‘Move to Cairo,’ Nabilah had suggested. ‘Being away from the misery and backwardness would be better for us.’
But this misery was
his
misery, and this backwardness his duty. She had no idea, nor would she be interested in the fact that he sat nearly every day on one committee or the other: he was on a committee to build the first football stadium in Umdurman, on another to build a charitable hospital and on the board of trustees for the premier woman’s college, established by Sheikh Babiker Badri. He did not find these positions tedious, or a waste of his time. On the contrary, they filled him with the satisfaction that he was contributing to his country’s progress.
A more intimate gratification was the personal petitions he received, and on which he threw his energy and utilised his connections to carry out. These days it was Nur’s progress as a poet that was bringing in the requests. Mahmoud regarded Nur’s
poetry as a hobby, simply because it did not generate any significant income. He had opposed the early public broadcast of
Travel is the Cause
because he found it embarrassing that his son, who carried his name, should make such a gratuitous exposure of his tragedy. In addition, Mahmoud shared his generation’s contempt for popular music and viewed it with suspicion, disdaining the milieu of musicians, dancers and singers whom he and the rest of his class associated with debauchery and loose morals.
‘But let the poor boy comfort and occupy himself,’ his friends had advised him.
And with time, Mahmoud’s reservations thawed. He still regarded Nur’s lyrics as silly jingles, but he smiled when his friends and acquaintances mentioned that they had heard Nur’s songs on the radio. It was clear, too, that the boy’s spirits were lifted with this new pursuit. And anything was welcome as long as it kept the wretched boy amused and out of the pit of despair. It became Mahmoud’s duty to help those who helped his son (after, of course, checking up on their morals and reputation). Hamza Al-Naggar’s eldest brother was now a new accountant in the Abuzeid office, and today Mahmoud would talk to Nigel Harrison about employment prospects for Hamza’s younger brother at Barclays Bank. Letters of recommendation written by Mahmoud had helped secure a position for the father of one of Nur’s new poet friends, and for Hamza’s accordion player.
And then, of course, there was young Zaki, Nur’s right arm, whose further education Mahmoud would foster and finance. As for Ustaz Badr, whose case Nur kept putting forward despite the episode of the robbery, Mahmoud was finally going to lease him a small flat with a nominal rent. Yes, the new building was finally up, the first tall building in downtown Khartoum. Mahmoud felt a surge of pride. There was even a photograph of it in a new monogram about Sudan published by Her Majesty’s Stationery Office in London. It was good to build something
that was strong and tangible, something that would last. It was an achievement to be proud of. And he would be generous, yes, he would. Let Ustaz Badr have one of the flats. Not every transaction must bring in a profit.
‘Thank you Father,’ Nur would say, and that was what Mahmoud wanted most of all, that smile and the shining eyes.
He checked his watch and found that he still had time to walk over to Waheeba’s hoash and have his coffee. He found Fatma sitting with her aunt while Nur was indoors being given his morning bath.
‘He was up late last night,’ Waheeba explained. ‘He had about thirty guests! Till past midnight they stayed with him. I sent out the dinner and fell asleep.’
‘Yesterday’s was such a jubilant gathering,’ said Fatma. ‘Patriotic poems and songs so loud that total strangers walked in from the alley!’
‘I don’t understand why they’re celebrating now, when the English are staying on another three years.’ Waheeba shifted on her bed.
Mahmoud smiled. ‘It’s a transition period. Change can’t happen overnight.’
‘We’ve won self-determination,’ explained Fatma to her mother-in-law, ‘much earlier than anyone ever expected.’
Batool placed the tray with the jabana, cup and a glass of water on a small table in front of him.
‘You are always here,’ Mahmoud joked with her. ‘Don’t you ever go to your husband?’
‘I’m staying here, Uncle, until after the wedding.’ She smiled as she poured out the coffee.
‘Of course – we can’t do without her these days,’ murmured Waheeba.
‘We are very busy,’ Fatma reiterated.
She looked happier than she had for a long time. Mahmoud knew that Nassir was not the best of husbands and that Fatma’s patience was often strained. However, Soraya’s upcoming
wedding seemed to have plunged her into an array of pleasurable preparations and responsibilities and all her maternal feelings for her younger sister were now concentrated on the details and success of the next few weeks.
