Lyrics Alley

XIII

‘He was doing well for a while, busying himself with his books and then suddenly he deteriorated again.’ Waheeba addressed herself to the ladies sitting with her in the hoash, but deliberately ignored Nabilah. She had received her co-wife coolly but her agitation at this unprecedented visit was obvious.

Nabilah sat on the opposite bed, with her children at either side. She felt them pressing against her, both sullen in their best clothes and with their hair brushed and neat. She, too, had taken special care with her appearance. She was dressed modestly, for why should she put on a show when she was only walking down a dusty alley to sit in Waheeba’s courtyard? But she had made a point of wearing a new cotton dress and having her hair done. A visit to the hairdresser in Khartoum always uplifted her spirits and increased her confidence, while a new dress, however simple, was gratifying in its very newness; crisp, uncreased and smelling of fresh cotton. The children stared at Nur. He was asleep, sedated as Waheeba had explained, but it was a restless sleep for he moved his head from side to side and occasionally mumbled. Was he ever going to stabilise or were these migraines psychological? Did Mahmoud want Farouk and Ferial to see their half-brother before it was too late or was this too dramatic an assumption? It was not something to be proud of, but actually the children had never been to see Nur since the accident.

This morning over breakfast Mahmoud had confronted her.

‘How could you, Madame, have overlooked this! How could you not have taken them all these past months?’

‘You didn’t tell me,’ she snapped back.

‘Must I tell you everything? Can you not think for yourself? Such a simple social obligation — is it not obvious to you?’

Nabilah was unruffled by this criticism.

‘You told me I need never set foot in Waheeba’s quarters. So how, then, can I accompany the children? You are their father. You are the one who should have taken them.’

He frowned and pushed away his plate. He never took the children out unless Nabilah was with him.

‘Send them with the nanny.’

‘The nanny won’t be able to protect them if Waheeba pulls any tricks.’

‘Nonsense! You are being fanciful. Today,’ he insisted, standing up to leave to the office. ‘Today they must go to him. We’ve left it too long, and now he’s had another setback. Either send them with the nanny or go with them yourself.’

Now that she was actually sitting in Waheeba’s hoash, curiosity gripped her. She had always wanted to see Waheeba’s quarters. Not that she had any doubt that they were inferior to hers, but still, she craved the small details. The hoash was large, with the string beds arranged in a large rectangle. Nur’s bed was one of them, but his was a proper hospital bed with wheels. Coffee tables of various sizes were arranged in the middle of the rectangle, and the smallest of them were pulled near the beds, within arm’s reach. It was as traditional, and as crude, as expected. Yet Nabilah could not help but admire the linen, the embroidered pillowcases, and the charming tablecloths. This was where, in addition to the gold bangles gripping her arm, Waheeba’s wealth manifested itself. The level of cleanliness was high, too. Nabilah sat on fresh-smelling, ironed sheets and the glass she drank from sparkled, though it smelt faintly of clay from the zeer where the water was stored. The tea glass smelt of incense and the tea itself was spiced with cardamom. It was sunset, and the floor of the hoash had been watered. A cool, gentle breeze carried the earthy, cloying scents of Umdurman, these scents that Nabilah could never get used to.

Apart from a neighbour and some family members, the hoash was busy with servants and those poor relations who helped out, even though their status was above that of the servants. Nur’s nurse Shukry, the cousin of Ustaz Badr, came over specially to greet Nabilah, thereby acknowledging that it was through her that he had obtained his post. He then kept at a distance, and it was the young boy, Zaki, who sat on Nur’s bed. Batool, newly married and living with her husband, was, nevertheless, in close attendance, as she was the one who had offered Nabilah the tea and water. There were children, too, running around, and there was certainly enough room for that. Nabilah recognised Zeinab, Fatma’s daughter. She was the same age as Ferial, but while Ferial was sitting politely next to her mother, the other girl was roaming around, her hair unkempt and her feet bare. All this chaos around Nur, with no respect for his condition! He should be alone in his room, entitled to peace and quiet.

