Lyrics Alley (18 page)

‘There is no strength or will, except from Allah. An excellent student, one of my best.’

‘Naturally, rumours are circulating,’ said Victor in his soft voice. ‘The business community of Khartoum and the hoashs of
Umdurman are making up their own stories. They say the boy picked a fight with a group of drunken English soldiers and they beat him senseless and threw him in the sea.’

‘Well, the English broke their promise that the troops would withdraw once the war was over,’ said Badr. ‘No wonder no one wants to credit them for saving the boy.’

‘Another rumour,’ said Victor, ‘is that his English school was at fault. He dived in the school’s swimming pool and hit his head against the side. They say he became an imbecile and his father whisked him away to London to hide him in an asylum . . .’

Even the rich were vulnerable to tragedy. This observation satisfied Badr; it was definitive and interesting. He listened as Victor became more animated and less guarded. He concluded with a heated whisper.

‘The boy is as good as finished!’

‘Poor child,’ Badr mourned. ‘To be the victim of such an accident! May the Lord protect us all.’

‘Between you and me, I wish him death. Tell me, what value does life have, when one is completely helpless and dependent on others? In a case like this, death is a mercy and a dignity.’

Victor didn’t wait for a response, but looked away, back at the shelves. Badr reached out for a box of Turkish Delights, a treat for Hanniyah. It was not cheap, not cheap at all. On the way out he stopped in front of the sacks of loose sweets. A quarter of a kilo of nougats to delight the children, so that they would hug him and cover him with spontaneous kisses, blurting out ‘thank you’ from the bottom of their hearts, not out of duty or habit.

He presented the sweets after they had broken their fast and eaten a meal of lentils and rice, radishes and beetroot, dried wheat and milk. The moon shone down on them and they didn’t need a lantern. Badr placed the box on the low table and the children reached out for a piece. Because his father showed no interest, Badr placed a piece in the old man’s right hand and
pushed it up to his mouth. Toothless gums mashed the sweet softness.

‘You liked it, Uncle Hajj?’ smiled Hanniyah, licking her own lips. ‘Have another piece.’

She stood up and leaned to offer him the box. Her shape was like that of a goose; the large, taut belly, the thin neck and arch in her back. In her first pregnancy, when she was carrying Osama, her huge size had alarmed Badr. With each successive pregnancy, however, his wariness had abated and now he was amused and titillated by her fullness. She was massive, and yet, at the end, a very tiny baby would emerge.

She continued, her voice gentle and coaxing, ‘Have another sweet, Uncle Hajj. You haven’t been eating well. Today you’ve hardly eaten anything. Have a piece.’

To everyone’s surprise, the old man took the whole box and put it in his lap. He started to eat from it. One piece of Turkish Delight after the other, shoved into a mouth half-full; the flabby lips drooling, the sagging cheeks bulging and squeezing. His fingers and face were soon covered with white smudges of sugar. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, and soon his lap was covered with half-chewed bits that looked pale and disgusting. The children stared at the diminishing sweets with dismay. Bilal put his thumb in his mouth and sat back on his heels away from the table. Radwan started to cry. Osama looked up at Badr, pleading silently for him to act, waiting for him to act. Badr reached out to take the box from his father. But the old man held on to it with all his strength. His fingernails were cracked with dust and filth and his eyes took a cunning look.

‘Thief,’ he hissed. ‘Get away from me, you son of a dog. You want to take what’s mine? I won’t let you, you son of a bitch!’

It was not the first time he had cursed Badr in front of the children. A man who had been fasting all day should not break his fast with anger, but anger flushed through Badr, the pure sense of injustice. He could not afford a whole box of Turkish Delights for his father and another for his children. He just could
not afford it. And why should his children be deprived, eyeing the sweets and not being able to eat them? The look in their eyes! He grabbed the box and pulled. His father’s body was jerked forward with the box and he lost his balance and fell over, collapsing on the floor and hitting his head on the edge of the table. Hanniyah cried out and Osama jumped to his feet, but Badr didn’t pull his father off the floor, didn’t respond to his cry of pain. Instead, he carried what was left of the Turkish Delight and hid it in the bedroom cupboard. He heard himself breathing out, in the height of tension, in the grip of anger, disgusted with his own impatience.

