المفتري July 3, 2009

يفرض الرجال الخداع على النساء ويعاقبوهن لكونهن قد خدعن

ويدفعوا بهن إلى الحضيض ثم يعاقبوهن بسبب هذا السقوط المزري

نوال السعداوي

خالد التني

الخرطوم

” هناك حالات كثيرة مثل هذه ” قال ذلك بغيظ وهو يطلق نفثة الدخان من أنبوب الشيشة “… طوال هذه السنوات ظللت أهاجم من قبل أقربائي كي اتخذ لي زوجة سودانية الآن سقطت كل نصائحهم أرضاً كمثل ما يسقط على الأرض السعوط من فم قذر. كنت سعيداً في روسيا من قبل ….. هل تعلم أنني كنت الأول في حياتها وهل تعلم ماذا يعني أن تكون الأول في حياة خواجية ؟ ” ثم أعاد الأنبوب إلى فمه وهو يهز رأسه آخذاً أنفاساً طويلة ثارت وتبددت كفقاقيع.

أجاب قاسم مرتشفاً قهوته التركية ناظراً نحو النيل ” حسناً جداً يا صلاح هذا درس من الله كي تكون حكيماً عند اختيارك في المرة الثالثة“

ذات هذا الموضوع ظل محل التداول بينهما خلال الأيام الثلاثة الماضية ” أكون كاذباً لو قلت أنني لم اصدم, لقد وثقت بها لسنوات لكن هذا ما حدث , في الأسبوع الماضي هاتفني عمي سمير من هيوستن وكان شديد القلق لأن صديق ابنته جاء إلى الأجزخانة حيث يعمل سمير يطلب شراء أقراصاً لمنع الحمل , أهذه هي الحضارة ؟ وأقسم عمي انه عند نهاية العام سيعيد عائلته إلى البلاد , لكن في الحقيقة ما الفائدة ؟ فالنساء هنا لم يعدن كما كن في الماضي , لقد بدأن يقفن علي نواصي الشوارع متسترات خلف العباءات التي كانت في ديننا عنواناً للشرف فأصبحت الآن عدة الرياء , ألم تسمع بالطبيب الذي انتظرته بعيادته فتاة صبرت حتى أكمل عمل يومه ثم طلبت منه ببراة أن يوصلها حتى أقرب محطة للبص , وفي منتصف الطريق انقلبت عليه قائلة له ” اعطني كل ما جنيته اليوم من عملك و إلا سأصرخ الآن واجلب لك الفضيحة وستفقد موقعك وثروتك وأهم من ذلك سمعتك ” وصعق الدكتور ووافق على شروطها ثم انزلها من بعد ذلك عند اقرب نقطة , كذلك سمعت من أصدقاء كثيرين أن البنات صرن يصطففن عند شارع النيل ليلاً وهن على استعداد لابتذال أنفسهن لأجل المال أو حتى في سبيل وجبة بسيطة.

رد قاسم قائلاً ” إنها ليست المرأة الوحيدة في هذه الدنيا يا صلاح , وأنا متأكد من انك بما لك من وجاهة وعلاقات ستجد لك عروساً مناسبة وبسرعة إلى جانب انك لا تزال شاباً يا صديقي ” لكن صلاح أطرق ينظر إلى الحنّة على يديه متمنياً أن لو انمحت كمثل مد قرمزي يحمله على الغيظ.

مدني

” اخلعي هذه الأسورة ! انظري إلى عينيك هل تستطيعين التعرف على نفسك؟ لقد جلبت العار لبيتنا وللمرة الأولى منذ أن تزوجت والدك صار شديد الضعف و عجز عن الذهاب للمسجد لصلاة الجمعة , بأي وجه سيحضرها ؟ أبعتباره أباً ل ………… إنني لا أستطيع لفظها. كنت قد حدثته من قبل أن لو أرسلتها إلى الخرطوم فإنها ستعود مفسدة , لكنه تمسك بأفكاره الحديثة ! لقد عدت ا ليه بشهادة دراسية نعم لكنك أخفيت عنا وظيفتك ! سأبيع كل شيء سأبيع كل هذا ”

قالت ذلك وهي تركل برجلها حقيبة على أرض الحجرة وواصلت ” وسأبيعك أنت إن وجدت أسرةً تريد أن تحتفظ بك كخادمة , لكن كل النسوة اللائي اعرفهن يخفن الله وسيرفضن قبول امرأة مثلك تحت سقوف منازلهن . أو تظنين أنني لم ألاحظ …..طلاءات الأظافر كلها التي جلبتها للمنزل! وهل تعتقدين أنني كنت غبية عندما أحضرت ذلك الثري مدعيّة انه شقيق صديقتك ! لقد كان في الحقيقة قوادك ومن بعد أن اشتراك قذف بك إلى الشارع لأنه اكتشف أنك لا تستحقين أن يحتفظ بك. النسوة كلهن اللائي كن في زيارتي تهامسن عندما كنت اذهب كي احضر لهن شرابا وحلوى , كلهن كن يراقبنني ويدققن في أفعالي كي يعثرن على أثر من دنس …..وكن يصرحن في جلساتهن الخاصة قائلات أن ضرب البنت على فمها يجعلها تترعرع لتصير تماماً مثل أمها…. في عهدنا لم تكن البنات يتزوجن بحثاً عن ثراء أو طلباً للمسرة الشخصية لكن الزواج كان يمثل نصف الدين .أبعد كل تلك النصائح التي بذلتها لك في تلك الليلة من كلمات الأم الغالية لبنتها الوحيدة يوم كانت النسوة يسألن بإلحاح لرؤية صور الزفاف وكن يسألن عن التفاصيل و عن التكلفة وعن أسماء أقارب العريس , كان ذلك حديث مدني … كل ذلك لم يكن كافياً لك فقد كنت تتطلعين دوماً للأحسن ولم يكن هناك شيء ليملأ عينك … لكن الله ملأها الآن بتراب الفضيحة . ماذا سيقول شقيقك عندما يسمع في لندن بالخارج ؟ ألا يسوئه أن ابنه حسام يعيش مع عمة نجسة جديرة بالازدراء.

أغلق الباب بسرعة وصاحت الأم معبرة عن المفاجأة عند دخول اثنين من الجيران للمنزل في حين أن غادة لم تكن قد نهضت بعد من أرض الحجرة منذ أن أعيدت إلى المنزل. قابل أبواها القادمين بأكثر الأصوات مرحاً وفي ابتهاج ودهشة قال القادم لأبيها في الصالون بعناية ” لم يكن هناك دم !”

ولم تستطع الأم التي كانت تسترق السمع الوقوف على رجليها ….وأجاب الأب : ” لم أفهم ” رد الزوج قائلاً وهو يضغط على فكه : ” لم أكن الأول “

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استيقظ صلاح على صوت هاتفه المحمول, فقد كان مستلقياً في الفيلا على السرير ذاته الذي كان مخصصاً كي يتقاسمه مع عروسه , الآن مضى أسبوع منذ ذاك الحين , مد صلاح رجله اليمنى لكنها كانت فاقدة الحس وعاطلة . فقال لنفسه ليس هذا وضع عريس كما أن هذا الذي يفعله بنفسه يضر الصحة. انه يحتاج الخروج للترويح عن نقسه ولربما قاد السيارة إلى شارع النيل كيما يرى بنفسه الفتيات اللائي أشيعت عنهن المطاوعة , وهو يملك المال والوسامة كما أن قدره ليس بأقل من غيره , وبسرعة خلع ملابسه وفتح ماء الدش فوقه . الليلة سيحاول نسيانها

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سألت غادة مرةً عندما كانا منفردين لوحدهما في مطعم القولدن قيت ” كيف كان شكلها؟” اندفع السؤال من فمها كالشهاب يترك وراءه ذيلاً من هدوء قصير العمر . ” كانت حنونة بالنسبة لأجنبي كانت معتادة على غسل أرجلي كل ليلة وحلاقة لحيتي قبل الذهاب للدرس ” تناول رشفة من قارورة السفن أب وواصل الحديث ” تعلمين أنني أول رجل في حياتها ! هل تعلمين ماذا يعني أن تكون الأول في حياة خواجية ؟” ردت معاتبة ” يكفي ذلك هذه أسرار بيت كنت شريكاً فيه من الحرام كشفه بهذا الوضوح ” قال ” أعلم ذلك بالطبع وما كنت لأخبر من أريد الإقتران به بمثل عن هذه الأشياء “

” إذن كيف تنظر إليّ ؟ “

سألت وعلق السؤال على رأسها مثل شبكة من الفضة.

سألها وكانت العربة تتوغل في الشارع المتسخ خلف المشرحة : “هل يمثل الأمر لك شيئاً ؟ “

بكت بقية ذلك اليوم بين يدي نسرين رفيقة غرفتها.

كانت ترى في أحلامها أنها عادت إلى داخلية الجامعة تتبادل الحديث مع نسرين عن صلاح . ” إنه يتفهم تطلعاتي , انه يريد أن ينقذني منها. أعرف أ نها أمي وأن الله سيعاقبني لأني قلت ذلك لكنها تريدني أن أصبح بدينة قبيحة وأن أنجب الأطفال , وهي ترغب في أخذ صوري على تلك الهيئة كي تتمكن من القول لاحقاً ” انظروا إليها كم هي جميلة” بنفس الطريقة التي تقولها عن نفسها . لكني لا أستطيع يا نسرين لا أستطيع أن أعود للحياة معها, ولا يزعجني قط أنه كان متزوجاً من امرأة روسية قبلي, لقد أخبرني عن زواجهما حتى قبل أن اسأله عن ذلك, هذا يدل على أنه يخاف الله “

وقالت نسرين ” لكنه سيقضي بقية حياته الزوجية في المقارنة بينك وبينها ربما لا تتخيلي ذلك ولكنها طريقة الرجال في التفكير ثم أين ستذهبين إذا صحى في يوم من الأيام وقد أصابته نزوة في العودة إليها ؟ إنك لا تستحقين أن تكوني أبداً الخيار الثاني لأي أحد , هذا كل ما أردت قوله ” وتعانقتا ثم فجأة عادت مرة أخرى إلى داخل الفيلا البيضاء حيث منزلهما الجديد فإذا بهما يمشيان حافيان وهو يطري الحنّة على رجليها ثم يذهبان في قبلة طويلة ويقول ” لقد انتظرت طويلاً هذه اللحظة ثم ينقلب الصوت نفسه بعدها مرعداً يقول ” ماذا سأقول لأهلي ؟“

وأفاقت من النوم لاهثة وأمها تقف عند الباب تنظر إليها نظرة شر وتهز رأسها في خيبة أمل ثم تغلق الباب خلفها.

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الطريق مزدحم بالسيارات وكانت أنوار شارع الجامعة ةضيء صفاً من الفتيات وقفن يلوحن عرضاً للسائقين. أوقف صلاح السيارة عند نهاية الطريق وبدا يراقب سيارات تتلوها سيارات رجال مسنين وطلاب جامعات والكل يرخي النوافذ المظللة ثم يسرع مبتعداً مخلفاً ورائه دخان العادم. بدا الأمر وكأنه لعبة سحرية , خمسة منهن اختفين لتبرز فجأةً فتيات أخريات إلى دائرة الضوء . ولأنه لم يكن يميز الوجوه قرر الاقتراب أكثر وعندما تحرك لمح صورة على مرآة السيارة وحين فتح النافذة سأل : ” هل تودين الركوب؟ ” فأجابت ” بالتأكيد ولم لا ؟ ” فسألها بطريقة خرقاء ” ما اسمك ؟ ” فأجابت ثم تساءلت وهي تنظر إليه بجرأة “أميرة وأنت؟” فأجابها كاذباً لكن بثقة ” أنا قاسم ” وسألته وهي تحدق بفضول في الحنّة على يديه “أين عروسك ؟ فأجاب بصعوبة ” ماتت قبل أسبوع ” وأضاف ” إنها الملا ريا” وغمغمت حذرة” أنا آسفة ” فقال مواصلاً بخبث ” ماذا تريدين بالضبط أن تفعلي هذه الليلة ؟” فأجابتأفضل شيء يعرف أي شخص انه يمكن أن يعرضه على امرأة

أدار صلاح جهاز التكييف وقاد العربة في اتجاه منزله وأوقفها باحتراس عند الجهة الخلفية وفتح الباب الخلفي فتقدمت بخطوها للداخل تحت الضوء الساطع للفيلا فبدت فجأة أكثر تألقاً من ذي قبل , فوضع يدها الشاحبة في يده فانثنت أصابعها هينةً في قبضته الخشنة ووضع فمه في فمها وهي ترتعد في النشوة .

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قالت أمها وهي تهز ثوباً منزلياً مهترئاً من ثيابها ” وصلت عمتك داليا في زيارة اذهبي واغسلي وجهك والبسي هذا ” كان الثوب أكبر منها بدرجات لكن غادة عرفت مرامي أمها وهذا درس في انعدام القيمة , وسوف لن تكون لها بعد أشياء جميلة . وسمعت صوت عمتها الغليظ يسأل ” هل اعترفت لك ؟” وأجيبت “لقد اقسمت أنها بريئة في اليوم الذي قدمت فيه لكنها لم تتحدث منذ ذلك الوقت….” قاطعت داليا الحديث قائلة ” ما كل عروس تظهر دماً , هل أخضعت للفحص الطبي ؟” “انها ابنتي وعلى وجهها يظهر أنها تحمل خطيئة سر دفين “

جلست العمة داليا على الاريكة وهي تمرر يدهاعلى شعر حسام وقد مضت أيام منذ أن رأت غادة آخر مرة إبتسامته الجميلة كما لاحظت كذلك أنه يبحث عندها عن شيىء مفقود.

” السلام عليكم” خرجت الكلمات بالكاد من بين شفتيتها ومن حلقها صدر سعال عال وسألت العمة بفضول ” هل أكلت شيئا.ً“

” ما سأقول لأهلي ؟“

وملأت البقع الملونة وجه عمتها المتساءل وقد كان الظلام قد اسكتها مثلما يفعل مفتاح الكهرباء.

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سألها ” هل أنت جائعة؟” وكانت قد ولجت الى غرفة الحمام وأجابت عبر الباب ” نعم” الآن سيخرج بصحبتها الى ( أمواج) ويشترى لها ساندوتشاً من شاورما الدجاج ومن ثم يطلق سراحها …

فتح الباب وخرجت وقد أصلحت حال مكياجها وتساءلت بحذر ” هل أنت مستعد ؟” “نعم فلنذهب ”

كان المطعم مكتظاً ، فأمر بساندويتشين وخرج ليرقب أبخرة المساء المختلطة مع الاصوات المرحة البهيجة المنهمكة في القيل والقال بين الضحك والروع .