‘I don’t know what happened to Nur today,’ whined Waheeba, addressing Fatma and Halima. ‘Yesterday he was chatting with me and laughing, just like his old self. He was in his room reading, and I said to him, “My boy, you will hurt your eyes. Besides, there are no pictures in these books. What is grabbing your attention so much?”‘

Nabilah smiled at this admission of ignorance. Only an illiterate woman could harbour such a thought, only a stupid one would voice it.

‘So he started reading out loud,’ Waheeba continued. ‘I liked his voice, sweet and lifting, but I couldn’t understand a single word. He said “It’s English poetry, Yumma!”‘

Nabilah laughed. It was the wrong thing to do, for no one else had even smiled. Fatma and Halima looked sombre, while the neighbour was listening avidly, as if there were more to come.

Waheeba glared at Nabilah, and then turned to her audience.

‘Look at that Egyptian woman! She is coming here to laugh at my misfortune.’

‘Oh no, Hajjah,’ replied Nabilah, but still she did not sense danger, still she felt safe. ‘Your misfortune is mine as well. We are all one family. I was just admiring Nur’s wit and intelligence. He is a fine, educated boy. His father is proud of him.’

‘Don’t fool me with your clever tongue. You! What can I say about you? The truth is out. You yourself have exposed yourself. Months, months after Nur’s return you are bringing his little brother and sister to visit him!’

Nabilah protested, ‘Their father, Mahmoud Bey—’

‘Don’t blame anyone else! You deliberately keep your children away from their relatives. They don’t know anyone. You, girl.’ She glared at Ferial. The girl shrank closer to her mother. ‘You, Ferial, do you know that girl who is playing here? She is the same age as you!’ Waheeba pointed at Zeinab, who twisted to look at them. Her arm hung on the headboard of Nur’s bed. ‘Speak up, Ferial, can’t you speak? Don’t you have a tongue to speak with?’

Nabilah whispered to her daughter, ‘You must answer Tante Waheeba.’

Children must be polite. When addressed by adults they must respond.

Ferial and Zeinab stared at each other. Two six-year-olds assessing each other. The distance that separated them was defined by cultures, constructed by adults.

‘I don’t know what her name is,’ said Ferial. Her Egyptian accent was pronounced, foreign in this setting.

Waheeba mimicked Ferial’s accent, ‘I don’t know her name.’

Mocking laughter from the neighbour, and even Fatma and Halima smiled. Nabilah held her daughter’s hand. Zeinab’s face lit up and she moved closer to Ferial. Waheeba continued, ‘Her name is Zeinab and she is very closely related to you, but maybe you don’t even know who her father is? If Nur is bedridden for months before you come and see him, then maybe you don’t even know your older brother, Nassir?’

There was so much hostility in her voice that Nabilah intervened, ‘Hajjah Waheeba, the girls go to different schools, that’s why they don’t see each other.’

‘Oh no! You are the one to blame. You are the one keeping them apart, as if your children are better than ours.’

The accusation startled Nabilah, not because it was true, but because such fierce pride was unexpected.

Waheeba looked more aggressive now, leaning forward, her hands on her knees.

‘You yourself, how have you behaved? What have you done for Nur?’

‘I did as my husband commanded,’ said Nabilah, provocatively. ‘I went with him and Nur to London—’

The word ‘London’ infuriated Waheeba even more.

‘God curse London and London’s useless doctors! Did they help us in any way? Sucking our money, the thieves! What was the use of that journey? Did you want to have a vacation? Did you want to see the sights? I heard all about it. You were out and about. You spent the nights in my husband’s arms in a fancy hotel, not at the hospital.’

Nabilah was taken aback.

‘Every day I visited the hospital, every single day.’

‘Only for a few hours. Sitting in a chair like a guest. Did you lift a finger to nurse my son?’

‘For a fortnight on the ship, I nursed Nur. Day and night I did the best for him that I could. When we returned here, I was the one who found him the nurse he now has. I asked around and Ustaz Badr said his cousin, Shukry, had nursing experience. And I was the one who asked Ustaz Badr to come and see Nur on a regular basis. I explained to him that Mahmoud Bey didn’t expect Nur to sit formal examinations, but that literature was something he had always been keen on, and he could do with some mental stimulation. Hasn’t Ustaz Badr been coming regularly?’

Waheeba didn’t reply but Fatma nodded.

