Os resultados de um ódio tão fantasioso são frequentemente muito desapontadores e, sob este ponto de vista, os ingleses são, entre todos os humanos, os mais lamechas. São criaturas dessa desgraçada espécie que em voz alta proclama não haver tortura suficientemente má para os seus inimigos e logo oferecem chá e cigarros ao primeiro piloto alemão ferido que lhes apareça na porta das traseiras.
"(...) 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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