وقالت معلقة بغنج “أنت الأول يا قاسم ممن أعرفهم من الذين تبدأ أسمائهم بحرف السين ” وكانت تعني سلسلة مفاتيح السيارة المتدلية وعليها حرف السين وواصلت فض طيات الساندويتش على حجرها وكانه كنز في حين أخذ صلاح قضمة من طعامه وقال لها ” إن حرف السين هو الأول من اسم عروسه المرحومة (سارية) فلتقر روحها في سلام ” ومضت تمضغ في بطء وتفادت النظر اليه . لكنه قال لها” انك لاتبدين ولا تتصرفين أبداً كغانية” وانزلقت الجملة من بين شفتيه بسهولة وقالت متمهلة تحسب كلماتها ” لربما بسبب أنني تعلمت المهنة متأخرة في حياتي ” وسألها دون خجل وبحب استطلاع ” فما الذي دفعك إذن لممارسة هذا النمط من الحياة ؟” فردت بهدوء ” انها بدرجة أكبر مسألة من الذي لا ما الذي ” وقالت بعد أن لعقت اصابعها ومسحتها بعناية بمناديل الورق ” لقد فعلها زوجي …. لقد زرع مرض الايدز في داخلي بعد أن جلبه من إحدى الفتيات التي قابلها عند حانة في أديس أببا , لقد جعلني أهب الحياة في الوقت الذي ألاحظ فيه أنني أفقد حياتي تدريجياً“

أحتبست اللقمة في مؤخرة حلقه وتوقف لحظة يبحث عن أي أثر للخداع في حديثها لكن فجأة لم تعد العيون التي كان يحدق فيها عيون أميرة التي تعرف عليها فقط فبل بضعة ساعات وإنما عيون غادة التي تبعد أميالاً وأميالاً عنه.

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فتحت عيونها على صوت مفتاح يدار بعناية في القفل ثم سمعت صوت حسام المناشد وهو يجثو بجانب جسدها المنهار : “لقد كان لنا درس دين هذا اليوم وعلينا حفظ سورة الهمزة ” “انها السورة رقم ١٠٤ من القرآن وتحذر السورة الانسان من الافتراء على الآخرين ويصل عقاب النار الى قلوب وعقول الذين يرتكبون هذا الفعل ” وسأل حسام وهو يقدم لها المصحف ” الآن هل تساعديني في تسميع السورة ؟” وبدأ في التلاوة بطلاوة :

بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

.١. ويل لكل همزة لمزة

٢. الذي جمع مالاً وعدده

٣. يحسب أن ماله أخلده

٤. كلا لينبذن في الحطمة

٥. وما أدراك ما الحطمة

وقال حسام بنعاس وهو يحك على مؤخرة رأسه ” نسيت الآية التالية“

فجاوبته مساعدة:

٦ نار الله الموقدة.

٧ التي تطّلع على الافئدة.

٨ إنها عليهم مؤصدة.

٩ في عمد ممددة.

وسأل حسام وقد طفرت الدموع من عينيه رغماً عنه.” غادة لماذا تبكين ؟“

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في العام ٢٠٠٤ قدرت وزارة الصحة الاتحادية عدد الاشخاص المصابين بمرض الايدز في السودان  ب

شخص٤١،٠٠٠

هدية لمهدي July 3, 2009

إن يوماً أو ساعةً من الحرية

لتساوي دهراً كاملاً في القيود

جوزيف اديسون

خالد التني

صحى مهدي من نومه على صوت بوق عربة التاكسي المتواصل ، وشعر بغرابة الأمر أن يصل عمه هشام خلال زمن بدا له و كأنه مجرد ثوانٍ قليلة منذ أن فرغ من أداء صلاة الفجر وعاد للنوم مرة أخرى. ونهض حافياً يغالبه النعاس يفرك النوم عن عينيه ذاهباً صوب مدخل منزله، وكان عمه الذي ما يزال وجهه متورماً من النعاس يراقب مهدياََََ وهو يخطو فوق الحصى المتناثر حتى وصل الى باب عربة التاكسي المفتوح.

” السلام عليكم ” وحيا بعضهم بعضا” بانسجام.

” أعط أمك هذه .. ” قالها وهو يمد يده بحزمة من الأوراق النقدية المتسخة.

” قل لها هذا كل ما حصلت عليه البارحة “.

غمغم مهدي بالشكر في حين كان التاكسي يعاند في المغادرة.

وعندما أغلق الباب خلفه سمع صوت تدفق الماء في الحمام.

لقد نهضت زهرة ، أمه ، من نومها.

” ثمانون فقط ” غمغمت زهرة وهي تعد الأوراق المالية للمرة الثانية للتأكد ثم رفعت يديها بالدعاء جهراً بطريقتها الدرامية ” فليضي الله لك دربك يا هشام !”.

وتناولت خمسة جنيهات وضعتها في يد مهدي قائلة ” ماذا كنا سنساوي بدونه ؟ ” أبوك ، رحمة الله عليه لم يترك إلا ما يكفي لشراء ذلك التاكسي ، والحمد لله أمورنا تسير لكنها ستتغير حتماً عندما تحصل على عمل. أنا أنتظر ذلك اليوم الذي يعود فيه أخوك من ليبيا كي أجعله ينام مع الكلاب في الشارع لأنني بعت الثياب التي كنا نلبسها وكل ما املكه من ذهب لأجل تذكرة السفر! فقد كنت أظن أنه سيعمل لتحسين أحوالنا.. إننى أعده الآن ضمن الموتى ” وألقت زهرة قطعة من القماش على كتفيها وهي تخطو صوب المطبخ.

ها قد مرت أعوام خمسة منذ وفاة والده وقد ذهب للدراسة بجامعة الخرطوم وتخرج في كلية القانون ولم تتبق له سوى ستة أشهر ليكمل فترة الخدمة الإلزامية ويتمكن من استلام شهادته ليصبح في إمكانه البدء في البحث عن عمل يسعد أمه وعمه ويسعده هو شخصياً في آخر الأمر. فالمستقبل يَمثُل كصحفة بيضاء لم يصل خطاطها بعد كي تَبين الحروف الممالة للطريق التي سيسلكها.

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كانت الشمس متوهجة ، نظر مهدي إلى ساعة يده التي أشارت إلى الثامنة والربع ، وكان يراقب المشهد حتى توقف البص عند المقبرة ونزل مردداً ببطء دعاء الموتى . لقد وظفوه حارساً على المقبرة في الجزء الثاني من خدمته الإلزامية ، لأن حارساً عجوزاً توفى في أول ذلك الشهر، والحارس الدائم الآخر الذي يعمل مع مهدى ضابط يدعى أشرف. وهما يعملان معاً في نوبة مدتها أربع وعشرون ساعة ، يذهبان بعدها في راحة ليوم تالٍ . ينحدر أشرف من عائلة غنية من الخرطوم وكان منغمساً في الملذات ويحصل على الأنواع الغالية من المشروبات الكحولية إلى جانب حصوله عدة مرات على صحبة ابنةٍ لحافر القبور.

ويتذكر مهدي ميل أشرف إلى السخرية منه عندما لحظ انتظامه في العبادة، وكان يسأله عندما يطوى المِصلاة:

” قل لي .. هل تشعر بالراحة عندما تصلي ؟ ”

يدخل أشرف يده في جيبه فجأة ، يخرج لفافة بلاستيكية بها حشيش ويضعها على المنضدة الحديدية التي تكاد تملأ الغرفة الصغيرة التي يتشاركانها معاً، ويعكف على اللفافة كأنما يجري عملية جراحية ، و يخرج من جيب قميصه سجارة ينزع عنها الفلتر بحذق ويفرغ ما بها في خط مستو على ورق اللف الذي أخرجه كذلك بعناية من محفظته..

راقب مهدي الأمر …….. ساد وجه أشرف تعبيرٌ كثيفٌ من الانهماك ، وعندما أشعل لفافته عادت الحياة إلى ملامحه من جديد وبدأ الدخان يملأ الغرفة ببطء.

نهض مهدى بسرعة خارجاً.

” إلى أين ؟ ”

وقف مهدي في الخارج يتأمل المقبرة وكانت أكياس البلاستيك تلوح كأعلام من على الشجيرات اليابسة التي نبتت بين القبور وانتبه إلى تلك الهيئات المتنوعة لشواهد القبور، فبعضها مصبوب بالأسمنت بعناية وأخرى مصنوعة من الحديد ومغروسة في الأرض الجافة ، بعض الأسماء بينة الكتابة وحروفها السوداء الواضحة تدعوك إلى قراءتها ، لكن أُخريات منها أهملت عبر الزمن وصارت شفرتها عصية على القارئ.. تخيل مهدي هؤلاء الراقدين تماماً مثل أولئك الذين التقاهم في المواصلات العامة. شخص حسن الهندام يتحدث بصوت عالٍ في سماعة جهازه المحمول. أعداد من النسوة يلبسن الثياب اللامعة من فوق ملابسهن المنزلية.

إن خصائص حياتهم تنعكس حتى بعد موتهم.

الكلمة العربية لأحجار القبور هي الشاهد والتي تحمل في معناها الآخر ما أصبح الآن وظيفتها المختارة كي تشهد على نهاية هذه الحياة.

خرج أشرف فجأة من الغرفة ، بدت عيونه مسترخية وهو ينفض بسرعة جمرات لفافته على قبر صغير يبدو أنه لطفل ، واعترته نوبة سعال ثم بصق وتراجع ببطء في اتجاه الشجرة التي تجمع حولها بعض المسافرين لتناول الشاي عند أم زين.

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استيقظ مهدي فزعاً وساعة يده تشير إلى الثانية صباحاً ، حدق باضطراب عبر ظلام الغرفة ، كان سرير أشرف خالياً ، بعد لحظات قليلة سمع أصواتاً تأتي عبر النافذة القريبة منه ، تكشّفت الأصوات عن صوت أشرف وصوت متوسل لأنثى أغمض عينيه بقوة وتذكر نهلة.

كانا قد التقيا في السنة الأولى في الفصل الدراسي الثاني في الجامعة ، عبد المجيد أقرب أصدقائه قام بواجب التعريف يوماً ما عند وجبة غداء ، وطيلة تلك الليلة لم يستطع مهدي النوم وظل يسترجع في ذهنه المحادثة التي جرت وفي كل مرة كان يعيد تصوير نفسه بشكل أكثر ثقة عن ما كان عليه الأمر حقيقةً. في الأسبوع التالي كان علي نهلة الجلوس لإمتحان في مادة الشريعة. ادعى عبد المجيد المرض . جلست نهلة على بعد مقعدين من ناحيه اليمين وبدا عليها الإحباط ، انتهى مهدي من الإجابة على الأسئلة ثم نزع ببطء ورقة من كراسة الإجابة وأعاد كتابة الإجابات عليها لأجلها. وكانت هذه هي المرة الاولى التي يساعد فيها شخصاً على الغش رغم أنه يعرف أن العقوبة في حالة القبض عليه هي الإيقاف لمدة سنتين من الجامعة، لكنه قام بالمهمة بمهارة بدون تردد أو خوف.

وفي خارج مدرج المحاضرات وقف في انتظارها وقلبه مفعم بالارتياح عندما خرجت مبتسمة قائلة ” شكراً ” بطريقة أسعدت مهدى كثيراً ، وعندما كانا ينتظران في الخارج برز صديق لنهلة مهتاجاً وقائلاً بتشكّي: ” نهلة هل كنت جادة حينما اعطيتيني تلك الورقة كي أنقل منها ، فمن المؤكد أن الشخص الذي كتبها لك، أيّاً كان، قد قام بذلك مستخدماً رجله لذا فإنني لم أجاوب على شيء !”.

نظرت نهلة إلى الأرض مطبقة شفتيها حتى لا تنفجر ضاحكة ودعاها مهدى الى الغداء على حساب مصاريف المواصلات وأصغى لها تتحدث عن أسرتها بجدة بالمملكة العربية السعودية وعن الحياة التي افتقدتها ، وتحدثت حديثاً ناعماً حتى أن مهدي وجد نفسه أحياناً منحنياً للأمام حتى يتمكن من سماعها بشكل جيد. وفي تلك الأمسية وصل إلى المنزل متأخراً ووجد أمه وعمه هشام ينتظرانه في قلق. وفي ذلك الصيف هاتفها في جدة من خلال بطاقة هاتفية عندما أعلنت نتائج الامتحان، فقد تمكنت من النجاح وقالت له: “إن ذلك بفضل الله ومن بعده مساعدتكم الكريمة ” وسألها متى تعودين؟ ” لكن البطاقة نفذت ..

عادت نهلة بعد أسبوعين من بداية السنة الدراسية وأحضرت معها هدية لمهدي عبارة عن ساعة يد فضية وتقبلها بتواضع. ولأشهر تلت ظل محتاراً كيف يمكن له أن يرد بما يماثل هديتها ، وأخيراً قرر أن يقنع والدته بأنه يحتاج إلى عشرة جنيهات لتصوير بعض المراجع . وفي الليلة التالية وبعد صلاة العشاء اعتذر بزيارة صديق مجاور لكنه توجه إلى سوق سعد قشرة ذلك السوق البهيج الذى تزوره العائلات بكثرة لشراء الأحذية ،النساء لشراء الصندل والعطور والرجال يصطفون لشراء (الصعوط) ووقعت عينا مهدي على متاجر الذهب التي في مقابل مكان باعة التباكو فتحرك بسرعة من بين الجموع ، وأخيراً وجد بغيته في قرط ذهبي بسيط يشبه قطرة الدمع ، قال البائع بكسل عشرون جنيهاً ، سعر أخير .. ” وأصاب مهدي اليأس وسمع نفسه يقول ” سوف أدفع عشرة جنيهات الآ ” وسأل البائع بلهجة مصطنعة ” ثم ماذا بعد ؟” فأجاب مهدي بصراحة ” أنا أملك عشرة جنيهات فقط.”.

وتوقف البائع ناظراً نحو الأسفل إلى قدميه المغبرتين وإلى حذائه البالي وقال ” هذا هو الجوز الأخير لذا أوافق ان أعطيك ” إياه بعشرة جنيهات فقط “.

” ما هذا ؟ ” قالت تسأله عندما ناولها الصندوق الصغير حينما كانا يتناولان الغذاء بين أوقات المحاضرات ” هذا لك ، مجرد شيء صغير ” وقالها بعناية ما بين اللقيمات ، وبعناية كذلك فتحت الصندوق الصغير الذي كان يحتوى الهدية ” انه جميل يا مهدي .. لكن ما المناسبة ؟ ” قالت متساءلة فأجاب مفسراً ” غداً يكون قد مر عام على تعارفنا” ولم يهتم حينها بالنظر إلى وجهها عندما قال ما قال ، لكن في أوقات كثيرة لاحقة عندما كان يتذكرها تمنى بصدق لو كان قد نظر إليها.

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صحا مهدي على صوت ماء جارٍ ولم يكن الظلام قد انجلى بعد ، وبدأ المؤذن في الدعوة للصلاة ، وعندما ركز عيناه استطاع أن يتبين ظهر أشرف وهو يستاك ويبصق قرب مجموعة من القبور ، فنهض فوراً كي يتوضأ. كانت الرزنامة الرثة على الحائط تشير إلى يوم الثلاثاء وهو اليوم الذي وعد فيه عبد المجيد باللقاء عند الجامعة. بدأ اشرف يدندن لنفسه بلحن وهو ينظر إلى المقبرة في حين رفع مهدي يديه مكبراً للصلاة.