‘He comes after he goes to your place to give Farouk and Ferial their lessons. I’ve also spoken to him about giving Zeinab lessons.’

‘That’s good. He is an excellent tutor.’ Nabilah turned to Waheeba. ‘You see? I am always looking out for Nur’s welfare.’

Waheeba snorted. ‘You don’t fool me. Let us look back, let us see what you did on the day of the accident.’ Spittle flew from her mouth. The neighbour sat up straight in anticipation.

‘Where were you on the day of the accident?’

‘I was in Cairo.’

‘Yes, you were in Cairo, and when you heard the news what did you do? You didn’t budge! You didn’t accompany Mahmoud to Alexandria. He travelled as soon as he heard the news on that same day. And you didn’t follow him, not the day after, or even the week after. You did not get on that train and visit Nur in hospital. The staff from the office made the trip. Friends, business acquaintances, people I didn’t even know made that trip. But did you show your face? No. You stayed in Cairo with your mother. Shame on you. Shame, shame.’

There was a hush in the hoash. Neither Fatma nor Halima extended a word in Nabilah’s favour. If this were a showdown, they would close ranks with Waheeba.

‘I acted according to my husband’s wishes,’ said Nabilah. ‘I stayed in Cairo because he told me to stay. I went to London because he asked me to go. This is exactly how an exemplary wife would behave. A wife who knows how to please her husband and hold on to him. And if you don’t know how to please your husband, learn from me!’

‘Learn from you!’ Waheeba cried out. ‘If I learned from you I would learn to be hard-hearted. You are without tenderness. You live with us, but you have no sympathy for us. Your heart is as black as can be and your eyes are hot and envious. You don’t wish us any good! We were living well before you came from your country; we had nothing to complain of. I ask myself, who gave Nur the evil eye? Who would wish me, and my son, harm? It’s you! And you’re not even hiding it. You come in here smiling and gloating!’

‘I will not sit here another minute to be insulted, not another minute!’

Nabilah stood up and yanked the children up by their arms. But instead of marching out, she paused. It was a cue for one of the other women to intervene, to put in a good word, a sweet phrase to calm the atmosphere, to placate the two of them and restore peace. Nabilah did not want to flounce off; she wanted Fatma to beg her to stay, to plead with her not to take offence. But Fatma kept silent because Waheeba was her mother-in-law. Halima, then, should play that conciliatory note, but she merely looked down at the floor. The neighbour was an amused spectator, a collector of gossip. She watched with a grin on her face to see what Nabilah would do next.

Nabilah grabbed each of her children by the hand and tottered out of the hoash. The floor was uneven underneath her, not the smooth surface needed for her high-heeled sandals.

‘Who is Zeinab?’ Ferial asked, as Nabilah tucked her into bed.

She felt great tenderness towards her daughter tonight. Ferial was clearly and irrevocably a piece of her, though vulnerable and somewhat contaminated by Sudanese blood. This made her imperfect, in need of guidance and rescue.

‘Zeinab is the daughter of your half-brother, Nassir. Her mother, Fatma, is your cousin, Uncle Idris’s daughter.

‘So Zeinab is my niece and I am her aunt.’

‘Yes.’ She kissed her cheek.

‘So she should call me Aunty.’ Ferial giggled.

‘She won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she is the same age as you, and because they don’t respect titles here. Now go to sleep. Enough of this, enough of them for one day.’

Yet Nabilah did not leave. She stretched out and lay next to her daughter, smelling her hair and the talcum powder on her neck. Ferial’s breathing became steadier. She was falling asleep, happy because her mother was close. How trusting she was! Everything Nabilah told her she would believe, every place she would take her, she would go. A surge of love filled Nabilah. There were only two people in the world she loved equally and as much as her children; her mother and grandmother in Cairo. She ached to tell them about her visit to Waheeba, to rally them to her side. Her words would rouse their indignation. How lonely she was, how far away from home. She could tell Mahmoud all that happened today and he would not sympathise. ‘Women bickering,’ he would say, or something along those lines.

Last summer in Cairo her grandmother had reproached her.

‘Why don’t you love your husband? Why is your heart hard towards him?’

