Tive mesmo, nessa altura, a impressão de que me estavam a pregar rasteiras. Com efeito, tropecei duas ou três vezes, ao entrar em lugares públicos. Uma vez mesmo, estatelei-me no chão. O francês cartesiano que eu sou fez logo por se recompor e atribuir estes acidentes à única divindade razoável, isto é, ao acaso.
"(...) My daughter, she has no use for night runners. You know, her first language is not Luo. Not even Swahili. It is english. When I listen to her talk with her friends, it sounds like gibberish to me. They take bits and pieces of everything - English, Swahili, German, Luo. Sometimes, I get fed up with this. Learn to speak one language properly, I tell them." Rukia laughed to herself. "But I am beggining to resign myself - there's nothing really to do. They live in a mixed-up world. It's just as well, I suppose. In the end, I'm less interested in a daughter who's authentically African than one who is authentically herself." It was getting late; we thanked Rukia for her hospitality and went on our way. But her words would stay with me, bringing into focus my own lingering questions.
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