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نهضت زهرة في ذلك الصباح عند الساعة السادسة والنصف وكانت لا تنام جيداً عندما يكون مهدي غائباً. وفي الشهور الأولى بعد وفاة زوجها (وعندما سافر ابنها مأمون إلى ليبيا) كانت تقضى فترة ما بعد الظهيرة في ترتيب سلك الهاتف الرقيق ، ترفعه برفق عن الأرضية وبعيداً عن مسار النساء الزائرات واطفالهن الاشقياء واللائي جئن للتعزية. وعندما يرن جرس التلفون يكون المتحدث في الغالب جاراً ثرثاراً لا يمكنها احتماله. وبعد مرور الأشهر الثمانية الأولى البطيئة قامت بقطع السلك من جهة الحائط وشرعت في البكاء طوال الفترات الصباحية. وعندما كان محصل فواتير الهاتف يطرق الباب بصوت عال كانت تحملق فيه من على الشرفة وترفض الدفع حتى تم قطع الخدمة أخيراً و بشكل نهائي.

وفي تلك الليلة بالذات حملت صور ابنها مأمون المعلقة فوق سريره وصحى مهدي على صوت أمه وهي تقف فوق سرير أخيه ذو الصرير وهي تحاول فك الخيط عن المسمار وتميّل الصورة إلى هذا الجانب وذاك و الى أعلى حتى فلتت الصورة عن يدها وتحطمت على الأرض فصاحت بعنف ” انكسر الشر ” وفي صباح اليوم التالي صحى مهدي وشظايا من الزجاج ملتصقة على ساقيه وملاءته.

وبمضى الزمن اندملت جراح زهرة وكبر مهدي وفيه شبه لوالده وبدأ في تولى المسئوليات التي لا تعيق دراسته لقد صوبت زهرة ايمانها كله وبعناد تجاه مهدي وقد تشابكت حياتهما معاً مثل ما تتشابك البصات العامة لدى كبري الخرطوم بحري في الساعة الثانية ظهراً والتي تسير قليلاً ثم تتوقف مثل الأطفال العطاش العائدين من المدرسة إلى المنزل. في ذلك الصباح غسلت زهرة الملابس ونشرتها على الحبل أمام المطبخ وجهزت الفطور لمهدي ، إنها الآن العاشرة والنصف وكانت تعلم أنها لن تكون في المنزل عندما يعود وقد خططت أن تزور بعض الأصدقاء ثم التوقف عند سوق الخضار وسوق سعد قشرة. أطلق هشام بوق العربة مرتين فقامت بسرعة بتغطية الأطباق في المطبخ خشية القطط وربطت محفظتها عند طرف ثوبها ثم تحولت نحو هجير الشمس.

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في الجامعة كان عبد المجيد يجلس وسط أربع بنات ، ليلى وهبة وسهيلة وضيفة أخرى وكانت عيونهم تطفح بالضحك وكان صوته يرتفع مرعداً ومليئاً بالتعبير وهو ينتقل من طرفة إلى أخرى.

وعندما أبصر مهدي وقف مبتسماً ابتسامته البلهاء وصاح وهو يربت على ظهر مهدي قائلاً

” مشتاقين ” ثم أنحنى مقترباً قائلاً بإغاظة وبهمس ” أنت تحتاج أن تشتري لنفسك كولونيا نفاذة أكثر فقد صارت رائحتك مثل المقبرة ، ثم اطلق ضحكته المرسلة التي ترددت عبر الكلية.

تعرف مهدى على الطالبات الثلاث اللائي جلس معهن، إحداهن سهيلة وهي صديقة قديمة لنهلة تخرجت في نفس السنة والاثنتان الباقيتان هنا الآن في السنة النهائية. كان مهدي يخفي كراهيته لسهيلة التي تنطوي على كبرياء زائفة وتستخف بالآخرين في مواضيع تافهة وقد نظرت ناحيته، في ذات الوقت الذي بدت فيه فكرته عنها تطفح في ملامحه، قالت متساءلة وهي تعبث بسلسلة لامعة تتدلى من حقيبة يدها: هل سمعت بالعرس ؟! نظر مهدي متسائلاً صوب عبد المجيد الذي مد اليه بطاقة الدعوة العاجية وعليها اسمه مكتوب بأحرف أنيقة كبيرة وباهتة. وفي محاولة للإمساك بالتعبير المناسب واصلت سهيلة قائلة ” عرس نهلة يوم الخميس ” وتشكّت ليلى قائلة يا ليتني لو كنت مكانها فقد سئمت العمل في ذلك البحث . وضع مهدي الدعوة بهدوء في جيبه ونظر إلى ساعة يده وكانت تشير إلى الثانية عشر ونصف ولم تتبق له سوى دقائق قليلة قبل ان يغلق المكتب الاكاديمي أبوابه ” الرجاء المعذرة أنا ذاهب كي أراجع أوراق خدمتي الإلزامية ” وودعه الجميع بتهذيب وانطلق بعيداً لكن الدم اندفع يقرع رأسه مثل قلب في سباق.

عند وصوله إلى المكتب الاكاديمي أخفت المرأة التي عند الكاونتر الساندويتش تحت طاولتها بسرعة ، ونظرت إلى ملامحه الذاهلة وسألته ” هل هناك ما يمكن أن أساعدك به ؟ ” ونفذت نغمتها الأنفية الحادة من خلال قرع رأسه وخرجت منه الكلمات بصعوبة ” شهاداتي .. ” واجابت ” لا تزال أمامك ستة أشهر أخرى حتى نحصل على الصور الأصلية وشهر آخر حتى نتمكن من أن نعطيك .. ” لكنه غادر دون أن يستمع لبقية تفسيراتها وجلس خارج المكتب وخلال لحظات قليلة ظهر شخص فضولي بدأ عليه الاهتمام وسأل ” هل أنت بخير ؟ ” وأجاب مهدي واقفاً على رجليه ” شكراً .. أنا بخير “.

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” أنت لست بخير .. هل يمكنك التوقف عن السير بمثل هذه السرعة ” هكذا توسل عبد المجيد وبدأ قائلاً ” أنا أقسم أنني لم أعرف أنها عادت للبلد إلا في الليلة السابقة فقط ولم تكن هناك طريقة بالنسبة لي لأخبارك “

“إلي جانب ذلك يا مهدي هذه الأشياء بيد الله ألا تؤمن بذلك …

لا أعتقد أن أقل شيء يمكن لها أن ….

رد مهدي ببرود ” ما هكذا كنت أتوقع منك“

وأخيراً أطلق عبد المجيد الكلمات قائلاً ” أنا.. حتى لن أذهب ” وكان يتمنى أن يرجع ذلك الهدوء الى وجهه. لكن عبد المجيد راقب مهدي يسرع الخطى بعيداً عنه في نوبة غضب عمياء فأخرج بشكل لا إرادي سجارة من جيبه وبدأ يدخن بعصبية.

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في سوق سعد قشرة وجدت زهرة الكثير من الأشياء التي رغبت فيها فرمضان على الأبواب والكثير من السلع المستوردة بدأت باكراً في الظهور في السوق هذا العام. كانت هناك صفوف وراء صفوف من المشمش المجفف المعبأ في شكل رقائق والذي يستخدم لصناعة الشراب اللذيذ المسمى بالقمردين المرتبط دائماً برمضان والذى كان يحبه زوجها الراحل. فجأة تركز اهتمامها على دستة من الثياب بلون الخوخ معروضة على واجهة دكان رث الهيئة لقد أثار اللون ذكرياتها الماضية فقد كانت ترتدي يوم زفافها ثوباً بلون الخوخ حين التقت للمرة الأولى بزوجها الراحل ، وفى الحقيقة فقد اعترف لها بعد سنين عديدة من زواجهما أن ذلك اللون أعاد تشكيل بشرتها إلى لون المهوقني المتوهج. بحثت زهرة أولاً عن البائع فلم تجده فتقدمت ولمست البضاعة ، كان ملمسها الناعم يدعو يدها الأخرى وسريعاً ما وجدت نفسها وبجرأة تفحص الملمس بعناية بحثاً عن أية عيوب.

” المرأة الجميلة يتوجب عليها دائماً أن تشترى الأشياء التي ترغبها ” رفعت زهرة حاجبها دون مبالاة بالبائع وسألت ” كم السعر ؟ ” نظر اليها البائع ملياً وهو رجل في منتصف العمر قبل ان يجيب ” عشرة جنيهات فقط ” فردت عليه مساومة بشيء من الوقاحة ” فقط ثمانية ! ” وحلت محفظتها من ثوبها وبدأت في عدد الأوراق النقدية المتسخة والتأكد منها مجدداً ، أخذ البائع المال وبدأ في طي الثياب لوضعها في حقيبة لكن زهرة وجدت نفسها مرة أخرى تمد يدها لتتلمس ما اشترته ، إن ذلك الأحساس بعث في أعماقها مشاعر متمردة ، وعندها اصطدمت يدها بيد البائع صدفه.

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عندما وصل مهدي البيت لم يكن هناك من أحد كي يسأله أين كان فاستغل الصمت وحضّر بسرعة لأخذ حمام .. ارتجفت ركبتاه ووجد نفسه يبذل جهداً كي يقف داخل الحجرة الصغيرة المتهدمة ، أحس بالماء يجري من فوقه وأخيراً غسل عينية بالصابون فانبجس دمع إلى الخارج من جرح لا يستطيع الصابون أن يطهره وفقط عندما كان يرتدى ملابسه لاحظ أنه لم يخلع الساعة من يده.

ففحص وبعناية وجهها الرقمي والماء المتكثف خلف شاشتها لكن التاريخ والوقت كانا يشيران بوضوح إلى الحقائق التي كان يخافها.

وعندما خرج وجد أمه جالسة تعبة على السرير وعند قدميها سلة الخضار فحياها بسرعة وعرض أن يدخل الأشياء للمطبخ لكنها رفضت وأمسكت بما اشترته وتوجهت صوب المطبخ.

وسألت بقلق “أين كنت طوال اليوم ؟ لماذا لم تتناول فطورك ؟” وكانت تخرج الخضروات التي اشترتها. فأجاب ” ذهبت إلى الجامعة لتقديم أوراقي الخاصة بالخدمة الإلزامية ” وسألته قلقة ” متى ستنتهي وتبدأ العمل يا مهدي ” (وكانت تقف عند باب المطبخ) فأجاب ” عندما ييسر الله لي استخراج شهاداتي يا أمي” فقالت “إنك تحتاج أن تعمل ما مقداره ثلاث سنوات كي تستطيع أن توفى لعمك كل ما صنعه لنا” ومضت عيونها تتفحص وجهه ان كان قد نفذ صبره وواصلت القول ليس لديك الحق في ألا تكون وفياً ، فقد جعلك عمك في أولوياته وذلك من أجلي وعندما تجيء الفرصة فليس لديك الخيار سوى أن تجعله من أولوياتك ” .

غمغم مهدي متراجعاً صوب الباب الخارجي ” إن شاء الله ” وقرع رأسه تحت ضغط مهول..

كيف يمكن له أن يهز رأسه مرة أخرى وأن يجيبها كما الواجب وهو يعلم أنه لم يعد هناك مهرب من هذا الفقر من عبء الديون غير المدفوعة. ولم يعد هناك مكان يهرب اليه ، مكان يوقَظُ فيه في يوم من الأيام من نومه بلمسة حنونة وصوت ناعم وليس ذاك البوق الملعون لعربة التاكسي. وكان في جيبه مقدار من النقود يكفيه للذهاب حيث يريد وصاح وهو يغلق الباب خلفه. ” أنا ذاهب للمسجد “.

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عندما وصل مهدي إلى كبرى الخرطوم كان آذان المغرب قد انتهى للتو ، فسار بتمهل على الحصى المتناثر محاولاً تجاهل ثقل رأسه مركز على أصوات السيل التي ترعد تحت أقدامه غير المستوية ، حدق في الأمواج البيضاء والزرقاء التي تصمّ والمزبدة كفم تحرر من العطش وتذكر المحادثة الأخيرة بينهما.

كانت تبدو له مشغولة ولكنه افترض أنه مجرد قلق السفر ، قال لها ” إن شاء الله المرة القادمة عندما أراك تكونين في بيتك وأمام أعين عائلتينا ” تبسمت وهمست ” كل ما يشاء الله من خير يكون لنا ”

وببطء خلع الساعة من يده

وكان يرقب الدم يتدفق مجدداً تحت الجلد الذي كانت تخفيه

وأخرج بطاقة الهوية من قميصه ووضع الساعة من فوقها.

ثم أسلم جسده لرنين النيل الفاتن.

وفي اللحظة المحددة عندما لامست شفتاه الماء لاحظ أن كل الذين وصفوا له الحرية من قبل لم يعطوها حقها، إن اندفاعها كان أحلى من أي شيء آخر كان قد تخيله من قبل، وأغلق عينيه بسلام واستسلم إلى أمر إرادته الحرة.

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توسلت والدة نهلة من خارج باب الحمام قائلة ” نهلة بسرعة فلدي شيء لك ” وكانت الأخيرة تتحسس سوستة الثوب الجديد الذى جلبه لها أمجد بلون لازوردي فخيم يشابه النيل، وهذا الشبه ذاته هوالذى دعاه إلى أخبارها به حتى لا تشعر بالحنين للوطن عندما ينتقلان إلى أيرلندا.

فجأة فقدت نهلة التوازن ومالت للأمام واصطدم وجهها بالحوض وصاحت أمها وهي ترفعها عن الأرض ” يا إلهي” وأضافت وهي تساعدها على النهوض ” هذه هي العين الشريرة للآخرين بدأت تعمل للتو ” وقالت بقلق ” دعيني أنظر وجهك ” ثم قالت ” الحمد لله لم يحدث شيء ” ووضعت يدها بفخر على ظهر ابنتها وفجأة عندما التفتت نهلة سقط عنها القرط الذى أهداها إياها مهدي وتدحرج الى ثقب الحوض الأسود .. لا عليك ” قالت أمها مطمئنة لها ” فغداً أمجد سوف يشترى لك أشياء أحسن “.

غمغمت نهلة وهي تنزع القرط الآخر ” لكنها هدية ” فقالت لها أمها وهي تغادر الحمام ” الهدايا تأتي وتذهب “.

وعندما حدقت نهلة إلى ملامحها في المرآة لاحظت أنها لم تستطع إطلاقاً ان تتعرف على نفسها.

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بعد أن أفرغت زهرة مشترياتها كلها أخرجت أخيراً ملائاتها المترقرقة من حقيبتها البلاستيكية التي اعطاها إياه البائع والذى ترك معها كذلك بطاقة عليها اسم المتجر وضعتها زهرة بعناية على المنضدة وبدأت ببطء في نشر الملاءات على أغطية الأسرة ذات اللون البيجي الباهت والتي لم يتم تغييرها منذ وفاة زوجها ، وعندما فرغت من ذلك استلقت على السرير في انتظار عودة مهدي كي يعلق على ذلك.

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مسح هشام العرق عن جبينه رغم أن الشمس كانت قد غابت.