It was not hard any more. Seeing him struggle to help Nur, seeing him weep at the hospital in London, had softened Nabilah. She felt sorry for him, that rich, powerful man who could not buy a cure for his son. She fell in love with his vulnerability, his chivalry and eagerness to succeed. London drew them together, those three months in the Ritz that might well be the happiest period of their marriage. Free from their respective countries, the two of them became buoyant; they turned to face each other unrestricted by the demands of Egyptian versus Sudanese culture, equalised on imperial soil. Charming London, atmospheric London, solid and looking forward; it made them a couple, a ‘Mr and Mrs’, as was the English expression. This brought out the best in Nabilah, and she returned to Umdurman with high hopes, resolved to tolerate the Sudanese side of her husband. His marriage to Waheeba and his closeness to Idris was a shell, she decided, unrelated to his true progressive personality, the one she had discovered in London and cherished.

For this reason, Nabilah brushed aside the incident at Waheeba’s hoash and deliberately belittled the antagonism that increasingly wafted from her co-wife’s side. Waheeba would never forgive her for usurping her rightful place by Nur’s bedside in London and there was nothing Nabilah could do about that. She had obeyed Mahmoud, and he was the important one. How could Waheeba ever be a true rival? How could Nabilah’s position ever be threatened when Mahmoud publicly and privately, in no uncertain terms, favoured his younger wife?

The news from Egypt distracted Nabilah, too, funnelling from the public sphere to the private. In Suez, Mahmoud told her, the English commander, besieged by guerrilla fighters, demanded that the Egyptian police and paramilitary officers lay down their arms and leave the city. Of course they refused! How could they not? They were punished with open fire and the numbers killed appalled the whole country. Then Cairo burning, places she had visited; the downtown that held memories — Groppi, Cinema Metro, shops and businesses with foreign connections — were targeted in retaliation for the massacre at the Canal Zone. Nabilah did not have to strain or go out of her way to get the news, Mahmoud always had the latest developments, and he was as avid as she was, if not more. Dispatches of a more personal matter reached her through her mother’s letters. Nabilah’s stepfather had lost his job. His party, the Wafd, had fallen out of favour. There had been a government shake-up and Uncle Mohsin was summoned to stand before the Purge Committee, accused of corruption and pensioned off.

‘He is sitting at home,’ wrote Qadriyyah. ‘He doesn’t know what to do with himself. We go for walks or he meets his friends in the café. I do my best to amuse and distract him but I cannot compensate him. He is pining for his old job and highly irritable most of the time. No one knows how long this crisis will last.’

When Nabilah showed Mahmoud this letter he said, ‘Let them come here. The travel will do them good and I can find your Uncle Mohsin a position in Khartoum.’

Nabilah was overjoyed. She flung her arms around him and thanked him in a gush of words and kisses that made him laugh. Her mother here! In the same country! Nabilah’s life would be enhanced, it would be shared, and the loneliness so long inside her would finally be cured. Such joy and optimism! She set out immediately to redecorate the guest room, with new beds, new curtains and a fresh layer of paint on the wall.

There was, too, another dimension to Nabilah’s excitement. Her mother had never visited her before. This would be the first time. Now Nabilah would see her own Umdurman life through Qadriyyah’s eyes. Her position as Mahmoud Bey’s wife would be inspected and assessed. Now that he was intent on helping her stepfather, Nabilah felt honoured to have such a powerful, generous husband. But what about other things? She was never quite certain whether she was in an enviable position, or a wretched one. She wanted, naturally, to be in an enviable position; that was what she aspired to, that was what she worked for from morning to night. But a side of her felt that she had been wronged, that her marriage was unjust, hastily arranged, even a mistake. Qadriyyah’s visit would lay the matter to rest. Her mother would be the judge.

Walking down the steps of the airplane, both her mother and stepfather looked considerably older and less steady. It was not only the fatigue of the journey; Uncle Mohsin was tired from deep within. His once athletic body seemed frail, and over the next few weeks he was often absent-minded, as if he could not stop mulling over the upheaval that Egypt was going through, the demise of his party and the rise of his adversaries. Qadriyyah was solicitous towards him, engineering every situation to meet his comfort, possessive about his new fragility and mindful of his new prospects in Sudan. It was not the situation Nabilah had envisaged. She wanted her mother’s full attention, more intimacy, more analysis, but she hid her disappointment even from herself and threw herself into the role of the perfect hostess.

