Lyrics Alley

XXI

After dropping off the basket of food at the prison and spending a few minutes with his cousin, Badr hurried away. Insha’ Allah, this would be his last visit. Shukry’s sentence was nearly coming to an end.

‘As soon as they set you free, you must return to Egypt,’ Badr had urged him. ‘Spend not a single night in Khartoum. I will buy you the train ticket myself.’ Naturally, Shukry was disgruntled at that. He would return to Egypt empty-handed, but enough was enough. His sojourn in Sudan had been a failure and he had no one to blame but himself. ‘If he disobeys me this time, I will not host him,’ resolved Badr. ‘I will not bring him to my house and I will certainly not inform him of my new address.’

My new address. Today was moving day! Today he had hired a donkey cart to move his family and their belongings to the new flat in the Abuzeid building. When he thought about it, he grew light-headed. It was really going to happen, against all the odds. Shukry’s crime had brought him closer to the attention of Mahmoud Abuzeid, who was able to see Badr as separate from Shukry. A lesser man would have held a grudge, or feared that forgiveness would make him look weak. For years Badr had prayed for that flat and chased that opportunity. There were times when he had despaired, but today he would walk up those stairs. They would all walk up these stairs, and dear, sweet Hanniyah would have a balcony from where she could sit and look down at the goings-on in the street just like a Cairo lady.

He stepped off the tram and hurried to catch the inaugural prayer at the newly refurbished mosque. King Farouk had been funding this project for almost five years and the prayer hall smelt of paint and the fans that circled overhead were pristine and modern. Badr’s bare feet sank in the new, clean carpet. The mosque was packed and Badr could not make his way to the front rows, which were reserved for Sudanese government representatives and high-ranking officials. Naturally, there was a strong Egyptian presence, and among his compatriots Badr recognized the headmaster of his school and the Egyptian Minister. He spotted the turban of the imam who had come especially from Egypt to lead this very first prayer. Badr could not help but note the irony: this imam was the first Minister of Religious Endowment after the July revolution that had overthrown King Farouk. There was wisdom in this, a lesson to be learnt. One could put money and effort into a project and yet not be present when it comes to fruition. Furthermore, death was not the only exit. There could be ignominy — and who knows if the mosque would continue to carry the name of a deposed King? But Badr reigned in his mind from any further speculation when the imam climbed the mimbar and began the Friday sermon.

Hanniyah was frying aubergines when he arrived home.

‘Are we moving or are we not?’ he shouted, but she was calm in the face of his agitation.

‘You must be hungry. The children certainly are.’

She sprinkled salt on the dark aubergines, which oozed with oil.

Badr said to the boys, ‘When you finish eating, put some clothes on. You can’t go like this.’ They were in their underwear as usual. The close proximity to the food made Badr realise that he was hungry. He started to shove bread and aubergines in his mouth. ‘The driver of the cart is not going to hang around waiting for us and he should be here any minute.’

‘Once the boys are ready they can stand outside and wait for him,’ said Hanniyah.

She had accomplished a great deal since he left her this morning, packing their belongings in crates and boxes. The only things left were the kitchen supplies.

Badr was tense because of his father; he was not sure how the old man would cope with the move. He watched now as Hanniyah fed him: bite-sized pieces and sips of water. She was efficient and matter-of-fact, treating her father-in-law as a child. Yet how remote he was, in a way in which children were never remote, as if he were asleep but still sitting straight. It chilled Badr sometimes, especially when his father suddenly spoke out, random words and incoherent expressions. It was not even worth it to sit next to him now and say, ‘Father, we are moving to a wonderful new home today.’

He had passed that stage. Two years ago he was talking lucidly and he had recognized Shukry when he first came from Egypt. Now he was completely detached and it was even rare to hear his voice.

Badr’s daughter toddled towards him wearing her Eid dress, which was now too small. He lifted her onto his lap and patted her thighs. She was his joy. After four boys her arrival was exquisite. Every tender feeling in him was aroused and he was more complete as a parent because of her. She babbled now, repeating ‘Baba, Baba’. He tried to feed her but she was satiated and wiggled down from his grasp, hanging on to his knees for support. She had only started walking a few months ago. Looking back, Badr remembered that he had not particularly wanted a daughter and certainly never prayed for one. Her arrival was a gift, luxurious and aromatic. A gift that humbled him and made him realise that the sweetest things in life were not necessarily what one strove for and grabbed. Instead, many many times the All-Merciful, the All-Generous would give his servants without being petitioned, without waiting to be asked. And then it would feel like how holding this little girl felt; a surprise, a dreamy blessing.