‘Our bride,’ she now said, ‘wants to do something new, something extra and special.’
Mahmoud smiled. Soraya was now reverentially referred to as ‘the bride’ or ‘our bride’. She was secluded, so that the sun would not darken her skin, and she was fed on copious amounts of milk and honey to fatten her up.
Fatma continued, ‘She wants, on one of the wedding evenings, to wear a white dress like brides do in Egypt.’
Waheeba grunted. ‘Oh, these new-fangled ideas!’
‘Just for one day . . .’ Fatma squeezed her mother-in-law’s arm. It was obvious she was in favour of this idea herself. ‘Soraya would wear a European bridal dress and her bridegroom would wear a dinner suit – a white one, with a bow tie. And she would have bridesmaids, little girls Zeinab’s age, all wearing the same dress and walking in front of her in a procession, holding candles. And, Uncle, this is what I wanted to ask you for: could we, please, have a belly dancer from Cairo?’
Mahmoud nearly choked on his coffee. The aspirations these young people had!
‘You want me to import a belly dancer for one wedding? Certainly not! It would be too extravagant.’
‘Please, Uncle?’
He shook his head. ‘There are Egyptian dancing troops here in Sudan. We can hire them. I approve of the idea of the European clothes – and I was thinking of a European evening when I would invite my Egyptian and English acquaintances. I would have a brass band in the garden and a special menu.’
While they talked over the details, he finished his coffee. Fatma was bright with ideas, Waheeba vocal with her experience and Batool an avid listener. But when Nur was carried out into the hoash, they immediately changed the subject.
*
From the roof, Mahmoud and the Harrisons watched the Great Square fill up. The banners of the political parties were raised high, and tents of different colours gave the square a festive look. But before the speeches, the focus was on the bulls that were being slaughtered for the poor. The slaughter itself proceeded smoothly, but there was a scuffle when it came to distributing the meat. A fight broke out, the women even more strident and determined than the men, and a jumble of skinny arms and colourful to bes in disarray.
‘Look at that boy!’ cried Sue. ‘He got off with the head!’
Sure enough, they could see him on his bicycle, with the head of a bull balanced on his own head. Blood dripped onto his smiling face and sweaty neck while he peddled off in haste. A lorry now drove onto the square, carrying loaves of bread. The driver climbed up on top and began tossing off the loaves in every direction and this caused another scramble, but the bread was more plentiful than the meat and the crowd was less frantic.
Every political party was granted its own entrance and they marched in, carrying their flags and chanting their particular slogans and anthems. The speeches followed, one after the other, while Mahmoud and his guests had brunch. There was on offer fried eggs and ful, a variety of cheeses, sausages and fried liver, and a selection of pastries and fresh grapefruit juice. ‘Long Live the Free Sudan!’ was followed by ululations and the beat of drums. It was only when the scheduled march through the town started that the roof became quiet and the birds in the garden could be heard again.
‘The situation is still confusing,’ said Nigel Harrison, sipping his tea. ‘The police, the administration and the SDF are up for Sudanisation, but the British officials in the technical departments are to be held. Yet how will they be able to do their work when all the standards decline.’ He presented this as a statement rather than a question.
‘They will decline,’ Mahmoud leaned forward, ‘simply because all this is happening too soon and too fast. Do you think the technicians will voluntarily leave?’
‘The advice they are hearing is “wait and see”. It all depends on whether their existing contracts are legally abrogated or not by “change of master”. And again, this is up in the air while the politicians negotiate and negotiate.’ There was impatience in his voice, enough for Mahmoud to try and sooth him.
‘But you are a private employee Mr Harrison. You need not have these concerns.’
Nigel Harrison crossed his legs.
‘It’s only a matter of time before the demand for Sudanisation spreads to the private sector.’
Sue spoke for the first time.
‘If we leave soon, we can start off somewhere else and save time. We don’t have to go home – it would be wonderful to move to Nigeria or Kenya.’ She sounded anxious for a change, her eyes on her husband’s face.
It must be unsettling, Mahmoud thought, to feel that those below you are surging upwards, crowding you out, waiting and wanting you to leave so that they could pounce and take your place. ‘You will be sorely missed if you do go,’ he said.
