzles me: this idea of state of origin. I find it somehow discriminatory that a man’s children ‘automatically belong’ in conclusion to the state of origin of their father ONLY. Their mother, her own state (if different from the husband’s), her family members, etc., are left in the cold. Why?
Three: I also see a very wrongly summarized idea, a general observation in the Nigerian family circle: that a father, mother and child, and information about a cousin, an uncle and aunt is the definition of a complete family? Generally an average Nigerian might not be informed of his third or fourth cousins, aunts or uncles – especially when marriages happen and surnames begin to change.
I once asked my mom for the genuine reason behind the first of the many marriage levels: introduction, engagement, court wedding, church wedding, etc. She said ‘introduction’ is for the families to know one another, where elders from both families would be invited to talk and make sure the intending couples are not related. This means its possible, that up till the time of introduction, the couple hoping to wed might not even know they are related. It’s the elders in the family who know ‘some history’ who would thrash out the details; and no, whatever details there are, are never documented. I’ve heard of stories of people meeting themselves, falling in love only to know that they are blood relatives almost at the point of marriage.
No, I do not know up to 10-generations(of my family members) upwards as compared to Obama’s own list. Not that I haven’t asked for information, but basically everyone has limited information: lack of documentation. On the other hand, I have a couple of friends who have lived in Lagos all their life, but are not Lagos-state indegenes. They too know very little of their own villages(have been there a couple of times); know little of the history of their people, fore-fathers and mothers, etc.
Or perhaps, the problem with Nigeria is the exodus of Nigerians from their hometowns and villages in search for education, wealth and a stable life; in search for everything else except an identity. They give birth to, and rear their children in cities like Lagos. Yes, we all speak English, that’s why we have forgotten our mothers tongue. How then can we trace our roots.
I think we should ask ourselves: what makes us Nigerians?
I read Bill Isaccs’ Embracing Destiny over the weekend, the story of Joseph: his struggles caused by being the favorite of his father, hated by his brothers, sold into Egypt, tempted by Potiphars wife and thrown into Jail for false accusation, forgotten in prison by a friend, miraculously remembered, interpreted Pharaoh’s dream, became a prime minister in Egypt, forgave his brothers, moved his father and brothers to a choice property in Egypt, saw the fulfilment of his childhood dreams, married Pharaoh’s daughter, rescued Egypt in the time of famine, lived a good life. It sure is the story of grass to grace, poverty to riches, death to life.
they say, they say