كان الجو مفعماً بالرطوبة.

وتساءلت بتهذيب امرأة كانت تركب في المقعد الخلفي (وكانت الحركة بطيئة خلال الجسر) .

” لماذا هذا الزحام هذه الأمسية ؟ “

لم يجاوبها هشام.

واستنتجت قائلة ” ربما كانت هناك حادثة “.

وغمغم هشام ” ربما ” وأخرج رأسه من نافذة العربة وسأل السائق الذي أمامه ” ماذا يجري ؟ ” فصاح الأخير ” أحد الشبان انتحر “.

قالت المرأة : هذا أمر غريب لقد فقد كل شئ حياته في الدنيا والآخرة يا له من فتى بليد.

وعندما عادت حركة السير واتضح المشهد وأقترب لاحظ هشام ساعة فضية كانت تتدلى من يدى الضابط وهو يتحدث مع الشهود فأوقف السيارة فجأة دون أدنى اعتبار لشكاوي السيارات من ورائه.

هذا بالضبط ما كان يخشاه فالوجه الذى كان يحملق من صورة البطاقة الشخصية كان وجه ابن زهرة.

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صحت زهرة وكأنها كانت مخدرة في نوم لا قرار له ، وتنامى إلى سمعها ما تبينت فيه صوت عربة تاكسي هشام المألوف لكنه مختلط بصيحات مبحوحة لجمهرة من الناس لم تستطع فهمها.

وعندما فتحت الباب بحذر شاهدت ساعة مهدي تسقط من بين يدي هشام عند قدميها.

هويَّة July 3, 2009

خالد التني

“إذا لم تجد قيمتك في بلادك فإنك لن تجدها في أي مكان آخر“

وضعت الجملة على فمي وتذوقتها للحظة

” لقد أمضيت أعواماً أقومك حتى أصبحت رجلاً “

كان أبي يجلس على الجانب الآخر من المائدة مبتسماً بشعور من الظفــر

فمن يا ترى أكون؟

ورحت في مساء اليوم التالي اقلب صفحات الألبومات المدرسية السنوية ، انتبه للندبات على الوجه ، وأحدق في العيون الضائعة لنسخة من نفسي تركتها في مكان ما من ذكرياتي النائية. “ مُقوّم “ وبقيت الكلمة مثل بردة تصعقني على الوجه ، مرة أخرى قرأت التوقيعات وتعليقات الأصدقاء والمعارف العابرين وكل صفحة كانت تهمس ك هذا هو أنت ألا تذكر؟

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تجمع الرجال بعماماتهم البيضاء وشالاتهم يتبادلون التحايا يوم الجمعة عند المسجد و سأل أحدهم والدي

” هل سيلتحق مصطفى بفريق كرة القدم السوداني هذا العام أيضاً ؟ “

” لست متأكداً ، فأنا بالكاد أرى الفتى فهو دائماً في الخارج يلعب كرة السلة ” وضحك باعتزاز.

” وهل تلعب أنت أيضاً كرة القدم ؟” تساءل وعيناه تمران على تعبير من الملل على وجهي وهيئة مترهلة.

” لا ، هذا أديب “

أجاب والدي بالنيابة عني وبدل رجله التي كان يلقي عليها حمله وهو مولي ظهره لي ..

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خلال حرب الخليج انتقلنا إلى ألمانيا للبقاء مع خالي محمد في كولون ، وكان يمتلك حديقةً مورقة بها مجموعة من عراضات التسلق ، وفي فترات ما بعد الظهيرة كان أشقائي وشقيقاتي وأبناء خالي يعلقون أنفسهم رأساً على عقب في حين كانت أمي و خالي ينادون بي وأنا بادي التردد أن ” تسـتلق ” لكني في المقابل ذهبت أهمي وأحدث نفسي ..

قال خالي لوالدتي ” هناك أمر ما حاق به “

“هل هناك أمر ما أصابه؟“

هكذا تساءل أستاذ فصلي الأول لدى اجتماع العائلة ولم يكن هناك من أحد يعرف تماماً كنه ذلك الخلل.

جربت السيدة بار الأخصائية النفسية لدى المدرسة كل شيء ، حرّكت الدمى على يديها معبرة عن الحب والغضب في عروضها الواهنة وهي ترقب تعبير وجهي الهامد.

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يصيح بي أبى ” سر باستقامة ” ويقوم من كرسيه عند تناول طعام الغداء مبيناً طريقة في المشي يتوجب علىّ اتباعها ، وحتى عندما التحقت بالمدارس الثانوية كنت انحني للأمام واحسب الخطوات والخطوط متمنياً أن لا يراني والداي وهما يعبران بالسيارة عائدين للعمل حتى لا يبديا تعليقات إضافية .

و في كل سنة من سنوات دراستي الثانوية كنت أغير كتابة اسمي الأول والاسم الأخير في بحث عن هوية أتصالح معها.

عند عيادة اختصاصي الأمراض الجلدية يؤكد الدكتور:

” النوع الذي اصابك من حب الشباب لا يخلف أثراً على الجلد“

” لقد أخبرتك أنها ستتقوم مع مرور الزمن “

ولاحقاً عند العربة اعتبر والدي هواجسي للعلاج كشيء لا قيمة له..

” لأي شيء تريد بشرة صافية ؟ ألأجل لان تسبح عند الشاطئ الرملي “

” إن لديك لنظرة مشوقة” قالتها المرأة التي كانت تناول الدبابيس والفانلات وتؤشر على الأسماء عند استقبال الكيريّتف كونكشن في أوبرفيسيل بألمانيا. أتذكر الآن عودتي إلى غرفتي بعد قراءتي الشعرية الأولى والحصول على حلقة أصدقاء جدد يريدون الاستماع لمرة أخيرة للقصيدة التي كتبتها.

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لكل أبوين رؤية مرسومة لنجاح طفلهما

” أريد الذهاب إلى مدينة نيويورك لأصبح كاتباً ” هكذا تحججت بعد التخرج، يقول والدي على نحو عميق

“إذا لم تجد قيمتك في بلادك فإنك لن تجدها في أي مكان آخر” وقال منهياً الموضوع

” اكمل الدراسة الجامعية في السودان ومن بعد ذلك يمكنك الذهاب حيث شئت “

كان الإحساس الذي راودني مثل عثة حبست في جرة

ماذا سأجد في ذلك البلد الذي ظللت اسميه لسنوات وبصورة عمياء بالموطن ؟

ماذا سأدرس؟ وماذا سيحل بأحلامي؟

عند المطار عانقت أصدقائي الذين ناولني كل منهم لفافات من الأفلام “خذ الكثير من الصور“

” أوو … نعم ربما تحتاج لهذه” واخرج صديقي زجاجة فيتامينات

قلت شكراً ولكن بإحساس من تلقى لكمة من الإذلال وأنا أعيد قفل الحقيبة التي ضمت كل شيء ربما احتاجه من ماضيّ ليصحبني قدماً للأمام.

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في جامعة الخرطوم أطلقوا علي لقب ” الأمريكي” وكنت امثل لديهم ثقافة لم يدركوا منها سوى لمحات موجزة على التلفاز أو مسارح الأفلام ، لقد قصفوني بكل أنواع الأسئلة عن الحرية وعن الفرص للحصول على يانصيب الكرت الأخضر وكنت أردد إجابة إثر إجابة وكأني متبار في برنامج للمعلومات العامة . وكلما توقفت للثرثرة مع أحدهم والتشارك في نادرة ٍ أو واقعةٍ معبرة ، انتبه لعيونهم تحدق ، يستظهرون إيماءاتي مثل وجه شخص غريب شاقهم.

لاحقاً عند الداخليات بعدما تصادقت مع زملائي كنت ارقب الجليد يذوب عندما يشد الآخرون على يدي بحرارة ويدعونني إلى غرفهم التي أسموها على المدن التي قدموا منها.

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في المرة الأولى عندما قدمت للخرطوم راودني الإحساس وكأني غريب ، وفي كل مرة كنت اركب فيها البص كان يثير انزعاجي أن كل راكب كان ينظر و يتفحص والأفكار كانت تتشكل لديهم بتمهل ثم يعودون للنظر كرة ً أخرى حيثما تجول عقولهم، لقد استغرق الأمر عندي عاماً كاملاً كي أصل إلى أن المنطق المعمول به و الذي يحيط بالأحكام الاجتماعية قائم على النظر، وحتى لدى الشخص المتعلم تنغرس عميقاً ذات التحيزات والآراء حول حقائق الحياة القاسية.

الشحاذون فاقدي الأطراف والأطفال المصابون بالشلل يزحفون في الشارع يطلبون المال ويعبر الناس سريعاً بقربهم قائلين الله كريم ، لقد راقبت شخصاً ببنطال مهتريء و امرأة ذات حذاء بلا كعب وهما يبحثان داخل جيوبهما ليقدما مرحمة ، لكن لا أحد يحمل نفسه للنظر عميقاً في أكف الشحاذين ، ففي كل راحة يد يتجمع العرق مقدماً ذكرى مبللة للمعاناة التي نتحملها كلنا في صمت.

بالأمس حدقت في وجه امرأة جلست قبالتي وهي تحمل مظروفاً كبيراً اسمر اللون إلى صدرها ويكاد يحتضن جسدها المتهالك كطفل ، وتساءلت ترى من كانت في الماضي وماذا حل بها الآن ؟ وعندما تحركت قليلاً كان على المظروف مكان مغفل لاسم مريض و شعار لمستشفى، وكان حاجباها الباليان يعكسان تركيزاً عميقاً . العجوز الجالس إلى يساري وتكاد ركبتاه تلامسان ركبتاي كان يتوق للمحادثة وسأل بتهذيب ” هل تدرس الإنجليزية؟” هززت رأسي بالموافقة فقال متجاوباً:

” ما شاء الله “

وحول نظره ناحية الشارع.

………………….

اجمل ما تسمعه في تحايا السودانيين قولهم ” الله يديك العافية ” وبالرغم من انه يخرج في عفوّية إلا أنه دعاء عميق ، وكلما سمعته تذكرت تجربتي الأولى مع الملاريا، ثِقل في رأسي وحمى في جسدي وعجز عن المشي و الأكل والصلاة وفي ذاكرتي تركيبات الإضاءة فوق رأسي وصرير مروحة السقف حيث أدركت عندها ولأول مرة قيمة هذا الدعاء السائد.

………………….

عندما يسمعني الناس أتحدث لأول مرة كانوا دائماً يسألون

من أين أنت؟

حديثي بلكنة أمريكية وخلفيتي التعليمية تختلف على نحو كبير عن كثير من الناس الذين أعرفهم والذين عاشوا في الخارج ، ولقد شاهدت الكثيرين يتأقلمون على مثل حالتي بطاعة عمياء ، ودائماً ما كانوا السباقين للقول :

” أنت تأخذ الأمور بحساسية “

” من المفترض أن تكون قد تأقلمت الآن “

لكن الذي لم يهتم أحد بسؤالي عنه هو :

إلى أين تنتمي؟

قبل ثلاث سنوات هبطت من طائرة ، كنت مشتتاً بسبب الغبار والأغنام التي تسرح بلا هدف وتزاحمني على الطريق، ذلك كي أتلائم مع مشهد محفور بعمق بتاريخ من الألوان الخابية لا يمكنني أن أدعيه

إنني انتمى الآن إلى ضحك الأطفال الهازل الجريء في الشوارع

إنني انتمى إلى الجسر حيث يتبادل النيلان التحايا كل يوم خلقاً وبعثاً

إنني انتمى إلى ظلال الأشجار في جامعة الخرطوم حيث سقط عرضاً على حجري زرق طائر وأنا في ارتباك وحولي الأصدقاء يغنون بهستريا

” عاجلاً ما تحوز على المال“

أنت على حق

لقد عثرت على هويّة

أنها على كل حال لا تشبه أي شيء كنت قد علمتني إياه عن نفسي في أيما وقت مضى

وفي الحقيقة ،فإن لها صوت كضرب الموج يجهز الرمال المبتلة التي سأسير عليها يوماً باعتزاز ودون مساعدة.

Banana Love/ July 3, 2009

“Le Coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point.”

The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing.

- Blaise Pascal

I felt a cool spray of water splash on my face startling me. “Get up and wash your face and perform your wudu, the muezzin has called for Sunset Prayer”. She looked anxious, pacing between the table she had set almost an hour ago, and the kitchen. I had dozed off in front of television awaiting my father so we could all have dinner. I slowly got up, my limbs oozed with languor, one foot after the other until I reached the door of the kitchen, my mother stood reheating dish after dish on the stove, her face pinched with worry and annoyance.

I entered the bathroom, looking into our mirror, my eyes adjusting to the dim light screwed over the sink. Slowly I lost myself to the steps, one after the other in an order that made sense to me since I was seven years old. As I was completing my wudu, I heard our front door creak open and shut loudly. I exited the bathroom quickly, aware that my father might need the bathroom.

“Where have you been Othman?” My mother asks accusingly.

“Ali’s son was in a car wreck, driving his reksha on Mik Nimr Street during the three o’clock rush”

“It is his damn fault” muttered my mother “Riding that useless thing, instead of studying the way sensible boys do.”

“Did you bring the two kilos of minced meat and parsley?”

“By the time, we got back from the police station I had forgotten, tomorrow inshallah”

“What have you brought then, what is that in the bag?” Suspiciously eying the bag my father placed on the vacant edge of the table.

“Of course, Bananas!” my mother yelled, “Do we look like apes, your son and I?

He brushed passed me rolling his shirtsleeves and stepped into the bathroom, locking the door.

My mother continued, “Everyday you bring us bananas is this nutrition? Why I remember the days when my father came home from the souk, may his soul rest in peace, he would prop the door open with his waist, balancing watermelons, bread, and meat, all at once, he never could open the door with his bare hands, why in fact we had so many mangoes in our home, we had no place to keep them so we hid them under our beds.”

“But for us, you bring bananas, so I can die like Fatih’s wife collapse from diabetes, who will reheat your dishes for hours? Tell me? Mazin? I have to beg him to wait from soccer just to eat with you.”

My mother winked at me as I stretched the prayer mat and began calling for prayer.

My father chewed slowly, enjoying the spicy meat and vegetable dish my mother had prepared.

“You are not eating” my mother said to me “all that Pepsi will destroy your bones, drinking it the way you do” she lectured as she poured the crimson kerkadeh into a nearby cup, “this is what your mother drinks all day while you’re absent did you know it lowers blood pressure? It is a hikma from Allah to give us fields and fields of Hibiscus, so we women will not die while we hover from stove to stove each night reheating dish after dish, only to be rewarded with dirty socks and a bag of bananas, and a son who comes home only to eat and drink and sleep. This is a fine hotel, for both of you, I hope you will find a wife who takes care of you the way your mother has.”

“Amen” my father mumbled as he retreated to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Moments later my mother withdrew back into her silence.

“I’m going over to Amin’s House?” I said casually, awaiting her argument.

“Why? Your exams are near; boy this is a critical year you won’t get into the University of Khartoum”

“Mama I lent him a copy book I need it back to study with tonight” I replied lying.