‘And we will miss Khartoum too and all our good friends,’ said Sue.
‘I don’t think a move is imminent, dear,’ said her husband. ‘Not for six months at least.’
‘Excellent!’ Mahmoud beamed. ‘My niece’s wedding is in a few weeks’ time and you must promise to attend.’
He walked the Harrisons down the stairs and through his empty home, across the terrace, down the garden path, and to the front gate. He basked in their expressions of thanks, their appreciation for the wonderful morning they’d had. He remained standing until they got into their Ford Anglia and drove off. Their admiration for the saraya was gratifying, and he now looked
forward to preparing the garden as a venue for Soraya’s wedding; especially that European evening when the bride and groom would dress in white. Mahmoud visualised the coloured lights against the bougainvillea and oleander plants, the Sudan Defence Force band in their white uniform playing European music. He would order a banquet with cold meats, salads and fruit. The road would be crowded with the cars of his guests; the red Rolls Royce of Sudan’s last Governor-General parked next to the green Cadillac of the prominent Sudanese leader, Sayyid Siddiq. It was high time to start initiating a good relationship with those most likely to form the first national government.
When Nabilah first arrived in Cairo, she was triumphant. Empowered that at last she possessed something tangible and solid against Mahmoud: the irrevocable injury Waheeba had inflicted on Ferial, and his lame response. This was something she could brandish in front of her mother’s face, to raise her indignation and rally her support.
‘Look, Mama,’ she said, swiping down Ferial’s underpants to the utmost confusion and bewilderment of the child. ‘Look what marrying me off to this retarded Sudanese has done to my daughter!’
Qadriyyah was taken aback. She adjusted her granddaughter’s clothes and kissed her cheek several times while holding her in her lap. She said nothing. The roots of her hair were white and she looked run down from staying up late, nursing her husband.
‘I am not going back there,’ challenged Nabilah.
She felt the change around her; the parquet floor, the smell of polish and the Louis XIV furniture, the crowd of ornaments on the tall chest of drawers.
This
was home; this was Cairo. Outside, the city swirled and she wanted to step into that energy. She wanted to go and come and be part of it. Activity not indolence, civilization!
‘He will come after you.’ Qadriyyah rested her cheek on Ferial’s hair. The girl sat rigid in her arms, alert at the mention of her father. ‘He will beg your pardon and you must set conditions for your return. Ask him for a villa in Khartoum, demand—’
‘No,’ Nabilah interrupted her. ‘No. The only thing I want from him is a divorce. I am not going back there. He did nothing,
absolutely nothing to Waheeba. I wanted him to divorce her and kick her out of the saraya. I wanted her to be completely disgraced . . . then I might have been willing to receive an apology from her. I would have listened to her – but only if she completely abased herself in front of me. But Mama, she had no regrets at all! Instead she circulated all these rumours about how the Egyptian nurse I recommended for Nur turned out to be a thief! On purpose, to taunt me.’ Nabilah’s voice turned to a screech. ‘As if it was my fault that he stole her gold!’
‘That is embarrassing, Nabilah. To recommend a servant and then be let down like that! But you must think of your husband, child. Forget Waheeba. Fight with her or don’t fight with her – but don’t lose your husband.’
Nabilah shook her head. ‘He didn’t stand by me. He didn’t divorce her as I told him to.’
Qadriyyah sighed and gently pushed Ferial off her lap.
‘Let’s not do anything rash. You need to calm down. Your nerves are on edge now. And my hands are full. Your stepfather is not himself at all. I am truly anxious about him.’
Nabilah cried out, ‘It’s always Uncle Mohsin this, Uncle Mohsin that! Why does he always have to come first? You always make me feel that I am unimportant, that I am unwanted!’
‘Shush,’ said her mother, standing up. She was firm again, regaining her authority. ‘I have enough burdens without you adding to them. You need to rest after your journey and your ordeal. Take a tranquillizer and go to sleep. We can talk more in the days to come.’
But before they had time to talk again, death intervened. Mohsin had a heart attack in the middle of the afternoon and by evening mother and daughter were in mourning, wearing black and receiving visitors in their sitting room.