<img alt="" src="/imagedata/2009/jan/obama12.jpg" align="right" border="1" />Eighteen years ago on a wet January evening in Washington Heights in Manhattan, my uncle, his African American wife and I were sitting in an Irish pub. It was a place my aunt favoured and so we were there celebrating some workday triumph in her life. As we talked, I said only half in jest to my aunt, "So when are you going to have a woman president?" My aunt took a deep sip of her wine and retorted, "I would think we need to have a Black President first." From what had been a sanitised monotone evening, striations of colour made its presence. For the first time my aunt talked of the time when fresh out of NAFT she was hired as a trainee designer by a fashion wear company not exactly in the southern USA, but south enough to be asked to use the service entrance because they thought she was one of the coloured housekeeping staff. The ebullient woman she is otherwise, seemed cowed down in memory of the indignity of that moment when everything she had accomplished was negated by the sheer colour of her skin. And it was colour that had urged her and my uncle to buy a brownstone in the heart of Harlem. It was her edifice to having made it in a world where being White or Black so determined where you stood. For the colour of Harlem is singularly Black. Ranging from a light mocha to a deep pecan to a glistening midnight blue. In November 2008, history acquired a new dimension with Barack Hussein Obama being elected as America's first African-American President. And as I watched President Obama making his victory speech, it took me back to that time when the idea of an African-American President still seemed a rather shaky proposition. Alex Haley's Roots familiarised us with the multi-generational journey of a slave to a college professor. For both Toni Morrison and Alice Walker, the colour black is the temple of their familiars. But perhaps the most singular Black voice for me has been Langston Hughes the Harlem Shakespeare as he was called. My uncle and aunt sold their brownstone when my aunt's knees gave way. But for a long period it was a dream lived. That beautiful 100-year old brownstone house so lovingly restored by my uncle and aunt. Here my African-American aunt fried chicken, baked the thanksgiving turkey, barbecued spareribs and poured wine with a free hand. The attic, five floors high was a studio where my uncle painted when he was not gazing at the Manhattan skyline. Parquet floors, giant fireplaces, tiffany windows, this house was almost the architectural version of the Afro-American dream as sung by Langston Hughes in 1925 and essence of what President Obama spoke at Grant Park: I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed I, too, am America .

Eighteen years ago on a wet January evening in Washington Heights in Manhattan, my uncle, his African American wife and I were sitting in an Irish pub

I, too, am America

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I, too, am America

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