“Okay, do not be late; I will wait up for you”

I escaped from our house, accompanied by the incense from our kitchen, humming to myself a song that stuck in my mind

Even though I could not remember the precise lyrics, I managed a few verses singing:

I swear! We are with the birds

Who know no maps

Whose hands carry no permits to travel

We walk in all the gardens

Building our nests with songs”

*

Amin’s house was two streets down from mine. His father was a successful merchant from a city called Berber, His house was a vast three stories, with a large garden and parents I never once saw arguing. I was secretly jealous of Amin, who never made the marks I made in school, even though he had everything easy, I pushed these thoughts away from my mind, and smoothed my shirt out as I rang the doorbell. They had a housekeeper who opened the gate; His father and mother were taking tea in the garden and looked at me pleasantly as I greeted them.

“Have you come to visit Amin? He has a bad cold” His mother said.

I nodded lying. “He is up in his room, go on upstairs he will be glad to see you.”

I entered the house and began ascending the spiraling stairs to the second floor; half way up I met her.

“Oh Mazin” she exclaimed surprised extending her hand; she was Amin’s fraternal twin, Noor.

She had the magnificent smile of her mother.

“Can I have my copy book back, if you are finished with it” I stuttered stupidly.

“Of course, I will bring it to you I just have the last lesson to copy.”

Amin lay in bed, hands struggling with the joystick of his Play station. He was the only person I knew who owned one at home.

“Zino, Three days out of school, and the most you can do is send a greeting with Noor, what has happened to our friendship, come here and tell me what happened over the past three days, I’ve missed you.”

I sat down on the bed opposite of him and watched the screen of color flicker with the movements of the soccer players he was controlling.

“Ustaza Suad has left to England, so we have a new teacher for the next month, he is young but he takes class very seriously.”

Amin bit his lip down in concentration.

“That is all; I was hoping somebody had asked about me.”

My mouth crept into a smile that I could not conceal.

He was asking about Areej, the girl Amin was rumored to be dating.  In privacy, he referred to her as his woman.

“She’s been ill for the past three days, as well” I replied,

“Of course she has” he says sitting up, his voice stuffy and comical, and then romantically added

“Hearts are for each other.”

Soon enough I joined him attaching the second joystick, half way through the second game my watch alarm went off, I stretched.

“Where are you going? It’s only 9:30, what are you a chicken sleeping so early” Amin growled. I brush off his insults, wishing him health and promising to visit the following day. “Hey” he called out as I was leaving “Keep an eye out for my woman, make sure nobody gives her trouble” I let out a small laugh, and descended the stairs smiling to myself.  The car was missing in the garage, and I walked out past the snoring housekeeper.

As I turned into the end of the street I heard a soft voice calling my name

It was Noor standing at the door of her house; I began walking back swiftly aware of my delay.

“Shukran” she said handing me my copy book half hiding behind the door, and then quietly “hold it carefully there’s a surprise inside of it.”

I mumbled a farewell and broke into a run for home, Aware of the 15 minutes I would surely be punished for.

*

When I arrived, my mother sat back relaxing against the wall squinting at the Egyptian television series.

“Assalamu Aleikum” I said softly, carefully holding the copybook in my hand.

“You are early,” she said lifting her brows in the way she does when she is disappointed.

In the background I could hear the noise of my father’s snoring from the balcony where he slept.

“Now if you are a man” she continued threateningly “Go shower and then fall asleep while revising your lessons”

I walked past her silently and into my room as she returned to her program; there I collected my jalabiya and a change of underclothes, hiding the copybook in between them. I did not feel safe until I had latched the bathroom door shut.

“Mazin,

In response to what you asked me today

I cannot say if I feel as you do,

But I will say that Allah determines these things,

And if he is willing for anything to happen between us,

Than I am also willing.

The song you were singing on your way home it finishes:

“No worries will make homes on our paths,

We will never encounter danger,

And the sheds we built together,

Will become bigger than any city,

My hand in yours,

I swear!

We are singing with the birds

Who know no maps

Whose hands carry no permits to travel”

Yours,

Tinu (Noor)

*

“I have told you a million times,” my mother began as I opened the bathroom door.

“The bathroom is the dwelling of the devil but you insist on delaying yourself, until one day your eye will shift to the right or your nose will drop lower on your face and then it will be too late to do anything.”

I gathered my books from the table near my desk in my room and came to sit at the table.

Physics, Chemistry, Math

Each copy book loomed ahead of me as I began revising the lessons of the past week, inside of my head a beautiful tune played over and over, and soon enough I found myself inside of her garden, far far away from these mindless equations.

.

“Here, eat something” my mother said interrupting my thoughts.

She had washed a couple of bananas and placed them on a plate before me.

“I am about ready for a break” I muttered softly staring at the clock which read eleven fifteen.

I got up from the table and sat on the opposite couch where mother rested.

Watching her facial expressions grow soft and full of peace,

As she unpeeled banana after banana engrossed in the Egyptian drama she watched.

Suddenly we heard the sound of a few loud coughs then the sounds of footsteps descending from the balcony.

My mother hastily gathered all the banana peels tossing them into the nearby trash.

It was father who had come down for a drink of cold water from the fridge.

My mother jerked her head as if responding to me:

“Your stomach hurts? Well it must’ve been those bananas you insisted on eating earlier, I warned you didn’t I?

They would only look good to a wandering goat half of them ripe, half rotten, go on upstairs your mattress is ready

I will make some mint tea for your stomach”

I waited until my father went upstairs before smiling at my mother,

Who snuck another banana stealthily from underneath the pillow,

Where she rested and winked at me.

*

“It was only luck Zino, I’ve missed five days of school, and I swear by Allah if I had been attending I would’ve gotten a ninety five on that test not just a measly eighty five.”

Noor smiled at my silence, as all three of us walked our way home after school, dressed in the blue army print uniforms we had to wear. “Hey guess what I’ve got in my pocket” Amin said.

He tightened the material of his pocket to reveal a small square shaped object.

“Is it your brain?” Noor joked.

I found myself laughing quite hard at the joke.

“Actually since we are twins that would mean your brain is the same size” he argued.

“Fraternal not Identical” she emphasized kicking up dust as she spoke.

“Imagine…” Amin began in his dreamy voice “if you were my identical twin, our parents would have no rest from the suitors, you would have been the Tajooj of our time, but see Allah decided to make you the ugly one and give me all the good genes”

Noor rolled her eyes.

His chubby hand revealed a pack of fruit chewies.

“I of course get first choice and sensibly choose cherry, because as we all know it is a fruit favored by the higher class of society”

“Zino what flavor do you want?” He asked,

“Apple is fine,” I say since it is the next flavor visibly protruding from the pack.

“And what will my ugly brainless sister have… Do you want grape?” he asked mockingly peeling at the pack.

“No,” she says decisively “I want banana. “

“I almost forgot that my parents adopted you from a family of wild apes” Amin muttered.

I watched him unpeel the rest of the flavors until its yellow wrapper appeared.

We both stared at it for what seemed like infinity.

As she slowly began chewing,

Her smile transformed to gold.

Fawzi/ July 3, 2009

“Though dreams can be deceiving like faces are to hearts

They serve for sweet relieving when fantasy and reality lie too far apart” – Fiona Apple

Fawzi answered an ad Leila had posted in the Al Waseet paper for a chauffer. She had spent the past three weeks, unpacking her belongings, and greeting guests and family who came to welcome her back to Sudan.  She‘d been living abroad with her husband for the past seven years, and found herself overwhelmed by the abundant news of deaths, and births, she couldn’t grasp at once.

At the airport, her mother seemed more ecstatic at the sight of her granddaughter Rana who collapsed easily into her grandmother’s arms, exhausted by the six hour flight. They made small talk as the taxi drove her down the familiar dirt roads leading to her home, in Shambat City.  She caught her mother’s critical eye briefly examining her decorated hands, as she whispered compliments to her drowsy granddaughter; the henna which Leila had recently applied was still a faint red which made her appear foolish, and immature.

“You forgot us so quickly in England!” her aunt Marwa teased the following morning. She had aged since she had seen her last; but in her embrace she smelt the familiar scent of refuge, the earnestness of her touch as she recalled their last embrace at the departure hall of the airport, seven years ago. She was dressed then in a magnificent pink tobe, a newly wed bride, alongside her English husband, her eyeliner blurred as she parted tearfully with her mother and aunt. The image returned suddenly like a deafening blow to her mind as she recalled the way the shopkeepers at the Gift shop had observed the couple, whispering comments masked with admiration and jealousy.

“Your daughter resembles her father, look at how cute she is” she says kissing Rana’s face over and over again.

As she looked at her aunt, she was suddenly filled with admiration, and nostalgia for the past, the grief of her husband’s death had taken a toll on her appearance, but her character, had remained untouched. As she spoke,

Her wise words poked secretly like a paw at the cage of her fluttering heart.

*

“Stop telling the guests you’ve returned to do higher studies” her mother whispered in the kitchen as she walked past carrying refreshments to the guests in the salown.

“What kind of education have you imagined Rana will receive, in this country?” her mother asked sarcastically on the morning she had dressed Rana to visit the Unity School.

“Ummi, I studied in Unity, my entire life and I did alright” Leila tugged harder at her daughter’s brown hair, slapping dax to her scalp, carefully braiding as she squirmed underneath her grasp.

“Mum my head feels heavy” Rana complained in the taxi.

The taxi driver’s eyes darted between daughter and mother, the fair child with the fair braids and her tan mother dressed in a sparkly turquoise tobe she had received as a gift from her aunt. Mrs. Maryam the headmistress had her eyes transfixed on Rana’s wide eyed expression as she watched the other girls playing during recess.

“She looks very intelligent” she commented pleased by her curiosity.

When they returned home, her mother had set the table; Rana quickly threw off her shoes in opposite directions, “Why??” Leila shrilled “Do you do that at home?”

“Let her eat, nobody takes a child out in the middle of the day like that look at how flushed she’s gotten.” Her mother replied quickly in defense.

They ate in silence. Her mother watched her as she cut up the bread into small pieces with her fingers the way she nervously had as a teenager. She wore an insightful gaze which started like a current from the right side of her brow, but in reality she knew nothing at all.

She had no knowledge that Ali, her husband had been laid off work for the past two years, and that she had escaped from his depression and its influence on their lives. She had tried everything, but he had lost his ambition. He no longer prayed; and she lived in a house where Quran was never heard. She had nearly lost her mind, everything familiar to her was foreign, even her own child.

After Rana’s ballet recital, the instructor had poured incessant praise to Ali not once acknowledging her, as though she had been invisible.

On their way home they had bought vanilla ice cream, and he had whispered to Rana

“You can be anything you want, as long as it makes you happy.”

And that was exactly the moment when she decided, they would have to leave.

She spent weeks lingering outside the travel agency, debating with her conscience, crying in the car asking Allah for guidance.

And now that she was home, she felt like a sea shell spat out by the Nile, for its odd shape and texture, within her the emptiness was slowly filling with damp sand.

*

Fawzi appeared for his interview sharply after fatoor, just as they were washing their hands and lifting the plates into the sink, the doorbell rang uninterruptedly.

The face that greeted her belonged to a short man with a round dark face that shone with health, despite his progressing age.

Leila welcomed him in, accepting the yellow manila envelope he extended which held copies of all his previous employers, a copy of his driving license, everything she had requested in the ad. She was pleased by the organization of his paperwork, and faintly smelt cologne.

“I have been driving for most of my life” he said abruptly as she looked up from the paperwork.

“My last employer died and the business was inherited by his son, we had our differences, and I resigned, and have been unemployed for eight months now.”

“I am looking for a chauffer, who can transport my daughter daily from Unity Schools” Leila began.

“We own that white land rover parked near the gate”

She continued as she opened the glass doors leading to the garden.

“I previously drove one, for UNICEF several years ago, they are very well-built cars.” He commented.

“It is running smoothly, I recently had a new battery installed and the breaks work” she said as he opened the hood of the car inspecting the engine thoroughly.

“The school hours are from nine to one thirty p.m”

“Mum” Rana interrupted “It’s Da on the phone” she said carrying the portable excitedly.

Ali’s voice sounded foreign and distorted like a distant whistle in the night.

“Leila, what in the world has gotten into you?”

“This is not the time” she heard her voice respond echoing across the line.

“To hell it is, getting on a plane without my knowledge…”

She pressed the power button off.

Rana stood nearby watching as her mother wiped the sweat off her hands nervously onto the fabric of her tobe. It would be 8:00 p.m in Devon; had she been there, he would most likely be in the garage listening to records waiting for his friends, or for Rana to rush into his lap, as he practiced scales on his saxophone. When she came in from work, he would greet her briefly as she exited from the bathroom, face moist from her wudu, as he shut the door and reduced the volume on his stereo while she prayed.

Through the garage door at night, she would listen to his deep breathing, sometimes words escaped from his lips half consciously grunted, and Leila would tell herself if she concentrated she might discover what had changed in him.

Fawzi looked curiously at the little girl standing at the door.

“Rana come say hello to Mr. Fawzi” Leila motioned.

She shook his hand shyly.

“Do you have children of your own?” she asked him.

“Three sons” he replied proudly.

“May Allah protect and watch over them,

We will expect you then on Saturday, at eight thirty.”

“Inshallah Madame,” he replied politely as he rose to leave.

“His name is Fawzi” Leila replied to her mother as they,

Watched him turn then disappear into the main road.

“What an unusual name for a Sudanese” her mother muttered.

“Fawzi…” her mother repeated the name skeptically as she cut vegetables carefully.

*

“I think what you’ve done is very wise” Enas Leila’s cousin whispered into her ear as they put away dishes in the kitchen.

“Rana needs a place where there are strong family ties, or else she will grow up without any intimacy to Sudan. I can understand why your husband didn’t come with you,”

Leila bit her lip from crying.

Was that what her mother believed as well?

That Ali had left her?

“Mum, why are you crying” Rana asked her that night.

“I am remembering Allah” she answered pulling her into her lap.

“Why does he make you so sad?” she asked whilst examining her rosary.

“No, I am thankful, for everything that is why I am repeating Al hamdililallah, say it “

“Al hamdililallah,” she repeated twitching her nose playfully.

She rose to her feet pirouetting and prancing around her mother’s prayer mat, repeating the utterance softly, as Rana danced; Leila prayed for their future, and for him.

*

Their first drive with Fawzi was especially smooth, and Leila was pleased with his composed manner, amidst the crowded cursing and arguments made by other drivers.

“Mum, will you pick me up after school?” Rana asked her eyes wide with intensity.

As they pulled into the entrance of the Unity schools, Leila felt Rana’s body slightly tremble; she reached for her hand and said “Say Bismiallah,”, she repeated it hurriedly kissed her mother and descended from the car as Leila watched her slowly disappearing through the front gates she recalled just how fast she had lost Ali.