Mahmoud gave a dinner party for his in-laws to which every high-ranking Egyptian official, including the Minister, was invited. There was a picnic in the Abuzeid ranch in Kadaro, and another in Burri, where they sat under the trees in a charming boathouse overlooking the Blue Nile. Qadriyyah met all of Nabilah’s friends, and she visited the children’s school and studied every corner of the saraya. A visit to Nur was scheduled as part of the visitors’ itinerary because Qadriyyah and Mohsin felt that they could not possibly be in Sudan, in the adjacent house, without visiting their host’s invalid son. Mahmoud accompanied them himself, and they made a substantial party: Mohsin and Qadriyyah, Mahmoud and Nabilah with their children.

It was the first time the Cairo couple had seen a traditional Sudanese hoash, and although Waheeba was their hostess, she remained a silent figure in the background. She stared at the visitors, but apart from exchanging simple greetings, said nothing. Nur was in good form, sitting propped up and chatty. He seemed to enjoy seeing new faces and hearing all the news from Cairo. He charmed his half-brother and sister, whom he rarely saw, and, in general, showed himself to be a witty conversationalist. Nabilah felt a surge of fondness for him. They had become close, in London, and she missed him when they returned to Umdurman. But Waheeba was a barrier in their relationship. Nur’s loyalty to his mother made him keep Nabilah at a distance, and Nabilah’s need to avoid Waheeba’s hoash prevented her from visiting him.

Afterwards, on the way home, Ferial whispered to her mother, ‘Hajjah Waheeba pinched my shoulder.’

‘Maybe she was just being playful.’ Nabilah held the children at arm’s length these days. She was straining, instead, to have her mother all to herself.

‘No, she was being nasty. She’s a beast!’

‘Shush. Don’t be rude about grown-ups.’ But Nabilah’s reprimand was mild. She was eager to hear Qadriyyah’s assessment of Mahmoud’s first wife.

They talked that night, staying up late on the terrace after Uncle Mohsin had gone to bed and Mahmoud left for a dinner engagement in Khartoum. By Sudanese standards the night was cool, but both women were in summer nightgowns, enjoying the breeze, the slight chill in the air and the heavy disc of the moon. It was the talk Nabilah had ached for, and it started with Nur.

Qadriyyah said, ‘They treat him very casually, I couldn’t help but notice. That little girl, Zeinab, climbed onto his bed and slotted a cigarette in his mouth!’

Nabilah laughed. ‘He never used to smoke in front of his father, now he has no qualms.’

‘But it’s in such poor taste for a child to light cigarettes! And is he always surrounded by all and sundry? Invalids need their peace and quiet.’

‘I told them this, and they said he loves company. They are spoiling him. It took months for them to realise that he can read on his own if someone turns the pages for him, and it’s only now that they’re using the wheelchair! In London the doctors stressed the importance of independence, but his mother wants him waited upon. No wonder he has his ups and downs!’

‘Poor boy! Your Uncle Mohsin said to me, “When I see the tragedy of others, my own seems small in comparison”. He is not himself at all. Mahmoud Bey is going out of his way to secure him a suitable position here, but Mohsin is not interested.’

Nabilah did not want the conversation to drift yet again to her stepfather. She spoke sharply, ‘What did you think of Waheeba, Mama?’

‘She is nothing next to you, of course. Your fingernail is more valuable than the whole of her. Everyone knows this, and Mahmoud Bey more than anyone else.’

‘So why doesn’t he divorce her?’

‘Oh Nabilah,’ Qadriyyah sighed, ‘you should not even think about her. She doesn’t threaten you in any way. She will come round, you’ll see. She will be on your side, eager to serve you and your children.’

‘But it is not only her that is the problem. It’s the whole country!’

‘Don’t start again. Don’t start complaining.’

‘I just want to know what you think, now that you are here, seeing my life and my house for the first time. Is this what you imagined when you married me to him?’

Qadriyyah lit a cigarette and inhaled. She was bringing her attention round to a serious subject.