Badr dressed his father in clean long johns and a grey jellabiya. How loose it hung on him now! This was the man who danced at his son’s wedding, twirling his cane above his head while the trumpets blared. This was the man who could wrestle two men at one go, who could swim from one side of the river to the other while holding his breath.

‘I always felt puny next to you, Father,’ Badr said. ‘But instead of making me feel ashamed, you took pride in my love of books. You spared nothing for my education. You did everything so that I could be the effendi in the family, so that I could wear a suit and go out to teach the children of city men.’

His father did not respond or even look at him. He dwelt in a place where Badr’s voice was as meaningful as the meowing of a kitten. It was as if he was following an alternative narrative, sights and sounds superimposed over the reality in front of him, his very own script, which absorbed and distorted his senses. Today he could not even push his feet into his plastic slippers. That instinct of sliding one’s foot forward had gone.

Time for the farewell scene Badr had ruefully predicted. After nagging him about moving and bitterly criticizing their housing conditions at every opportunity, Hanniyah clung to the neighbourhood women, weeping profusely as if a calamity had fallen or as if they were leaving the entire country forever. In reality, they were only transferring from the outskirts of town to the centre; a few tram stops. It would be a little further away from the school but that was a minor inconvenience.

‘Hurry, woman, hurry!’

In her black outdoor abaya she looked formal and foreign. The Sudanese milling around her were in their colourful patterned to bes with bangles on their arms. Sometimes, like now, the Sudan would emphasise its African identity and assert itself as simple and rich, Negro and vibrant, flowing and deep.

The children clambered onto the cart. Don’t count them, just say their names.

‘Osama, you are the one responsible for your grandfather; Bilal put that crate on your lap. Radwan hold your little sister. Ali, keep your eyes wide open and watch out in case any of our belongings fall off.’

Now verses to ward off the evil eye. Prayers for an easy, smooth move, for prosperity in that so eagerly striven for new home. Yes, part of Badr’s tension was the fear of envy. He could jinx himself if he became exultant. But the greatest danger to come was envy from his colleagues at the school. This was what Al-Ghazali said in his Revival — that we are more likely to envy those who are similar to us, than those who are completely different. Hence, envy is more likely to occur between brothers, cousins and co-workers. This was true. Badr did not envy the rich folk whose children he taught, instead he was more likely to grudge a colleague a pay rise. The cart dipped into a pothole and they were all jolted. Badr turned to glance at his father. He seemed to be soothed by the ride. It had been remarkably easy to persuade him to climb the cart, much to Badr’s relief. Perhaps his father was aware of the donkey; after all, he could hear the clip-clop of its feet and smell its hide. Certainly he was enjoying being in a wide-open space and the sense of movement and momentum. Hopefully, he would be persuaded to climb off the cart once they arrived!

Their journey took them eastward, towards the English neighbourhood, though they would not reach that far. They passed the statue of Kitchener astride a horse and went down Sirdar Street. All was quiet on this Friday afternoon, and this made their progress faster. They were in a Christian neighbourhood now, and the buildings were more sophisticated, the inhabitants as light-skinned as Europeans, the women with bare arms and their hair in waves, and men who spoke with the accent of the Levant. Some were Badr’s fellow countrymen, Copts from Egypt, and one of them, a parent from the school, recognized Badr and waved.

It didn’t embarrass Badr that he was perched on a donkey cart with his family and their motley possessions. He was busy noting that the land on which Mahmoud Bey had built his tall building had been purchased from a Christian, a cautious businessman made insecure by the advent of Independence. Khartoum was, slowly but surely, becoming Islamic. Today the opening of the new mosque, and tomorrow, once the English left, there would be others. A city with a predominant and growing Muslim population had seven churches and only two mosques — only a coloniser would impose such an imbalance! The English would go and take their street names with them — Victoria, Newbold, King and Wingate. They would carry off their statues — Gordon astride a camel and Kitchener on a horse. The cabarets, dance halls and bars that they set up would decay. The prostitution they legalised would become prohibited, and the X signs they unashamedly set up to mark the red-light districts would be pulled down. Anglo-Egyptian rule was over, the proposed union with Egypt had failed, and whatever losses his homeland would incur in the future were justified by its position as the silent partner of the Condominium, the nominal figure which mattered and didn’t matter.

