(…) percebia agora por que motivo a odiava. Odiava-a por ser jovem e bonita e assexuada, porque queria ir para a cama com ela e nunca o faria, porque à volta da cintura graciosa e flexível, que parecia convidar um homem a enlaçá-la, havia apenas a odiosa faixa encarnada, símbolo agressivo da castidade.
"(...) 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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