‘When I saw Mahmoud Bey for the first time,’ she began, ‘I saw an Egyptian man wearing a suit and a fez, speaking as we do. He was a little dark, but not too dark, and he was in his prime. We heard that he was wealthy, that he was well-known, and that he had been received by the King. All positive credentials. Yes, he was married and he had grown-up sons — he didn’t hide these facts — but he was no longer living with Waheeba, and no bridegroom is perfect.’

‘Didn’t I have other options?’

‘Oh, you did. A pretty girl like you had her suitors, but they were all young and struggling. No one could compete with Mahmoud. No one could match him. I didn’t hesitate, Nabilah, not once.’

‘You didn’t care that I would be so far away? You didn’t care that I would be alone?’

Qadriyyah sounded defensive. ‘I did not think of this country, Sudan. I did not visualise it. For me it was like a southern province, an extension of Egypt. And Mahmoud is not a foreigner.’

‘He is, Mama. He loves Egypt, but he is Sudanese.’

‘But that’s not how I saw him first. His automobile, his accent, his favourite dishes — he was one of us. And if he was truly Sudanese, he would want you to dress in a to be like every other Sudanese woman. He would insist that Farouk and Ferial speak with a Sudanese accent. But he doesn’t!’

‘When he was ill, he spoke all the time with a Sudanese accent.’ Tears welled up in Nabilah’s eyes, but she held them in check. ‘At work, he is inseparable from Idris, and I am sure he loves Nassir and Nur more than he loves Farouk and Ferial!’

‘Nonsense, Nabilah. He doesn’t deny you or your children anything.’

‘Oh I used to be more confident,’ she admitted. ‘He hardly ever used to visit Waheeba, and at the mention of her name he would make all sorts of expressions of disgust. But now, every day, every single day, he is at her hoash!’

‘To visit his invalid son,’ argued Qadriyyah. ‘He goes there for Nur, not for Waheeba.’

‘I know,’ sighed Nabilah. ‘It’s the accident that changed the situation, to her advantage. The other day I went to see her and she frightened me. I am afraid she might harm me or the children.’

‘Well, you made a mistake that day. You should not have gone to see her alone. Mahmoud Bey should have accompanied you. In his presence she would not dare say a word against you. Look how she was today, a shadow in the background, as unobtrusive as a servant!’

‘You are right, Mama.’ Nabilah smiled and kissed her mother.

‘Remember how contented you were in the early years of your marriage when you were living in Cairo? And last summer, when you were together in London. Keep your husband close to you, my girl.’ Qadriyyah stood up to retire to bed. ‘No one, no matter how wicked or clever, would be able to drive a wedge between you.’

When Mahmoud came home, Nabilah was sitting up in bed reading a magazine.

‘Look what I got for you,’ he laughed.

It was a small black top hat. He sat next to her on the bed and took out his lighter. She put the magazine down and prepared herself for one of those party tricks he was so fond of. He set light to the top of the hat, and out slithered a black snake. She squealed when the warm rubber caressed her neck. The snake’s skin felt real and its length increased.

‘Take it away from me!’ She was breathless and flustered, but it was precisely her agitation that Mahmoud was enjoying, the excitement in her eyes and voice. He laughed out loud when she crawled to the other end of the bed, silk nightdress riding up her thighs.

After bidding Qadriyyah and Mohsin farewell at the airport, Mahmoud remained in Khartoum on business and Nabilah set off with the driver back to Umdurman. She found the separation from her mother even more painful than she had expected, and immediately began to count the months until summer when it would be her turn to travel with the children to Cairo. Although Mahmoud had secured more than one position for Uncle Mohsin, her stepfather had turned them all down. He was unable to pull himself away from Cairo and was too weary, he said, to start afresh. It was a severe disappointment to Nabilah and she had to content herself with Qadriyyah’s gratitude that the couple had, at least, gained an intermission from the political climate in Egypt and enjoyed a rejuvenating change.

Just before the bridge, the car thudded to a halt and broke Nabilah’s reverie. The problem was a punctured tyre And she had to stand in the sun while the driver replaced the wheel. In Cairo there would be a vender selling cool drinks, there would be other ladies walking about and she would entertain herself by studying their dresses, hairstyles and shoes. There would be buses and trams. There would be, at the very least, a bit of shade. But here it was nothing stretching out into nothing. It was a harsh country, a harsh climate. She took her compact out of her handbag and powdered her nose.