He had returned home that night drunk, she had been sick with a cold, she watched in disbelief as he stumbled in the kitchen cursing, falling to his knees, and wildly breaking magnets off of the fridge, as Rana’s finger paint portraits slid onto the kitchen floor.  She had listened the following day as he recounted the story of how he was asked to leave work, by his employer without justifiable explanation. He described how fast his salary had been computed, his benefits sealed into a crisp white envelope. How within an afternoon, the past work he had done for five years was buried without a single ceremony or service.

Deeply offended by the behavior of the previous night, Leila sat restraining her face from softening as she listened to his wounded voice. In the following months he stopped shaving, and began sleeping in the garage, listening to jazz records throughout the night. At that time, she’d been paralyzed by his actions, by the disciplines he had so easily deserted, and slowly she merged herself into her own job, believing that soon enough she would return home to find him employed and back to his normal self.

When she arrived home, she found her mother with a group of women from the neighborhood,

“Leila, please bring us some more Pepsi from the kitchen” her mother requested.

As she carried the tray of refreshments into the salown she caught notice of her mother’s face animated by the gossip, As Farida the neighbor’s wife described the recent fight between Awad and his wife, and at that moment she wanted nothing more than to transform herself into the casual pillow her mother propped her body against. Her arm resting peacefully upon her shoulders, as though she depended on her for every living comfort she could find.

*

Three weeks later

*

Leila smiled warmly at the woman at the Baraka Internet café, who extended a card to her with a number. The café was the first to install a DSL connection in the Khartoum Province, and was located strategically on the base floor of the Baraka Tower, the most prestigious center of governmental commerce in Khartoum. Leila had heard from many of her friends about the excellent services offered there. Her fingers typed numbly, as she had not been near a computer for exactly six weeks now, and it was hard to imagine that it had been that long ago, since she had left Devon. As her email account began opening she was not surprised at the massive amounts of unread messages in her inbox, most of them would be junk mail, silly advertisements she would erase, but what she had come for was word from Ali. He had not called again, for weeks she had waited, expecting him to appear at the door of her home, unshaven eyes bewildered by her silence, but he had not come. Rana had adjusted well, at school, and slowly her mother had begun warming up to her making her useful around the house.

As she scrolled down the screen, Ali’s name appeared between other messages, the dates were chronological, so he had written her every day since he’d called. As she slowly opened message by message, she found most of them were brief messages concerning Rana’s health, others were long threats, with words like custody and divorce repeated, and italicized. “Stop acting childish.” he had written in his last message dated from the previous night.

Beads of sweat collected across her forehead as she brought her trembling fingers to the keyboard in reply:

Ali,

I have read what you have written and I assure you Rana is in excellent health. She has joined the second grade at the Unity Schools in Khartoum, and is doing very well. The day you phoned, I was interviewing a chauffer, and was extremely busy, I expected you to call back that evening, but you didn’t.

In Islam, a husband has certain rights he must fulfill towards his wife. I have waited two years, praying and believing that you would wake from your state, but you transformed your love for music into an obsession. I am sure that if I took you into a dark room and blind folded you, you could describe to me the details of each of the keys you play, is it not a shame, that you do not even know the details of your own family?

I have decided to stay here, as long as I can; there is something about Sudan that I‘ve missed. Since I’ve been back, I have met people who have lost more than a job, more than one child, and under the blazing sun they insist on greeting me their faces shining with courage, their hands warm with life, Allah forces upon us tests against our faith and we are expected to find a way to keep near to his guidance. I don’t know when exactly you will wake from your self pity, but I know it will not happen tonight, or next week or next month. You have lost many of the things, I used to admire in you. It would be immature of me to return now, when you have not proven that you remember your responsibility as a father, or a husband.

I want Rana to be surrounded by faith, not by closed doors and sad music.

I want her to realize the importance of elshukr wa elhamd, so when she is older and chooses a direction in her life, she will be wise enough to recognize failure or change as a beginning not an end.

You may call usany time after five in the evenings.

Leila

As she rose the chair squeaked slightly, and she caught the expression of the woman behind the counter, her smile filled Leila with a feeling of triumph.

The large clock struck two as she stepped into the salown shutting the door behind her.

*

Three o’clock arrived and Rana had not returned from school.

Leila picked up the phone, and dialed Mrs. Maryam’s office number, an annoyed janitor responded, after several attempts “School is out” he responded indifferently, hanging up. Leila’s blood froze as each of Ali’s angry words rose from the screen in her mind, accusing and threatening her like a terrible dream.

“It is probably the traffic” her aunt assured her. Her mother had left to give her condolences to distant acquaintances, Leila had woken up that morning with a heavy feeling in her head, was it the beginnings of  malaria or   perhaps her maternal instincts she questioned whilst pacing the salown her tobe dragging against the ceramic floor.

“Let us take a taxi” she coaxed her aunt. The tears welled voluntarily behind her eyes. Had there been an accident? How would she tell Ali if something had happened to her?

Finally the sound of the car arrived interrupting her distraction, as Leila rushed outside opening the double doors of the gate. Rana sprang into her mother’s arms with a paper; on it was a star.

Her heart sank slowly back into place.

“Why were you so late?” Leila asked with disturbance.

“There was great traffic on my way to the school, and by the time I got to the school, I was exhausted and fell asleep in the parking lot waiting for her to come out.”

“Mum, so I waited with my new friend Arwa, and she likes to dance too!” Rana added excitedly.

“You must’ve had a heavy fatoor “aunt Marwa joked emerging with a cold glass of lemonade.

“Actually my wife and I had visitors who kept us up last night,” he assured them

But something was amiss about Fawzi.

His uniform appeared wrinkled, unlike his usual suavity and his eyes looked extremely weary. His usual air of fitness was replaced by a worn downtrodden look.

“Are you sure you’re not ill, Fawzi?” Leila asked.

“Alhamdililallah, I am fine, just slightly tired.” He replied

Something in his expression reminded her of Ali,

Was that a lie that lingered secretly under his eyes and set his mouth shut so firmly?

As he excused himself the weight of Leila’s head returned as she retreated to her bedroom.

*

Leila awoke with a start she rose quickly to perform her wudu for the two prayers she had missed while sleeping. As she folded the prayer, the image of Fawzi suddenly returned as her eyes fell across the yellow manila folder sitting on her desk, inside of it were photocopies of all Fawzi’s previous work credentials, As she studied his face in each of the photos, she felt something familiar about the expression in his eyes, or was it simply the youth that startled her after having known him as an adult?

The image of him that afternoon lingered in her mind and when she discussed it with her aunt Marwa while having a snack in the kitchen, her aunt had suggested

“Perhaps he drinks.”

The possible idea destroyed her appetite and left her pacing

Until her mind could no longer stand the fear of it.

“Mum, can you please watch me dance” Rana pleaded as she followed her into the salown.

“Okay habibtee just a minute, go show haboba first” she said whilst detaching the portable phone from the wall. She dialed the home number listed on his photocopied license and waited until the sound of a soft woman’s voice appeared at the opposite end.

“Assalamu Aleikum I am Madame Leila,

Your husband Fawzi works with me during the day….” she began

“Oh it is so nice to hear your voice Fawzi speaks so fondly of your family”

“Would you like to speak to him, I can wake him for you?” she asked kindly.

“No actually,” she continued, “I would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind” she added hesitantly.

“Please go ahead,” she urged gently.

“Fawzi has been an excellent chauffer and we consider him as one of the family, but I have noticed as of late that his appearance, has changed drastically, and I am afraid he is having some kind of health problem.” The sentence fell insincerely out of her mouth as she heard the phone shift.

“My husband? Please don’t worry he is fine” she replied reassuringly.

“It’s just that he has come to work today in wrinkled clothes, which is very unlike him and he appears quite fatigued, and I have begun to worry….  does Fawzi drink?”

The question shot fearfully from her mouth.

There was a long silence on the other end,

Followed by an obnoxious laugh that nearly knocked the phone from Leila’s hands.

“I wish he did something that simple.” she replied between hearty laughter.

“My husband Fawzi is very athletic; from before he and I were married, he has always had the habit of running around the soccer fields training for the National Team. After we married, I humored him a bit; I would wait up nights, listening to his chest wheezing, preparing hot fluids for him to drink, but after a few times I eventually just slept and forgot about him”

“It’s just his habit” she replied nonchalantly

“What is? I don’t understand” she responded confused.

“At night Fawzi plays soccer, sometimes with others but mostly by himself, it was a dream of his you see, he never got chosen for the National team because at the time…”

Slowly the receiver shifted from Leila’s ear, as her eyes were riveted to Rana’s figure as she performed in the garden for her grandmother. Leila caught her breath as her daughter elevated her legs, pirouetting elegantly spreading her arms like a swan tiptoeing across water.

“I know it is a slightly unusual habit,” the woman continued uneasily.

“No, thank you for explaining I understand now, you must come and visit us soon“

She finished absentmindedly hanging up.

At the precise moment, she placed the handset back into its port.

It began ringing piercingly.

As she pressed her ear to the receiver, a familiar voice echoed hesitantly

“Leila?”

“Yes, Ali it is me.”

A Gift for Mahdi/ July 3, 2009

“A day, an hour, of liberty is worth an eternity in bondage” – Joseph Addison

The loud persistent beeping of a taxi woke Mahdi from his sleep. It felt strange that Hisham, his uncle had arrived in what had felt like seconds since he had prayed the Fajr and fallen asleep. He rose drowsily rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and walked barefoot to the entrance of his house. His uncle’s face still swollen from sleep as he watched Mahdi walk over the scattered pebbles and gravel until he reached the open window of his taxi.
“Assalamu Aleikum” they greeted each other in unison.
“Give these to your mother,” he said handing him a bundle of dirty bills.
“Tell her it’s all I made last night.”
Mahdi mumbled thanks as the taxi drove off reluctantly.
As he shut the door, he heard the water running in the bathroom.
His mother Zahra had woken.
“Only 80” she mumbled counting it twice to be certain.
“May Allah always put light in your path Hisham!” she proclaimed lifting her hands to the sky in her dramatic way.
She removed a five-pound bill and placed it in Mahdi’s hand.
“What are we worth without him? Your father may his soul rest in peace left only enough to buy that taxi. But al hamdulilallah it is getting us by, I know when you work things will change, I am waiting for the day your brother returns from Libya, I will make him sleep with the dogs on the street, because I sold the clothes off our backs, all of my gold for his ticket! Believing that he would work to improve our standard of living, I can almost count him amongst the dead” she finished as she draped a rag over her shoulder, heading for the kitchen.
Five years had passed since his father’s death, he had gone on to study at the University of Khartoum, and graduated as a law student, he now had six months left of his national service, before he would be granted his certificates so he could begin searching for a job which satisfied his mother, uncle and lastly himself.
The future was a blank page but the calligrapher had not yet arrived to reveal the slanted verses he would pursue.
*******************************************************************************************
The sun glared as he checked the time on his wristwatch, it was eight fifteen. Mahdi took notice of the scenery until the bus halted across from the graveyard. As he descended from the bus, he slowly began reciting the prayer for the deceased.
He was stationed at the graveyard for the second shift of his national service because one of the elderly guards had passed away earlier that month. The lasting guard who worked with Mahdi was an officer named Ashref. They worked twenty-four hour shifts and took the following day off. Ashref, who was from an affluent family in Khartoum, was addicted to the luxuries of life. He enjoyed expensive brands of alcohol on the job as well as the company of the gravedigger’s daughter on several occasions. Mahdi recalled how he had scoffed at him once as he observed Mahdi’s punctual praying.
“Tell me do you feel relaxed, now that you’ve prayed?” he asked,
As Mahdi folded his prayer mat.
Abruptly he reached his hand inside of his pocket and removed a plastic wrapped cube of hashish. He laid it on the metal desk that occupied the small room they shared, as if he was performing an operation. He reached into the pocket of his chemise and removed a cigarette, ripping the filter carefully and empting it in a straight line, on the wrapping paper he had removed carefully from his wallet. Mahdi watched as his face took on an intense expression of absorption.
As he lit the joint, his features came to life.
Slowly the smoke began filling the room and Mahdi quickly rose leaving.
“Where to?”

Mahdi sat outside overlooking the graveyard. Plastic bags waved like flags from dead shrubs that grew between graves. He observed the diverse textures of gravestones, some designed neatly in cement, others made of metal signs wedged into the dry earth. Some of the names were painted vibrantly, their clear black lettering begging to be read, others were neglected over time indecipherable. He imagined these people as the same people he encountered on public transport. A well-dressed man talking loudly into the earpiece of his cellular, and the countless women wearing shiny tobes over their ragged housedresses. The qualities of their lives were even reflected in their deaths.
The Arabic word for gravestone is shahed, which bears another meaning and that is to witness. That has now become their duty; they are the chosen witnesses of the ending of this world.

Ashref suddenly emerged from the room eyes relaxed, as he flicked the dying embers of his joint onto a small grave that appeared to be for a child. He coughed and spit then retreated slowly in the direction of the tree, where some traveling men had gathered to have tea with Um Zein.
*******************************************************************************************
Mahdi woke startled. His wristwatch read 2:00 a.m., restlessly he gazed across the darkness of the room, and Ashref’s bed was empty. A few moments later, he heard voices coming from the window opposite of him. They materialized into Ashref’s voice and a pleading female; he shut his eyes tightly and remembered Nahla.

They had met in the second semester of their first year at the University. Abdel Mageed, Mahdi’s best friend had introduced them at lunch one day, and Mahdi had not slept the entire night replaying the conversation in his mind, each time, imagining himself more confident than he had actually been.
The following week, they had a sharia law examination, and Abdel Mageed feigned ill. Nahla sat two seats to his right and looked frustrated. After he had finished his exam, he slowly ripped out a page from his answer booklet and rewrote responses for her, it was the first time he had ever assisted someone in cheating, even though he knew the penalty of getting caught was a two year suspension from the University, he performed the task skillfully without hesitation or fear.

