“Subitamente, imaginei fiscais ou vigilantes (modernos e tontinhos, pagos por todos nós, mas convencidos de que existe ou de que existirá um mundo perfeito) entrando pelo meu jardim e multando os diospiros por estarem maduros demais (como Dona Elaine os prefere para os lanches de sábado) ou endireitando os ramos dos hibiscos, empurrados pelo vento.”
"(...) 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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