Subdued and thirsty, she returned home and headed straight for the ice box. As she was getting herself a cold glass of water, Farouk came running in.

‘Ferial’s hurt,’ he said.

‘Did she hurt herself playing in the garden?’

Before he could reply she turned to see Batool and the nanny carrying Ferial into the room. It was strange to see Batool here. Usually, she never came to this side of the saraya and was constantly with Waheeba. This raised Nabilah’s suspicions. Ferial looked dazed and in shock and she was wrapped in a light cotton sheet. The nanny and Batool laid her down on the sofa and Batool put a pillow under her head.

‘What happened? What have you done to her, Batool?’ Nabilah knelt next to Ferial. ‘What’s wrong, my darling, what’s hurting you?’

Tears ran down the girl’s face and Nabilah’s anxiety rose.

‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’

Ferial’s face was unharmed, no bruises. Her arms were fine. She pulled away the sheet.

‘She’s been circumcised,’ Batool said. ‘Today was Zeinab’s circumcision and Aunt Waheeba said Ferial should be circumcised, too.’

At first Nabilah’s mind couldn’t absorb this information. She stared at her daughter. Under the sheet, Ferial was naked from the waist down. The wound was raw, fresh, the soft vulnerable folds removed, and in their place, the flesh stitched up. Nabilah cried out. It was as if her own body had been punctured, her insides sucked out.

‘Farouk, go to your room,’ she whispered.

He must not see his sister like this. She gathered her strength to stand up and face Batool. She slapped her. She hit her once, twice with all her fury. Batool screamed. She raised her arms to shield herself and her to be collapsed.

‘Why are you hitting me? Didn’t you know? I thought they told you!’

‘Liar!’ shouted Nabilah. ‘How dare you! How dare you touch my child!’

She grabbed Batool’s long braids and pushed her against the wall.

Batool let out a wail.

‘You are cruel, cruel. You hate me, but I am just a poor girl. I was just doing as I was told.’

Faced with such obtuseness, Nabilah’s anger began to subside. She now wanted to know details, wanted Batool to speak instead of scream. She wanted Ferial to stop crying. Already the child was distraught, not only from the ordeal she had endured, but now the sight of her mother attacking Batool.

The facts were revealed, piece by piece, through Batool’s hiccups and sobs. While Nabilah was at the airport, Ferial was lured over to Waheeba’s quarters. She was told that Zeinab was having a party and that there would be sweets and many girls her age to play with. Indeed, it was a celebration of sorts for Zeinab, though it was kept low-key because Mahmoud had forbidden circumcision in his household ever since the procedure was declared illegal by the Anglo-Egyptian government. Clearly, his authority had been overridden by Waheeba, who insisted that her granddaughter must follow tradition. Zeinab was dressed in a new red satin dress and the women of the neighbourhood were invited. They sang wedding songs, and the older girls danced, miming the bridal pigeon dance. Only the best midwife was summoned for the Abuzeid girls. She injected them first with procaine and the instruments she used were sterilised. Afterwards, to prevent infection, she administered penicillin.

Batool reassured Nabilah that the stitches would be removed after two days, then Ferial would be up and about. She would be like other Sudanese girls, girls like Soraya and Fatma. If Ferial was now in pain, Zeinab was in pain, too. If Ferial was now traumatised, Zeinab was traumatised, too. Waheeba herself had held the girls down one by one, gripping their knees apart. The deed was done and the procedure was irreversible. The slice of a knife, the tug and cutting away of flesh, and Ferial was someone else, one of them. She could never ever be like her mother again.

Nabilah surrendered to the nightmare. It held her in a vice. Such unnecessary pain, such stupidity and malice. She dismissed Batool.

‘Don’t ever set foot in my house again. I don’t want to see your face.’ She fired the nanny for not protecting Ferial. ‘Pack your belongings. First thing tomorrow morning I want you on that train back to Egypt.’