He waited for her outside the lecture room, and his heart filled with relief, as she emerged smiling. “Shukran” she had said in a way that had pleased Mahdi.
They waited outside, as an irritated friend of Nahla’s emerged. ‘Nahla, you weren’t serious giving me that paper to cheat from! Whoever wrote it for you, must’ve written it with their foot, I answered nothing!” she carped.
Nahla had looked at the floor pursing her lips from laughter. He invited her to lunch, with his transportation money and listened as she spoke of her family in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, and the life she missed she spoke so softly at times that Mahdi found himself leaning in to hear her properly. He had arrived home late that evening, and found his mother and Uncle Hisham waiting worried.
He had called her that summer in Jeddah, with a calling card when their results were posted. She had passed and she had said to him “this by the grace of Allah first, and then by your kind help” “when will you be back?” he asked but his credit had finished.
Nahla returned two weeks into the new school year, and brought with her a gift for Mahdi.
A silver wristwatch, he accepted modestly.
For months afterwards, he had wondered how he would repay her, finally he decided to convince his mother that he needed ten pounds to photocopy references, the following night he excused himself after praying the Isha prayer, to visit a neighborhood friend.
Instead, he walked swiftly in the direction of Sa’ad Gishra the fancy souk; which was infested with families buying shoes, women purchasing sandalwood and perfumes, and men waiting in lines for their snuff. Mahdi’s eyes fell across the gold stores which were opposite of the tobacco sellers, he moved swiftly between the crowds.
When he finally found what he had wanted, a pair of simple gold teardrop earrings, the shopkeeper announced lazily.
“Twenty pounds, last price” Mahdi grew despondent.
“I will pay you ten pounds now… ” he heard himself say.
“And then?” the shopkeeper asked mockingly.
“I only have ten pounds.” Mahdi said frankly.
The shopkeeper stalled staring down at his dusty feet and worn flip-flops.
“They are the last pair, so I will give them to you for only ten pounds”

“What’s this?” she asked him, when he handed her the small box,
While they were eating lunch between lectures,
“It’s for you, something small,” he said carefully between bites.
She carefully opened the small box, which held the gift.
“They’re beautiful Mahdi but what’s the occasion?” she asked surprised.
“Tomorrow, we will have known each other for a year” he explained.
He hadn’t bothered looking into her face that day when he had said it, but so many times later, when he remembered her, he wished so badly that he had.
*******************************************************************************************
Mahdi awoke to the sound of running water. It was still dark and the muezzin had begun calling for prayer. As his eyes focused, he could make out the back of Ashref brushing his teeth and spitting near a row of graves, he slowly rose to perform his ablutions. The shabby calendar on the wall read Tuesday, the day he had promised to meet Abdel Mageed at the University. Ashref whistled a tune to himself as he looked out over the graveyard; As Mahdi lifted his hands and began calling for prayer.
*******************************************************************************************
Zahra had been awake from six thirty that morning; she tended not to sleep well, when Mahdi was not home. In the early months after her husband’s death when her son Mamoun, had traveled to Libya she spent the hot afternoons rearranging the thinning telephone wire, raising it delicately off the floor, away from the visiting women and their mischievous children who came to share their condolences. When the phone did ring, it was always the voice of some chatty neighbor; she could not stand. Slowly after the first eight months had passed, she disconnected the wire from the wall and cried for an entire morning. When the telephone man with the receipts and bills would knock loudly, she would peer at him from the balcony and refuse to pay. Until eventually, the service was terminated.
It was on that very night that she took down the pictures of Mamoun, which hung over his bed. Mahdi had woken to the sound of his mother standing on his brother’s creaking bed pulling at the elevated string twisted around the nail behind the photograph until it slipped from her hands and shattered to the floor. She had spat out violently ‘That which is evil has shattered.” Mahdi woke the following morning with shards of glass stuck to his calves and bedspread.

Slowly with time, Zahra’s wounds healed bitterly as Mahdi grew to resemble his father, and began taking on responsibilities, which did not interfere with his academics. She reluctantly invested her faith in Mahdi, as their lives scuffled along like the transport buses across the Khartoum Bridge at Three O’clock who drive a bit and then stop, and continue like thirsty children, walking home from school.

Zahra washed the laundry, and hung it on the lines outside the kitchen and began preparing fatoor for Mahdi. It was ten thirty now, and she knew she would not be home when he returned; she had planned to visit some friends and then stopover at the vegetable souk and Sa’ad Gishra. Hisham honked twice, and she quickly covered the dishes in the kitchen from the cats and tied her wallet to the end of her tobe squinting into the sun.
*******************************************************************************************
At the University, Abdel Mageed sat sandwiched between four girls, Leila, Hiba, Suhaila and a guest. Their eyes brimmed with laughter, his expressive voice soared as he described anecdote after anecdote in his thunderous voice.
When he caught sight of Mahdi he rose to his feet smiling his goofy smile, “Mushtageen” he practically yelled slapping his back playfully in greeting. He then leaned in closer teasingly,“You need to buy yourself stronger cologne, you are starting to smell like a graveyard,” he whispered before setting free his careless laugh that rang across the faculty.
Mahdi recognized three of the girls with whom he sat, one of them Suhaila, an older friend
Of Nahla’s who had graduated in their same year, and the other two were seniors this year.
Mahdi secretly disliked Suhaila she had a tendency to put on airs and disregard others over trivial matters. Her eyes fixed upon him just as his opinion of her surfaced.
“Did you hear about the wedding?” she asked looking down at the glittery chain of her handbag. Mahdi shot a questioning glance at Abdel Mageed who extended an ivory card with his name printed neatly in dull block lettered calligraphy.
“Nahla’s wedding is on Thursday,” Suhaila continued pausing to capture an expression that would satisfy her.
“I wish it was me!” complained Leila “I am just about sick of this research” Mahdi calmly slid the invitation into his pocket and glanced at his wristwatch, it read twelve-thirty and he only had a few more minutes before the academic office would close. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go sort out my national service records.” They uttered polite farewells, as he swiftly began walking away, the blood in his head pounded like a heart at race.

When he reached the academic office, the women behind the counter hid her sandwich under her desk, and swallowed quickly. She looked into his bewildered expression asking “Is there anything I can help you with?” her sharp nasal tone pierced through the pounding of his head. The words suddenly would not emerge. “My certificates…” his voice finally uttered.
“You still have another six months till you get the originals and another month till we can give you…”
He left her explanations abruptly and sat outside the office.
A few moments later, a curious man emerged.
“Are you alright? He asked looking concerned.
“Shukran, I am fine” he replied as he stood to his feet.
*******************************************************************************************
“You are not fine, would you stop walking so fast” Abdel Mageed pleaded.
“I swear I didn’t know she was back in the country till last night and there would have been no way for me to have told you” he started.
“Besides, Mahdi these things are in Allah’s hands, don’t believe
I don’t think the lesser of her…”
“That is not what I expect from you,” Mahdi responded coolly.
“I am not even going” Abdel Mageed finally spat the words praying they would bring back the ease to his face.
Abdel Mageed watched Mahdi stride out of his reach blinded by anger,
Involuntarily, he removed a cigarette from his pocket and began smoking nervously.
*******************************************************************************************
At Sa’ad Gishra, Zahra found many things she desired. Ramadan was approaching, and many of the exported goods began appearing earlier at the souk this year.
Row after row of dried apricots wrapped in clear manufactured foil, for the sweet nectar drink Gamareldin, which her late husband had adored and always associated with Ramadan.
Suddenly her attention was sidetracked by a set of plum bed sheets draped across a shabby looking boutique. The color of it reminded her distractedly of the past. She had worn a plum colored dress at the wedding, where she had first met her late husband. In fact, he had confessed to her years later, after their marriage that the color transformed her skin to a glowing mahogany. She looked around first for a merchant, but no one was present, she reached out and touched the material, its soft touch invited her other hand and soon she found herself boldly examining its textures carefully for faults.
“A beautiful woman should always buy the objects she desires.”
She froze.
Zahra lifted her brow indifferently at the merchant asking “How much?”
The merchant who was a middle aged man, looked at her carefully before replying
“10 pounds only, Madame”
“Only eight!” she bargained back rudely.
She untied her purse from her tobe and counted the dirty bills, double-checking the amount. He took the bills swiftly and began folding the sheets to place in a bag, she found herself unconsciously reaching out again for the touch of the material, the feel of it stirred within her disobedient passion as their hands accidentally touched.
*******************************************************************************************
When Mahdi arrived home, no one was there to question his whereabouts; he took advantage of the silence and quickly prepared for a shower.
His knees shook and he found himself,
Struggling to stand in the chipped cubicle.
He let the water run over him, rubbing his eyes with soap
Finally, releasing tears that surfaced from a wound that soap could never cleanse, only as he was dressing, did he realize he had forgotten to remove the watch.
He examined its digital face carefully, condensation lurked behind the screen, but the date and time clearly spoke the truths he feared.
When he emerged, he found his mother seated tiredly on the bed,
The vegetable shopping bag at her feet.
He greeted her quickly and offered to put things away in the kitchen, but she refused,
Clutching the items, she had bought heading towards the kitchen.

“Where have you been all day? Why haven’t you had your fatoor?” she asked irritably. As she put away the vegetables, she had bought.
“I went to the University to submit papers for my national service record” he replied
“When will you finish and begin working, Mahdi?” she asked worriedly pausing at the entrance of the kitchen.
“Whenever Allah, processes my certificates mama,” he replied excusing himself from the table.
“You will have to work a good three years to repay your uncle for everything he has done for us,”
Her eyes searched his face for impatience and continued,
“You have no right being ungrateful; he made you a priority for my sake,
When the time comes you will have no choice but to make him your priority”
“Inshallah” he muttered retreating to the front door.
His head pounded with the overwhelming pressure.
How could he nod his head again and answer dutifully to her, knowing that there was no longer an escape from this poverty, from the burden of unpaid debts, no longer a place he could flee to in his mind’s eye, a place where one day he would be waken from his sleep by a kind touch, a soft voice, and not the damned honk of a taxi.
In his pocket was enough change to get him where he needed to go.
“I am leaving to the Mosque” he called shutting the door quietly.
*******************************************************************************************
When Mahdi arrived at the Khartoum Bridge the call for Maghreb prayer had just ended, leisurely he walked across the tattered gravel walkway, ignoring the weight of his head, concentrating on the sounds of the torrents as they thundered beneath his unsteady legs, he gazed into the blue and white waves, deafening and foaming like a mouth freed from thirst, and he remembered the last conversation they had.
She had seemed preoccupied, but he had assumed it was merely her travel anxiety.
“Inshallah the next time, I will see you,
It will be in your home before the eyes of both our families”
She had smiled and whispered, “Whatever Allah chooses will be, what is best for us.”
Slowly he unfastened the watch from his hand.
Watching the blood flow back under the skin, it kept hidden,
He removed the identification cards from his chemise, placing his watch over them,
And surrendered his body to the alluring resonance of the Nile.
At the precise moment when his lips touched the water,
He realized that anyone who had ever described freedom,
To him had never done it justice.
The rush of it was sweeter than anything he had ever imagined,
As he peacefully closed his eyes and yielded to the weight of his own free will.
*******************************************************************************************
“Nahla, quickly I have something for you,” her mother pleaded from outside the bathroom door.
She fumbled with the zipper of the new dress Amjed had bought her.
A magnificent azure, which resembled the Nile.
That is why he told her he bought it,
So she would not get homesick when they moved to Ireland.
Suddenly she lost balance falling forward, her face slamming against the sink
“Oh my god” her mother exclaimed lifting her slowly from the ground.
“This is the evil eye of others already at work,” her mother said helping her stand.
“Let me look at your face” she said worriedly, then
“Al hamdulilallah nothing has happened” she said
Proudly placing her hands on her daughter’s back.
Suddenly as Nahla shifted her face, the right pair of Mahdi’s earrings,
Unclasped forcefully, and tumbled into the dark hole of the sink.
“It’s okay; tomorrow Amjed will buy you nicer things” her mother reassured her.
“But it was a gift,” she mumbled whilst removing the other pair.
“Gifts come and go,” her mother said leaving the bathroom.
As Nahla gazed into her disorientated reflection,
She realized that she did not recognize herself, at all.
*******************************************************************************************
After Zahra unpacked all of her groceries, she finally removed the shimmering sheets from the sturdy plastic bag the merchant had given her; he had slipped a card with the name of the boutique, which she carefully placed aside on the table. As she slowly began dressing the sheets over the faded beige bedspreads, she had not changed since her husband’s death. When she had finished she collapsed upon the bed, waiting for Mahdi to return and give his opinion.
*******************************************************************************************
Hisham, wiped the sweat from his forehead although the sun had set,
The weather congested with humidity.
An old woman rode in the back seat; The traffic was horrible across the bridge.
“Why is there such a jam this evening?” she asked politely,Hisham did not respond.
“Perhaps there’s been an accident” she implied.
“Perhaps” he muttered, curiously he stuck his head from the taxi,
“What’s going on?” he asked the driver ahead of him.
“A young man committed suicide,” he yelled back.
“Fancy that,” said the old woman “He lost everything, his life on earth, and in the hereafter, what a foolish boy.”
As the traffic, began clearing the scene loomed nearer, as Hisham observed curiously.
Instinctively he recognized the silver watch that dangled from the hands of the officer, who spoke with witnesses.
He stopped the car abruptly ignoring the honking complaints of cars behind him.
It was exactly what he feared; the face that peered from the identification card was of Zahra’s son.
*******************************************************************************************
Zahra woke as though drugged from a bottomless sleep, she listened closely it was definitely the familiar sound of Hisham’s taxi Muddled with the guttural cries of a crowd, she could not place.As she guardedly opened the door, Mahdi’s watch dropped from Hisham’s hands to her feet.

The Slanderer/ July 3, 2009

“Men impose deception on women and punish them for being deceived,

Face them down to the lowest level and punish them for falling so low”

-       Nawal El Saadawi

Khartoum, Nine thirty p.m

“There have been many cases of this” he said irately releasing a wisp of smoke from his sheesha pipe.

“All these years I’ve been harangued by each of my relatives about taking a Sudanese wife, now all their advices have fallen to the ground like snuff from a dirty mouth. I was happier in Russia; did you know I was her first? Do you know what it means to be the first of a khawajeeya?” He returned the pipe to his mouth, shaking his head in taking long breaths, which rose and dispersed angrily as bubbles.

“It is alright Salah, this is a lesson from Allah you now have the wisdom to choose better the third time” Gasim responded whilst sipping his Turkish coffee and looking out at the Nile.

They had been discussing the same topic of conversation for the past three days.

“I would be lying if I told you I am not in shock, I trusted her for years, and this is what happened. Just last week my uncle Sameer called from Houston, upset that his daughter’s friend came to the pharmacy where he worked asking for birth control pills, Is this civilization? He swore that by the end of the year he would bring his family back. But really what is the use? Our women are no longer, what they were. They have begun standing on the sides of roads cloaked in abayas what was once considered an outfit of honor in our religion, is now an outfit of sham. Didn’t you hear of the doctor, who had a woman wait for him until the end of his working hours at the clinic, innocently asking for a ride to the nearest public bus stop? Half way through the drive, she threatened, “Give me everything you’ve made in profits today, or I will scream right now and you will risk your career, your wealth and most importantly your reputation.” The doctor who was stunned agreed to her conditions, depositing her on the nearest road afterwards. I’ve heard from many friends, that the Nile Street at night is lined with girls who are willing to sully themselves, for the sake of money, or a simple meal.

“She is not the only woman in this world Salah, with your affluence and relations I’m sure you will find a suitable bride in no time, besides you are still young my friend” Gasim reasoned.

Salah just stared down at his hands stained with henna, wishing it would all wash away, like the blinding tide of scarlet that impelled his wrath.

