Lyrics Alley

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Summers in Khartoum were dry, shimmering heat, with the sun’s lashing rays and not a single breeze, not a breath. This would intensify to an unbearable stillness when even the nights and dawns became hot. Such tightness had to give, had to break; it did, not gently, but through dust clouds, reddish brown formations gathering on the horizon. They would advance, looking innocent and colourful, then, closer, they revealed their menace and crushed the city in an embrace of grit and sand. Visibility diminished and the wind would blow and howl, churning dust and ripping loose garbage and bushes. Branches fell off trees and chicken pens were ripped apart, and hours later, when the air cleared and became fresh, there would be ripples of sand on the ground, swirls and patterns as if the desert had visited and left its tracks.

Badr was not entitled to paid leave this summer. His contract gave him this privilege only once every two years. To go home to Egypt he would have had to finance the trip himself, and after calculating the travel expenses for himself, Haniyyah, his father and the four boys, it became clear that this was not an option. So, even with the school closed, he remained in Khartoum and Haniyyah, in the late stages of pregnancy, had to endure the Sudanese weather. When the dust storms came, they huddled in their one room, hot and restless. When it rained, and it started to rain in July, usually at dawn or at night, as if the water feared the sun, Osama, Bilal and Radwan stripped to their underpants and ran out to splash and laugh, opening their mouths up to the sky. Little Ali, toddling proficiently now, would join them — and then retreat back to cover because the rain alarmed him, and his puzzled face made them all laugh. Prayers made when it’s raining are accepted, Badr would remind his family, and he prayed that Haniyyah would have a safe and easy delivery.

Ramadan came in the middle of the summer. Badr welcomed it and made a schedule for himself. Every day he would read a section of the Qur’an, one thirtieth or more. He would wake up a couple of hours before dawn for the tahajud prayers and at night he would go to the mosque for isha and taraweeh. At the hottest time of the day, he had a nap, and his plan was that he would spend the last ten days of Ramadan in seclusion at the mosque. He made time, too, to read his favourite books; the tafseer of Ibn Kathir, and Imam Ghazali’s The Revival of the Sciences of Religions. There were the household chores, too, for Haniyyah was becoming increasingly heavy and tired. He told her to stop fasting but she didn’t listen.

‘I don’t want to miss out,’ she said.

She was involved in an exchange of dishes and drinks with their Sudanese neighbours, noting their love of sweet drinks and how they drank more than they ate when it was time to break the fast. Helu Mur and Abre, the children, sipped and made faces, but grew to like them before long and they were fascinated by the cannon that was fired from the barracks at precisely the time of the iftar. Osama and Bilal were fasting, and during the day they were quiet and thirsty, becoming boisterous and energetic after the evening meal and late into the night. This was part of the charm of Ramadan, turning day into night, treats of mixed nuts, dried apricots and dates. Badr did not begrudge his family any delicacies. Every day he went to the souq and every day Haniyyah cooked delicious meals and satisfying puddings. It was a month of plenty, and he marvelled at how rigorous it was, and at the same time buoyant; solemn, and at the same time merry, with the children playing football in the street by the light of Ramadan lanterns.

He felt a surge of love for his family that month. Often, he would draw the boys into his arms and kiss them, enjoying their smell and childish skin. Little Ali would sit on his lap, listening and lulled as Badr recited the Qur’an, going over the suras he had memorised. He taught Osama Surat Yasin, Bilal completed Juzu’ Aama and Radwan learnt Surat Al-Borooj. This was joy; his sons loving him and wanting to please him, strong in body and in faith.

Badr revelled, too, in the closure of the school. No need to wake up early and rush with the boys to catch the tram, no need to be punctual, no need to scurry around from one private lesson to the next, and no need to dress formally. He felt relaxed and free. At home he would wear his underwear of long johns and vest, and when he went out to the mosque or the souq he wore his jellabiya. His father, seeing him in the clothes of the Egyptian peasant, mistook him for his older brother, Abdel-Salaam.

‘It’s me, Badr,’ he repeated, but the old man looked at him as if he were a trickster or Abdel-Salaam trying to pull his leg.

Abdel-Salaam had died years ago, of dysentery. If he were still alive, their father would not have needed to travel with Badr to Khartoum, he would have lived at Kafr-el-Dawar. Abdel-Salaam had been the reason Badr was able to continue his studies and go to Teachers’ College. Abdel-Salaam was the older brother who looked after the farm and followed in their father’s footsteps. He was the one who devoted his early life to family duty and gave Badr the luxury of time off for education. But humans plan, yet Allah has different plans for them.

‘Father, Abdel-Salaam died seven years ago,’ Badr spoke gently.