The girl started to cry. Farouk, caught in the middle of this, was also reprimanded for not looking after his sister, and yelled at even more for wanting to see her wound. Nabilah wanted to summon a doctor to check on Ferial. Yes, she would bring in an English doctor, scandal or no scandal, and expose Waheeba’s crime. However, the telephone lines were down. She ran to catch the driver but it was too late. He had already gone back to Khartoum to pump the punctured tyre with air and wait on Mahmoud.

Ferial would not allow Nabilah out of her sight. Her light-skinned, smooth-haired daughter brought so low, whimpering and clinging. She needed help to drink, to eat, to change into her nightdress. She needed help to pass urine — and that was the most difficult process of all, because the fear of burning her wound made her hold herself back. So much did Nabilah empathise with her, so much was her reaction visceral, that she herself, when her bladder felt full, could not pass water. She sat on the toilet seat, trembling and crying, but not for long, because Ferial called out to her and she scrambled to her feet again. In the end, the two of them lay down on the bed. The power failed and the ceiling fan came to a halt. Darkness and heat: this ghastly accursed country. Nabilah moved the children out to the terrace. A bit of fresh air, but Ferial would not settle.

‘My feet hurt,’ she whined.

Her feet! What now? Nabilah lit a candle and examined her daughter’s feet. True enough, there were red welts running sideways on the bridge of each foot. She washed them down and applied mercurochrome, struggling to identify the cause. She came to understand that during the circumcision Ferial had been placed on an angharaib without a mattress. Waheeba held down her upper body while her heels were tucked through the strings of the bed so that she wouldn’t kick the midwife. That was why there were now marks on her feet from the ropes that made up the base of the angharaib.

‘Where were you, Mummy? Why did you go out and leave me? Why did you let them do this to me?’

The reproach grated on Nabilah’s nerves. She kissed Ferial, she wept and mumbled apologies. She smoothed her daughter’s hair and promised everything from candyfloss to ice cream to a trip to the zoo. Rage still pulsed inside her, and she began to fret over the consequences. In the short term, the risk of haemorrhage, septicaemia, urinary and genital infections. Time and again, she checked Ferial’s temperature. She encouraged her to drink more liquids and pass more urine. But even if all went well in the next few days, until the stitches were removed, there would still be long-term consequences. She recalled the horror stories she had heard since arriving in Sudan. Brides, whose wedding nights were a disaster because of too tight an infibulation; the story of a baby’s head damaged during labour, endless complications.

When Nabilah had first heard these stories, they had sounded abstract and distant, folklorist tales of backward women. Now her own flesh and blood was incriminated. In the future, when Ferial got married, she would suffer pain and alienation from pleasure. A progressive, liberal man might not even want to marry her in the first place. He would have to be Sudanese, one of them, and Nabilah, casting her vision to the future, had always wished that her children would marry Egyptians. Even more consequences: every time Ferial had a baby, it would be necessary to slit the circumcision skin fold during labour and stitch it up again afterwards. Nabilah could visualise the future scene in a modern Cairo hospital, the obstetrician shaking his head, disgusted to come across such barbarity, the kind of barbarity only found among peasants and the uneducated. Nabilah’s face burnt with shame. She dragged herself away from Ferial’s side, stumbling in the dark until she reached the bathroom and retched in disgust. A pulse beat in her head. Why? Why all this? Waheeba had struck her a terrible blow, but she must be strong for Ferial’s sake.

There was no one Nabilah could talk to until Mahmoud came home. Farouk, after she had made amends with him, was fast asleep. This was a blessing, as she had neither the energy nor the peace of mind to answer his questions. Ferial continued to cling and whimper, reproachful and unforgiving. But who could blame the poor child?

‘Go to sleep, my love. Close your eyes so that your body can rest and be better again.’

She herself was wide awake and alert. She stared up at the sky and the twinkling stars were mocking and cunning. What should she do next? Would she ever be able to get back at Waheeba? Ferial sighed and started to doze off. In turn, Nabilah relaxed a little. Mahmoud would surely be furious; Waheeba had done something he had explicitly forbidden. In his own house, she had flaunted his wishes, let alone the deviousness of taking Ferial behind her mother’s back. He will divorce her, Nabilah thought. He must. Waheeba would be cast out in disgrace. And that would be the ultimate retribution.