The scenario: BHO Sr. wrote home to Kenya to say that he’d married “Anna Toot”. That’s ridiculous when you consider the obot explanation: Toot/Tut is Hawaiian for grandmother—except it isn’t. But even if it were, when he married Anna, Madelyn wasn’t yet a grandmother, nor was Anna, so why would anybody call either of them Toot (or Tut)?
They knew they had a problem with the name Anna Toot, and that problem was that someone from the Clan would remember the name. The kenyan wrote letters home, and Onynago, who was the only one who could read, read them out to the members of the family. While Zeituni was still a young girl, she recalls the letter he wrote to tell his father that he had a son, and that's why she was able to say, 'how dare you say say the boy wasn't born in the US of A'? (We just haven't been able to get it across who that son was. It wasn't zero. That son appears to have been the dark boy the kenyan took back to Kenya with him. The boy that was the subject of the 'adoption memo' - the child Mary babysat in January 1961.)
It was an oral culture, they were all taught to remember what they heard, word for word. It was a tradition which could not be ignored. The name Anna Toot or something similar was out there, and had to be written into the story...and thus, this is what you read in 'Dreams':
EXCERPT:
“Well, this particular time they arrived in one piece, and they got out and stood at the railing to admire the view. And Barack, he was puffing away on this pipe that I’d given him for his birthday, pointing out all the sights with the stem, like a sea captain-” “Your father was really proud of this pipe,” my mother interrupts again. “He’d smoke it all night while he studied, and sometimes-”
“Look, Ann, do you want to tell the story or are you going to let me finish?” “Sorry, Dad. Go ahead.” “Anyway, this poor fella-he was another African student, wasn’t he? Fresh off the boat. This poor kid must’ve been impressed with the way Barack was holding forth with this pipe, ’cause he asked if he could give it a try. Your dad thought about it for a minute, and finally agreed, and as soon as the fella took his first puff, he started coughing up a fit. Coughed so hard that the pipe slipped out of his hand and dropped over the railing, a hundred feet down the face of the cliff.” Gramps stops to take another nip from his flask before continuing. “Well, now, your dad was gracious enough to wait until his friend stopped coughing before he told him to climb over the railing and bring the pipe back. The man took one peek down this ninety-degree incline and told Barack that he’d buy him a replacement-” “Quite sensibly,” Toot says from the kitchen. (We call my grandmother Tutu, Toot for short; it means “grandparent” in Hawaiian, for she decided on the day I was born that she was still too young to be called Granny.) Gramps scowls but decides to ignore her.
“-but Barack was adamant about getting his pipe back, because it was a gift and couldn’t be replaced. So the fella took another look, and shook his head again, and that’s when your dad picked him clear off the ground and started dangling him over the railing!” Gramps lets out a hoot and gives his knee a jovial slap. As he laughs, I imagine myself looking up at my father, dark against the brilliant sun, the transgressor’s arms flailing about as he’s held aloft. A fearsome vision of justice. “He wasn’t really holding him over the railing, Dad,” my mother says, looking to me with concern, but Gramps takes another sip of whiskey and plows forward. “At this point, other people were starting to stare, and your mother was begging Barack to stop. I guess Barack’s friend was just holding his breath and saying his prayers. Anyway, after a couple of minutes, your dad set the man back down on his feet, patted him on the back, and suggested, calm as you please, that they all go find themselves a beer. And don’t you know, that’s how your dad acted for the rest of the tour-like nothing happened. Of course, your mother was still pretty upset when they got home. In fact, she was barely talking to your dad. Barack wasn’t helping matters any, either, ’cause when your mother tried to tell us what had happened he just shook his head and started to laugh.
‘Relax, Anna,’ he said to her-your dad had this deep baritone, see, and this British accent.” My grandfather tucks his chin into his neck at this point, to capture the full effect. “ ‘Relax, Anna,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to teach the chap a lesson about the proper care of other people’s property!’ ”
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The entire story is not worth the telling, it's boring, it's nothing but the author's contrivance to introduce the names ANN, ANNA and TOOT into your head. I've never understood why nobody saw through that.
Traces of Anna remain. No matter how often they tried to turn her into Stanley Ann Dunham. And traces of Anna's child also remain...he's probably the Barack Hussein Obama 11 that you find listed on the undated Hawaii birth Index. IMO.