‘Ah, yes, I remember now,’ roused grief and fresh tears.

How soft and small he had become. He used to be rough; he used to be strong. He used to be cheerful, too, or at least good-natured. He used to be brown from the sun; now his skin was pale from sitting in the shade all day. Badr chided himself for insisting that Abdel-Salaam had died. He was never sure whether to fix his father’s mind to the present, humour him, or just leave him to his delusions and meanderings.

‘Today is the middle of Ramadan, Father.’

‘Yes, of course. I am fasting.’

But he was not fasting, nor was he required to. His body was too frail and his mind could not distinguish between day and night. Often he would skip meals, insisting to Haniyyah that he had already eaten, and sometimes he would demand breakfast as soon as his dish was cleared away, forgetting completely the ful he had just minutes earlier consumed.

On a soft cool morning, blue grey with dawn’s rain, Badr stood in front of the construction site of the Abuzeid building. Ramadan seemed to have brought the work to a standstill and the building was far from complete. The entrance was a gaping hole, strewn with bricks and piles of sand. There were sacks of cement, wheelbarrows, and discarded spades. All of these things were soaked with rain, the ground covered in puddles. Badr counted five storeys and chose a flat for himself, the second floor on the right. Not the left, which overlooked the main road. Haniyyah would need to go out on the balcony to hang out the washing, and he did not want any man watching her. The balcony on the right was more secluded. His own flat indeed! Wishful thinking. The flat was as distant to him now as a glass of tea to his fasting lips. He smiled to himself at the likeness. He was not hungry now; the pre-dawn meal was comfortable in his lower belly, nor was he longing desperately for the flat.

He looked at the building dispassionately, surprised that it was so incomplete. But perhaps, now that it was up, it was in the last stages, and these last stages didn’t take long. What would he know? He was an Arabic and Religious Studies teacher with a farming background.

The guard of the building suddenly emerged from a flimsy shack which Badr hadn’t noticed. The man’s cheeks were etched with tribal scars and his eyes were bleary, as if he had just woken up. They exchanged greetings and Badr asked about the building.

‘Sayyid Mahmoud is away travelling, that’s why the work is on hold. He’s been away a long time. His son is ill and he took him to the land of the English for treatment.’

‘Which son?’

The guard shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Once Mahmoud Bey gets back, how long will it be before the building is complete?’

‘Soon, Insha’ Allah,’ the guard replied. ‘But the materials from abroad have to arrive first, otherwise the work can’t go on.’

Badr still had hope of moving into a flat. Earlier today, after the heavy rain, his hoash had flooded and he had spent hours with his long johns rolled up, sweeping water into the street, and on his hands and knees, mopping up the concrete strip of terrace. He occupied his mind and made the task lighter and even pleasurable by reciting every verse from the Qur’an on the subject of rain. The skies opening, the water pouring to carry Noah’s ark to safety, heavy clouds, lightning splitting the sky and the anticipation of rain, the longing for goodness and moisture. Water from the sky to give life to the earth after it is dead. It is Allah who sends the winds and they raise the clouds. He spreads the clouds in the sky and then breaks them into fragments until you see the raindrops. Badr was jolted from the stream of his thoughts by Haniyyah’s voice, praying out loud that they could be delivered from this wretched housing. She had been, these past weeks, lulled by fasting and her heavy stomach, but the state of the hoash after this morning’s rain triggered her old refrain of moving. Badr knew fellow teachers who had to share their hoash with other families. He was paying extra to have his own hoash, but Haniyyah had aspirations.

If he loved her less, he would have kept her, his father and the children back home in Kafr-el-Dawar and he would have lived in Khartoum as a bachelor. Many of his colleagues had opted for this arrangement because it saved money and was less of a hassle. But Badr needed his wife. He knew he had a weakness and a love for women. If the devil were going to tempt him, he would tempt him with adultery. So Haniyyah had to be close to him, protecting him and, at the same time, making day-to-day life sweet. He would be bored and miserable without his boys and he had hated being a bachelor: the constant pressure to avoid temptation, the dreams, the loneliness and frustration. He was proud that he had remained chaste until his wedding night. It was like an examination he had passed with flying colours. Now, caring for his elderly father was an examination, too, a responsibility and a duty. He must look after him because the reward of serving one’s parents was great. And the punishment for begrudging them and shunning them was great too.

He took the tram to Sirdar Street where the shops were stacked with items from England and Egypt, Greece and Lebanon. In a grocery run by an Armenian and his wife, Badr surveyed the numerous packets of biscuits, cold meats, pastries, and even, shamelessly, in this holy month, bottles of wine! He examined the boxes of sweets to see which ones were both value for money and Hanniyah’s favourites. The well-dressed man next to him, hair slicked back with Brylcream and a box of shortbread in his hand, looked familiar. Yes! He was the secretary of Mahmoud Bey, proof that this shop indeed was upmarket and reputable.