*

Medani, One o’clock p.m

“Take off those bangles! Look at your eyes do you recognize yourself? You have brought a scandal to our home. For the first time since I married your father, he was too weak to go to Friday prayer at the Mosque, with what face can he attend? As the father of a…. I cannot bring myself to say it. I told him if you send her away to Khartoum, she will come back tainted. But he took to his modern ideas, you brought him back a certificate yes, but you hid from us your vocation! I will sell everything! I will sell all of this” she said kicking the suitcase on the floor. “I would sell you if I could find a family who would take you in as a servant, but all the women I know fear Allah, they will refuse raising a girl like you under their roof. Did you think I did not notice all the nail polishes you brought home? Did you believe I was stupid when you brought me that well-to-do man, claiming he was your girlfriend’s brother? He was your pimp, and after he bought you out, he threw you back into the street, because he realized you were not worth saving! All of the women, who visit are whispering things while I fetch them drinks and sweets, they are watching me, searching my actions for some trace of uncleanness, in private they will say to themselves you hit a daughter on her mouth and she turns out just like her mother. In our time, a girl did not marry in search of richness, or for personal gratification, marriage was completing the other half of our religion. After all the advice, I gave you about that night, the precious words of a mother to her only daughter. Each of the women asks repeatedly to see the wedding photos, they ask about the details, the cost of it, and the names of the bridegroom’s relatives. It was the talk of Medani, but that was never enough for you, you always had to be better, nothing could fill your eye. But Allah has filled it now with the sands of shame.

What will your brother say when he hears it from someone else abroad in London?

Worrying that his son Hussam is living with an aunt so vile, and impure.

The door quickly shut as her mother expressed a cry of surprise as two neighbors entered the house.

Ghada had not moved from the floor since he had brought her back. Her parents had answered the door in the merriest of voices, surprised and rejoicing and then he called her father into the saloon.

“She did not bleed,” he said carefully.  Mother, who was nearby eavesdropping, could not hold herself back when she heard.

“I do not understand” father retorted.

“I was not her first,” he concluded setting his jaw furiously.

*

Salah awoke to the sound, of his mobile ringing. He was in the villa, asleep on the bed he was meant to be sharing with his bride, already a week had passed. He stretched his right leg out it was numb and idle. This is not the face of a groom he told himself it was not healthy what he was doing to himself , he needed to get out enjoy himself, maybe he would drive to the Nile Street and see for himself the girls rumored to be easy. He had money, he had good looks, and he was not inferior in any way. He quickly undressed and ran the shower, tonight he would attempt to forget her.

*

Ghada had asked him once when they had been alone at the Golden Gate Restaurant.“What was she like” the questions darted out of her mouth like a shooting star leaving a trail of short-lived calm.

“She was very affectionate for a foreigner, she used to wash my feet at night and shave my beard before class”

He took a sip of his 7up and continued:

“Did you know I was her first? Do you know what it means to be the first of a khawajeeya?” “Enough, enough already these are private secrets of the home you shared; it is haram to be sharing them so openly” she scolded.“I know that of course, I would never tell the person I wanted to marry these things” Then what do you consider me?

The question suspended itself over her head like a silver net.

“Is something the matter?” he asked later as his car pulled into the dirt road behind the dormitory.

She had cried the remainder of that night into the arms of Nisreen, her roommate.

In her dream, she is back at the University hostel arguing with Nisreen, about Salah. “He understands my ambitions; he wants to rescue me from her. I know she is my mother, Allah will punish me for saying so, but she wants me so badly to grow fat and make babies. She wants to be able to take out pictures of me from my past and say “Wasn’t she lovely to look at?” the way she does herself. And I can’t Nisreen; I can’t go back to live with her. It doesn’t bother me that he was married to a Russian woman before me, he told me about their marriage without me asking. That means he fears Allah.

“He will spend the rest of your marriage comparing you with her,

You might never sense it but that is how men think.

And what if one morning he realizes his whim has returned for her? Where will you go?

You do not deserve to be any man’s second choice is all I am saying” Nisreen sighed.

They hugged.

And suddenly she is back inside the white villa, of their new home,

Walking barefoot as he admires her henna, kissing longingly;

“I have waited forever for this,” he says. Then the same voice contorted throbbing What will I tell my family? She awakes gasping; her mother stands in the doorway looking upon her foully.She shakes her head disappointed, locking the door behind her.

*

The street was busy with traffic as the university street lights illuminated the line of girls who stood casually waving at drivers.  Salah parked his car at the end of the street and observed. Car following car, Old men and college students, each lowered their tinted windows and then sped off followed by the smoke of exhaust. It was like a magic trick, five disappeared and suddenly new girls surfaced to light.

He could not make out faces and decided to get a closer look.

As he started moving his car, he noticed a silhouette in the rearview mirror.

“Looking for a ride?” he asked lowering the window “Sure why not” she answered.

“What’s your name?” he asked awkwardly.

“Amira, and yours?” she asked looking boldly at him.

“I am Gasim” he lied confidently.

“Where is your bride?” she asked her eyes staring curiously at henna on his palms.

“She died a week ago,” he answered uneasily adding “Malaria”

‘I am sorry” she murmured cautiously.

“What exactly do you want done tonight “he continued slyly.

“What every man knows he can offer best to a woman”

He turned on the air conditioner and began driving in the direction of his home,

Precautious he parked the car at the rear of the dwelling.

Opening the back door, as she stepped under the clean white lighting of his villa

She suddenly became more dazzling than before.

He placed her pale hand inside of his.

Her delicate fingers bowed easily into his harsh painted grasp,

He set his mouth to hers as she shuddered with ecstasy.

*

“Your aunt Dalia has come for a visit, go wash your face and wear this”

She said tossing an aging housedress of hers.

It was many sizes too big, but Ghada understood her intentions.

This was her lesson in vanity; she would never have nice things again.

“Has she confessed to you?” she heard her aunt’s thick voice ask.

“She swore innocent, the first night but she hasn’t spoken since…”

“Not every bride bleeds, did you have her examined by a doctor?” Dalia interjected.

‘The groom did, but she is my child, it shows on her face that she bears the guilt of a heavy secret.

Aunt Dalia sat on the couch stroking the hair of Hussam; it had been days since Ghada had last seen his beautiful smile she watched him searching her for something that was missing.

“Assalamu Aleikum” the words barely materialized from her lips.

A terrible cough rose from her throat.

“Has she eaten?” her aunt asked curiously.

What will I tell my family?

Splotches of color replaced the face of her inquisitive aunt,

As darkness swept over shutting her off like a power switch.

*

“Are you hungry” he asked her.

She had stepped into the bathroom to clean up.

“Yes, I am” she replied through the door.

He would take her out to Amwaj, buy her a chicken shawarma sandwich,

And then release her…

The door unlocked, she had reapplied her makeup.

“Are you ready?” He asked cautiously.

“Yes, let’s go”

The restaurant was crowded, so he ordered two sandwiches to go and watched as the fumes of the night mixed together with the festive voices gossiping in laughter and awe.

“You are the first Gassim, I know who spells their name with an s” she comments flirtatiously reaching for the dangling S initialed keychain inside of the ignition.

She proceeded to unfold her sandwich onto her lap like a treasure.

Salah took a bite of his sandwich.

“The S is the initial of my deceased bride; Saria may her soul rest in peace”

She chewed slowly eyes avoiding his face.

‘You do not look nor act at all like a prostitute” the statement fell from his lips with ease.

“Maybe that is because I learnt the trade later in life” she said slowly considering her words.

“What drove you then to practice this lifestyle?” he asked the question unashamedly, purely curious.

“It is more a matter of who not what” she responded calmly.

“My husband did” she said licking her fingers clean and then wiping them neatly with a Kleenex.

“He planted AIDS inside of me brought it home from some girl he met at a tavern in Addis,

He made me give life, while I didn’t realize I was slowly losing my own. “

The sandwich caught at the back of his throat, he choked momentarily searching for a trace of deceit,

But suddenly the eyes he was staring into were not the eyes of Amira who he had known for hours;

They belonged to Ghada, miles and miles away.

*

Her eyes opened to the sound of a key being carefully turned.

And then the pleading voice of Hussam kneeling beside her crumpled body.

“I have deen class today; I was supposed to commit to heart Surat Al Humuza,”

“It is the 104^th Sura of the Holy Quran; Al Humaza warns man against the slandering of others,

The fire of punishment mounts right up to the hearts and minds of men who commit such deeds.”

“Okay now can you test my memorization?” he asked handing her the Quran.

He began reciting softly:

In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

(1 ) “Woe to every slanderer and backbiter,

(2 )Who has gathered wealth and counts it again and again,

(3 )Thinking that his wealth will make last forever,

(4 )Nay, he will be flung into that which breaks to pieces,

(5 )And what will explain that which breaks to pieces?

“I forget what comes next” he says scratching the back of his head sleepily.

She responds helpfully “It is…”

(6 ) “…the fire kindled by Allah,

(7 ) Which will come over the hearts,

(8 ) Indeed, it will close in upon them,

(9 ) In towering columns outstretched.

“Ghada why are you crying?” he asked eyes tearing involuntarily.

*

In the year 2004, The Federal Ministry of Health,

Quoted the figure of people living in Sudan with AIDS

At 410,000.

Identity/ July 3, 2009

 

“If you do not find worth in your own country, you will never find it elsewhere.”
I allowed the sentence into my mouth, tasting it briefly.
“I’ve spent years correcting you, until you became a man” on the opposite side of the table, sat my father smiling triumphantly. Who Am I?
I went through yearbooks, the following afternoon. Identifying scars, staring at the lost eyes of a version of myself I had abandoned somewhere in my distant recollection. “Corrected?” The word lay like a numb fish slapping me in the face.
I reread the signatures and comments of friends and brief acquaintances, each of the pages whispered this is who you are don’t you remember?
*******************************************
At the mosque on Friday, The Sudanese men gather in their white turbans and shawls exchanging greetings, “Will Mustafa join our Sudanese soccer team this year as well?” a man asked my father.
“I am not sure, I hardly see the boy he is always out playing basketball” he chuckled proudly.
“And do you play soccer as well?” He asked eyes falling across my bored expression, and flabby physique.
“No, he is more… literary “my father replied switching the leg he leaned against while turning his back to me.
*******************************************
During the Gulf War, moved to Germany to stay with my Uncle Mohammed in Cologne. He owned a large lush garden with a set of monkey bars. In the afternoons, my cousins and siblings would hang themselves upside down as my mother and uncle stood shouting at my hesitant self.
“Climb!” instead I wandered off talking to myself.
“There is something the matter with him” he convinced my mother.
“Is there something wrong with him?”
My first grade teacher inquired at parent conferences.
But nobody quite knew what it was that was wrong.
The school psychiatrist Mrs. Barr tried everything.
Sliding puppets onto her hands,
Demonstrating love and anger, in her feeble performances,
Watching my inert expression.
*******************************************
“Walk straight” my father would bark getting up from his chair at lunch, demonstrating a walk he desired me to imitate.
Until I reached my high school, I would be hunched forward counting steps and lines, hoping my parents wouldn’t drive by on their way back to work and make further remarks.
Every year of high school, I changed the spelling of both my first and last name, searching for an identity I could make peace with.
*******************************************
At the dermatologist’s office,
‘You have the kind of acne that doesn’t leave scars” the doctor said reassuring me.
“I told you with time it will be corrected” my father argued later in the car, claiming my obsession for medication as vanity.
“What do you need clear skin for? So you can swim at the beach?”
*******************************************
“You have an interesting look to you,” said
The woman handing out pins and t-shirts, who ticked names off at the Creative Connections arrival desk in Oberwesel, Germany. I remember walking back to my room after my first poetry reading, and finding a circle of new friends, who wanted to listen one last time to the poem I had written called “God”.
*******************************************
Every parent has a vision of success painted for their child.
“I want to move to NYC and be a writer,” I argued after graduation.
“If you do not find worth in your own country, you will never find it elsewhere” my father uttered profoundly.
“Finish university in Sudan and then you can go wherever you like” He says closing the subject.
I felt like a moth caught in a jar.
What would I find in this country; I had blindly called home for years? What would I study? What would become of my dreams?

At the airport, I hugged my friends, as they each pulled out rolls of film, “Take lots of pictures” they said collectively.
“Oh yeah you might need these” my friend pulled out a bottle of vitamins, “Thanks” I said feeling a punch of humiliation as I fumbled with the zipper of my bag pack which held together everything I possibly wanted from my past to move forward with.
*******************************************
At the University of Khartoum, they nicknamed me “Al Imreeki .” I represented a culture to them, which they only caught glimpses of on T.V or in movie theatres. They bombarded me with all kinds of questions, about freedom, about the chances of winning the green card lottery, and I rolled off response after response, like a contestant on a general knowledge show. Whenever I stalled chatting with someone to share an expressive joke, or incident I would catch their eyes staring, memorizing my gestures, like the face of a stranger they were fascinated by.

Later when I befriended colleagues in the dormitory, I would watch the ice melt away as others shook my hand warmly inviting me to their dorms, each titled after the city from which they originated.
*******************************************
When I first arrived in Khartoum, I felt as though I was a foreigner, each time I rode a bus, I was annoyed by the scrutiny of each passenger, the ideas they formed leisurely returning to glance again to wherever their mind wandered.
It took me almost a year, to realize that the governing logic applied in social judgments is strictly based on sight. And that even within an educated person, deeply embedded are the same prejudices and views on the harsh reality of life.

On the street, amputated beggars and children with polio crawl pleading for money, civilians rush by mumbling “Allah Kareem”, which translates to “God is gracious.” I watch the man with the torn pants, and the woman with the missing heel of her shoe, reach into their pockets delivering zaka , No one can ever bring themselves to look deeply into the palm of a beggar, for inside each palm sweat collects offering a moist reminder of the struggles each of us bears in silence.
Yesterday, I gazed into the distracted face of the woman who sat beside me holding a large brown envelope to her chest almost hugging its fragile body like a child. I wondered who she was in the past, what had become of her now? She shifted slightly and the name of an anonymous patient and a hospital logo loomed at me. Her brows were deep in concentration and fret. Then there was the old man sitting to my left brushing his knees against mine, begging for conversation. “Do you study English?” he asked politely,
I nodded,
“Mashallah ”
He responded turning his attention to the street.
*******************************************
The most beautiful utterance in Sudanese greetings is:
“Allah yedeek al afia “although it is spoken involuntarily, it is a profound duaa , that in essence means
“May Allah grant you wellbeing.”
Whenever it is spoken I recall my first malaria experience,
The weight of my head and the temperature of my body, the inability to walk, eat, or pray. Memorizing the light fixtures above my head and the squeaking of the ceiling fan.
It was the first time I realized the value of such a common prayer.
*******************************************
When people first hear me speak they always ask:
Where are you from?
I speak with an American accent; my educational background differs greatly from many of the people I know who also lived abroad.
I have watched many adapt to my situation with blind obedience,
They are always the first to say:
“You consider things too sensitively
You should have adapted by now.”
But what people have never bothered to ask me is:
Where do you belong?
Three years ago, I stepped off a plane, distracted by the dust and aimless goats that fought the way I had, to fit into a landscape, deeply etched with a faded history of colors I could not have claimed.

I belong now to the laughter of children on the street,
Playful and bold.
I belong at the bridge where both Niles greet each other daily,
Resurrecting creation.
I belong under the trees at the University of Khartoum,
Where a bird has accidentally defecated upon my lap;
Sitting there embarrassed,
Surrounded by friends who chant hysterically:
“You’re getting money soon!”
*******************************************
You were right.
I have found an Identity,
It however does not resemble anything,
You ever taught me about myself.
In fact, it sounds more like the crashing of waves
Preparing the wet sands,
Where I will proudly walk one day,
Unaided.