We could have done more, Badr mused. We could have spread Islam further, we could have squashed the seeds of religious deviations with more vigour, we could have nurtured and taught Arabic and enlightened. Now it was not exactly too late, but Egypt’s influence was stunted. Yet everyone, these days, was keen to stress the friendship of the two neighbouring countries, the two peoples who drank from the same Nile, and thus the decision to continue with the Egyptian Educational Mission. Badr’s secondment was secure and to be extended. The miserable night he had spent in custody had not dented his reputation nor jeopardized his employment and he had never felt so grateful in his whole life. It was his biggest, most profound relief. If he spent the rest of his life thanking Allah every minute of every day, it would not be enough. He was overwhelmed by His Lord’s mercy and generosity.

They arrived at the Abuzeid building. The shops that lined the ground floor were all closed for the holiday and the offices upstairs, too, were shut. Not all the building was residential; there were placards on the balconies, one advertising a lawyer and another, a procurement business. As Badr had feared, his father refused to descend from the cart.

‘Leave him with me and go up,’ Hanniyah suggested. Her daughter, dozy from the movement of the cart, had fallen asleep on her lap. ‘You and the children go up and maybe I can persuade Uncle Hajj.’

Together with the older boys, Badr carried all the furniture upstairs. The thrill of turning the key and whispering, ‘In the name of Allah, the Most-Compassionate, the Most-Merciful. .’

Their belongings looked paltry in the wide space, shabby against the new flooring and freshly painted walls. Ali started skidding on the tiles, and his older brothers followed. The flat echoed with their cries of delight. This was real. At last, at long last! For the first time since Osama was born, Badr and Hanniyah would have a room all to themselves. He wanted to see her face when she first stepped into the flat. Would she gasp out loud? He would take pleasure in her gratitude, for sure.

Leaving the boys upstairs, he dashed down again.

‘Father, you have to get off now. We’ve arrived.’

There was no response. Gentle nudging and pulling by the arm was met with indifference and then resistance. With the help of Hanniyah and the cart driver, Badr forcibly carried his father off the cart and steadied him on his feet. Unexpectedly, the old man reached out to put his arms around the donkey and almost fell onto its neck, his face against its hide, his hands gripping the saddle. How far he was from his village in Kafr-el-Dawar with all its familiar sensations and characteristic smells. . Now Badr was going to move him further away, up above street level. More change, more disorientation.

‘Come along, Father. The donkey is not ours. It has to go away with its owner.’

The cart driver, a lanky, grumpy youth, was looking perplexed at the old man and was impatient to be off. Badr untangled his father’s arms from around the donkey’s neck.

He paid off the driver and, with excruciatingly small steps, led his father to the entrance of the building.

‘I will go ahead of you,’ Hanniyah said. ‘Allah only knows when you will get Uncle Hajj up there!’

Her eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed. Yes, this was her day. He said, ‘Take the suitcase with you so you can start to unpack.’

She handed the sleeping child to Badr and lugged the suitcase up the stairs. So, baby on his left arm and his right prodding the old man up the stairs.

‘Careful, Father, one step at a time.’

Two steps, three steps, they gathered momentum and reached halfway up the stairs. Then his father stopped. For no reason at all he came to a standstill. Badr pleaded and tugged but to no avail. He could hear Hanniyah making her way to the flat up above; he could hear her expression of surprise as she entered through the door.

‘Come on, Father.’

He had to be extra gentle. A struggle on the staircase would be unsafe for the three of them. The baby stirred in his arm and opened her eyes. She was beautiful in these waking up moments, incredibly soft, languid and angelic in the clear trusting way she gazed up at him. He kissed her, and she shifted to sit more upright in his embrace.

Here he was with his bliss in one arm and his burden in the other, his pleasure on one side and his trial in the other. Balanced. Striving up with these two attachments. Holding them both at the same time. It was the fresh start of life and the gloomy, narrowing end. Loving them both, serving them both. His father shifted and raised one foot up. How slowly they were progressing! Badr was missing what he had been looking forward to — Hanniyah’s expression when she first saw her new home. By the time they reached the flat, she would be engrossed in unpacking and her mind occupied. He would have liked to be with her now, now as she raised her hand to her mouth and broke into a spontaneous ululation of joy.