He left the house and walked in the darkness. The streets were empty because people were in their houses, still finishing off their iftar. He felt thirsty and stopped at a zeer to have a drink. He lit a cigarette, appreciated the rush of nicotine, and continued to walk. Life was better during the school year. He was at work all day and tutoring in the evening – this reduced his contact with his father. But his father had deteriorated, these past few months. There was no doubt about that. He was becoming more senile and troublesome and it was becoming difficult to keep him clothed, clean and well fed. It took more effort and vigilance to keep him from wandering out of the house and getting lost in the city. Perhaps if they were home in Kafr-el-Dawar it would have been easier. Village life would have been more accommodating, and his father would have been surrounded by faces and places he had known all his life. Badr’s mind darkened with foreboding, with a sense of being compressed. He walked to get away, to clear his mind, to regain his peace and balance. For as long as he could remember, he had wanted to be a model son, a model father, exemplary in the eyes of his sons. Educate by example. Let them imitate in order to learn. His behaviour today was ignoble and his boys had witnessed it all.

He found himself in front of the Farouk Mosque. The promise that the refurbishment would be complete in time for Ramadan
had not been fulfilled and worshippers were still not allowed inside the building, which was bereft of electricity and flooring. The men sat on their rugs in the gardens and the spacious courtyards, drinking cardamom tea and chatting while waiting for the isha prayer. Badr sat by himself under a lubukh tree. A breeze blew the branches and he heard, through his anger, the movement of the leaves and the sounds of the night birds. The mosque was dark in front of him and its doors were closed. It was an old mosque, neglected by the Mahdi when he set up his court in Umdurman. Only a few years ago had interest in the mosque been revived and the refurbishment project started. Sitting staring at the building, Badr felt that he was shut out and excluded. It was as if he and the men around him were deprived, waiting for permission to go in and worship.

It was a quick decision. He strode to the Central Station and boarded the tram for Umdurman. The tram ambled towards the river and began crossing the White Nile Bridge. On Badr’s right was the moonlit water, its depths dark, and its surface light blue and shimmering yellow. The breeze raised the smell of fish and pasture. Badr started to feel better. The movement of the tram, the distance he was covering, and the clear night air all reassured him. He could see the farms on the shores and the heavy, pulsing Nile heading north to Egypt. Above him were the metal arches of the bridge, its design of connecting semi-circles as simple as a drawing made by a child. There had been many humiliations in his life; his father’s condition would not be the first or the last. Badr had always been the son with aspirations, because he could hold a book in his hand and memorise forty hadiths, because he could deliver a Friday sermon and teach Arabic poetics. The train reached the shores of Umdurman and, soon after Al-Mouradah, rose the Abuzeid saraya. Even though the family was away, the lights over the gates and a few lamps in the garden were switched on. The mansion itself was in grey darkness, the moon illuminating the
wide balcony, silver mixing with the beige of the pillars, arches and arabesque design.

Badr walked the alleys of Wad Nubawi, heading towards the mosque. It was in a compound, and to one side was the tomb of Sheikh Gharieballah, while the spacious courtyard in the middle was covered in sand. They were already praying when he joined in. He stood in the last row, which, due to the congestion, was outside the mosque. His feet on coarse sand and above him the benign sky, he entered the long, drawn-out prayers of taraweeh. Keeping the Ramadan nights alive, standing up, reciting, and moving down, it felt like a journey with its own hardships and elation; its anxieties and weakness, its greed for God’s mercy, its yearning for blessings, its departure point and graceful arrival. There were breaks between every four rakahs, when the men would drink water, renew their wudu or wander off?. Most of them, though, sat in rows chanting
La illaha illa Allah
. The chorus of the chant was random at first, but quickly it settled into one rhythm, one movement with the beat. As Badr said the words, he sensed a speeding up. Some men, in their white jellabiyas, stood swaying backwards and forwards; the words became more emphatic, the definite no, starting with no, and ending with the grandest word, Allah. No god except Allah, no god other than Allah. And again the
La
drawn out, the relief of it, setting out by a pushing away and then moving in to the destination, Allah, and needing to repeat it over again. Repeat it until it was time to stand and pray again.

