A salute to President Barack Obama’s father

As I headed out the door to witness the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44Th President of the United States, I thought about his late father. Much of what we’ve heard about the president’s “Old Man” has been from the president himself and others who knew very little about him. But the elder Obama’s is a story of the African immigrant — a story of a people who come to a new country and learn so fast to become the most educated group.

What follows is an except from my stand-up comedy set performed on Sunday at The African Inaugural Ball in Silver Spring, MD. Part true, part fiction, the account is based on my life and the stories of other African immigrants in the United States. Knowing what I know about the Old Man –  and having grown up in the same area as he, I have no doubt he would have appreciated the humor.

Don’t hate; Inaugurate!

FOR MOST OF US, the story begins in a little hut in rural Africa and ends in a big white house in America.

But that journey is not easy. It continues when you get to America as an exchange student. They call you exchange student because once you exchange African money to dollars you find out that your million shillings has suddenly become $20.

You realize very quickly that $20 can’t buy you an American education. You decide to look for a job.

But nobody wants to hire you because you have no experience. Yes, even McDonald’s. So you decide to lie that you have been in the country for a few years. You get the job.

You are excited when the boss tells you that you will be paid per hour. It is minimum wage, but when you convert it to Kenyan shillings you are making more than your friends who are doctors in Kenya.

But the job isn’t as rosy as it seemed. You can’t count American money, so the cash register is not an option. And your boss – the 17-year-old American kid – thinks just because you speak with an accent you are a moron. He makes you the official dishwasher.

One day, during the busy lunch hour, your boss sends you to get him a spatula. You have no idea what that is, but you can’t ask because you have been in this country for two years, remember?

You stand there scanning the room to see if anything is labeled “Spatula.” Nothing! You decide to wash pots so your boss doesn’t find you idle. A minute later he runs to the room angry and says, “I sent you a spatula.” He grabs the flat spoon from the wall where it had been hanging all the time.

After lunch, your boss calls you to tell you that he is letting you go for not being able to follow even the simplest instructions.

Your next job is a security guard. But once you put on the uniform, you start acting like the Kenyan police, asking Americans for bribes. You get fired.

Over the years you scrub toilets, mop floors, deliver pizza, drive taxis and wash dishes – again! But it is OK because you are going to college.

You graduate with honors and just when you think you’ll never wash another plate or scrub another toilet, you marry an American woman.

Edwin, wash the plates. Edwin, the toilet is dirty. Edwin, walk the dog. Edwin, change the baby.

Change the baby? That’s where you draw the line. Your are an African man and like your father you don’t want to touch any baby that isn’t old enough to change itself.

You learn very quickly that unlike back in Kenya – Sweet Home of Obama – you can not hit your wife.

The marriage is over and the American woman keeps the house the education you washed toilets for bought you.

Your parents in Africa receive the news and call you. Not to console you but to tell you that they had been right. You should have married an African woman.

You pack the little you have and head home. Not to stay, but to get a good African woman.

You get to the village and your family already has someone waiting for you. In fact, your parents have already moved her into the little house you built before you married the woman now living in your American house with her new husband.

The woman your parents have picked is not quite your type but you don’t want to disappoint them again. And she is a good cook. And she washes dishes. And when your brother’s kid wets his pants, she rushes quickly and changes him.

“This is the kind of woman I want.”

You bring her to America.

You don’t want your wife to work. You want her to stay home, cook, do dishes and clean the house. But you have cable TV so she watches Oprah and Dr. Phil and some show called The View.

You come home one night and the house is a mess. There is no food. She did not do your laundry.

“Get up right now and fix me meal,” you yell, almost as loud as your father did when your mother didn’t wash his clothes.

But unlike your mother, this good African woman ignores you. You threaten to yank her out of the couch but she replies:

“Nigga, Please! We are in America. I know my rights. I will divorce you and take the house.”

©2009 Edwin O. Okong’o. Republishing of copyrighted material without the owner’s consent is unlawful. If you laughed and would like to book “Obama’s Cousin” for your event please contact okongo[at]okongospolicy.com.

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