Just like most of us, US President Barack Obama has gone through a lot. In his book "Dreams From My Father" Barack shared his experience during his 1988 visit to Kenya, when he was only 28-years old and no one knew him, except his family members.

When Obama arrived at JKIA, he lost his luggage and no one was ready to help him recover it.

"...The last of the other passengers on my flight had left the terminal. I asked the guard if any more bags were coming. He shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t think so,” he said, “but if you will just wait here, I will find someone who can help you.” He disappeared around a narrow corridor, and I stood up to stretch my back. The rush of anticipation had drained away, and I smiled with the memory of the homecoming I had once imagined for myself, clouds lifting, old demons fleeing, the earth trembling as ancestors rose up in celebration. Instead I felt tired and abandoned."

Just like many Kenyans do when they see white people, a Nairobi hawker hiked the prices of his items after seeing Obama. Fortunately, Obama was with his sister who knew the trick.

“Come, mister,” the young man who was minding the stall said to me. “A beautiful necklace for your wife.” “This is my sister.” “She is a very beautiful sister. Come, this is nice for her.” “How much?” “Only five hundred shillings. Beautiful.” Auma frowned and said something to the man in Swahili. “He’s giving you the wazungu price,” she explained. “The white man’s price.” The young man smiled. “I’m very sorry, sister,” he said. “For a Kenyan, the price is three hundred only.”

During his first visit, Obama and his cousin visited a Nairobi club where a fight ensued and as usual with many clubs, a bottle was thrown. Obama wanted to find out what was happening, but his cousin Roy pulled him back.

"Before I could finish, we heard a bottle crash to the floor behind us. I spun around to see two men at the far side of the courtyard pushing another, smaller, man down onto the ground. With one hand, the man on the ground appeared to be covering a cut on his head; with his free arm he was trying to shield himself from the swings of a billy club. I took a step forward, but Roy pulled me back. “Mind your own business, brother,” he whispered. “But-” “They may be police. I tell you, Barack, you don’t know what it’s like to spend a night in a Nairobi jail.”

Even if the second generation liquor was still legal, I don't think Obama would ever want to taste the local brewed liquor. He says that he felt his chest explode after taking a sip of the drink.

They led us to a wooden table set with an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid and three glasses. The whitehaired man held up the bottle, then carefully poured what looked like a couple of shots into each glass. “This is better than whiskey, Barry,” Billy said as he lifted his glass. “It makes a man very potent.” He threw the drink down his throat, and Roy and I followed suit. I felt my chest explode, raining down shrapnel into my stomach. The glasses were refilled, but Sayid took a pass, so the short man held the extra drink in front of my eyes, his face distorted through the glass. “More?” “Not right now,” I said, suppressing a cough. “Thanks.”

The US president has evidently had his fair share of ups and downs, so if you thought all has been rosy for him, get yourself a copy of the book and run through his experiences.