Ana Arkadievna lia e compreendia o que lia, mas o desejo que ela própria tinha de viver era grande de mais para se interessar pela vida dos outros. Se a heroína do romance cuidava de um doente, Ana tinha desejos de andar em passos leves pelo quarto do enfermo; se um membro do Parlamento pronunciava um discurso, ela própria desejaria tê-lo pronunciado; se lady Mary cavalgava atrás da sua matilha, irritando a nora e a todos assombrando com a sua audácia, Ana ambicionava ser ela própria a galopar. Mas nada tinha que fazer! E lá ia revolvendo nas mãos a espátula de cortar papel e prosseguindo na leitura.
"(...) 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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