Another break and three munshideen started to recite Sufi poetry. Through the Sudanese accent, Badr recognised the words of his compatriot Umar Ibn al-Farid.

Compared to my dawn,
the long day’s light is like a flash;
next to my drinking place,
the wide ocean is a drop.

Didn’t he know all this? In a day of suffering in the world, an hour was nothing in the long run. Must he need reminding, time and time again? Like the Sudanese sun drying wet cotton, bleaching it with its rays, he felt his sluggish mood evaporating, his irritation and anger giving way to lightness. He would go home now refreshed, his energy replenished, his armour strengthened. After the taraweeh, the men ate their dinner. Large basins appeared and were placed on the sand. Ten to fifteen men squatted around each one, their arms stretched out, grabbing handfuls of kisra soaked in a watery stew. In minutes, the basins were wiped clean and dripping fingers were sucked and licked. Hanniyah cooked food that was more appetising and nutritious, but Badr felt satiated after this meal, in this company. It was time to head home, body and spirit bolstered. In a few hours it would be dawn and time to fast again.

His father was standing by the door – another of his sleepless nights, his delusions and restless wanderings. There was a lump on his forehead, a swollen, aggrieved wedge of redness. It hurt Badr, and he hugged his father, determined to be good, determined to be patient, to tolerate every insult and withstand every humiliation. His father looked agitated and stern.

‘Badr,’ he said and it was a pleasure that he remembered his name, that he got it right this time. ‘Son, I have something very serious to tell you.’

Badr smiled in the darkness. Yes, he must humour and love him, be generous with his mercy and time.

‘Tell me, Father.’

‘This is bad, something very bad.’ His hands were scrunched into fists and he banged his knees, which were slightly bent, as if he wanted to sit down and was tired of standing up. He looked Badr in the eyes and whispered with anguish and disbelief. ‘Today something abominable happened in this house. Your wife turned out to be a bad woman, Badr. She deceived you Badr. Yes, she did. Your wife is a whore!’

The word pierced through the armour he had built up, an odious word that compressed his lungs and turned his insides cold. He gasped from the shock, even though he knew that what he was hearing wasn’t true. He knew his father’s mind had deteriorated, but a part of him bore the brunt of the accusation as if it were true or could be, in a twisted dream-state, Fate’s fiercest blow.

He steeled himself to be calm, to sound normal.

‘Don’t upset yourself, Father.’ He put his hand on his elbow to lead him back into the house. ‘I will deal with this. I will make things right again.’

‘She brought a man into the house. Look for yourself – he is here.’

They were in the hoash now. In the moonlight, Badr could see the children sprawled asleep, each two sharing a bed. Hanniyah was nowhere to be seen. From the shadows near the wall, something moved, and, to Badr’s horror, the shape of a man rose. Badr lunged at him, crying out. He punched him with all his strength. There was a roar in his ears now. And nothing existed but the power of anger and the need to destroy. The man protested, but Badr couldn’t hear. His fingers encircled the stranger’s throat.

‘Cousin, it’s me it’s me. What’s got into you?’ Shukry struggled away from his grasp.

Badr’s hands fell down to his sides. He could see now, Shukry’s long face, even his protruding Adam’s apple. ‘What are you doing back here?’

‘I came by train. We started out at midday but there was a technical problem and we were delayed for hours.’

Badr’s father was by his side.

‘Get out of here, you thief!’

‘It’s your nephew, Father. Shukry. He is not a stranger. He is our relative. Remember,’ Badr swallowed and caught his breath. ‘Remember, Shukry came from Egypt looking for a job and he was staying with us until he went to Gezira.’

Shukry took his uncle’s hand.

‘I am sorry I disturbed you so late at night.’

There was no response except for a bewildered, vacant stare. He stooped even more than usual and his face looked drained.

‘Father, come and get some rest.’ Badr led him to one of the beds and helped him to lie down. He sat next to him.

Shukry pushed away Radwan’s legs and made room for himself to sit on the opposite bed. The gesture irritated Badr. Why should this unwanted guest disturb his little boy’s sleep?