‘Good morning, Sir,’ said Badr.

Victor turned to look at him. It took him a second to place Badr, then they shook hands. Badr asked about Mahmoud Bey, then, ‘Which one of his sons has been taken ill?’

Victor spoke with the superiority of a man who enjoyed being privy to the intimate details of an important family. His words had the weight of accuracy and the two men shared a solemn moment. A sigh from Badr.

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

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

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

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

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

‘The boy is as good as finished!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Compared to my dawn,

the long day’s light is like a flash;

next to my drinking place,

the wide ocean is a drop.

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

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

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

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

‘Tell me, Father.’

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

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

He steeled himself to be calm, to sound normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Badr’s father was by his side.

‘Get out of here, you thief!’

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

Shukry took his uncle’s hand.

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

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

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

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

‘Badr, your father’s condition is deteriorating,’ Shukry whispered. ‘He hit Hanniyah and hurled abuse at her. . for no reason at all.’

Badr became even more annoyed.

‘What are you doing here? How did they give you a holiday when you just started work six months ago?’

Shukry dropped his head.

‘Well, you see, they kept finding fault with me. .’

‘They fired you, didn’t they? What an idiot! What a lost opportunity!’

‘Let me explain, Cousin.’

‘Enough! I don’t have patience for your excuses. You are nothing but trouble, arriving in the middle of the night and disturbing us.’

‘But where else could I have gone? I don’t have any money.’

‘Shut up! Shut up and we’ll talk in the morning.’

He left him, knowing he would be unable to continue the conversation without seriously abusing the youth. Again! Again they would have to put up with his presence until he found a job!

He went inside the room to find Haniyyah. She was lying on her side on the floor, facing the wall and crying. The room was hot, even though the window was open. Moonlight came in, but not enough air. He knelt next to her. She was perspiring and swollen, her belly nestled on the floor, her beautiful hair, her beautiful skin, her cracked feet and callused hands.

‘Come on, girl, don’t be silly. You’re not going to be upset over what a daft old man said.’ He kissed her cheek and rubbed her arm. She wept, her fists pushing into her mouth. He stroked her hair. It smelt of Naboulsi soap. ‘Come on, stop crying. No one believes anything he says. He’s lost his mind.’

Her distress oozed into him despite his emphatic words. He stretched out and lay behind her, his stomach pressed against her buttocks. Her skin smelled of cloves, sweat and cooking.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ Her voice was muffled and broken. ‘I swear by Allah. I swear. .’

‘I know, I know. You don’t need to say anything.’

He felt queasy and angry. She was hurting him with these affirmations of innocence. At the core of every man was a dormant distrust, a fear that his woman, wayward and tricky, clever and teasing, could deceive him with ease. Badr did not want to inflame his own jealousy, to admit that his father’s words had shaken him, even though he knew they were untrue. He must stand by her now, must not let her down.

‘You’re a silly girl, you are,’ he made himself say. He tried to sound light and calm; he gave her hips a playful squeeze. ‘You’re a silly girl to worry over such a thing.’

‘I heard the knocking at the door,’ she said between sobs. ‘Uncle Hajj was awake but the boys were asleep. I started to wake up Osama. I said to him, Osama go see who is at the door, but he was fast asleep. He wouldn’t move and I felt sorry for him. Poor boy, he’s been fasting all day in the heat. I went myself to open the door and your father followed me.’ Her voice broke and she took a gulp of air. ‘He didn’t recognise your cousin at all and he started abusing and hitting me. I got frightened and came here in the room.’

Badr experienced a blankness of mind, a stillness in which the only sound he could hear was her weeping. He must get rid of Shukry; either by finding him a job with accommodation or sending him back to Egypt. Enough was enough. I could have killed him, my own flesh and blood, in my own house. I could have killed him and ruined my own life, but for the grace of God.

‘Come on, girl, stop this fussing. It’s not good for your condition. Come on, turn over and give me a smile. For my sake, if I am truly dear to you.’

He sensed that his words were making an impact on her. Her sobs halted, she gave a small hiccup and rolled round to face him. Her round, taut stomach was between them. Her face was red and her lips were swollen. He bent and kissed her neck and she buried her face in his shoulder.

‘He will be staying here again? For how long?’

Oh, the anguish in her voice. It made him realise that this wretched house was her centre, her every day and every night. While he went out and invigorated himself with school, souq and mosque, she was home all the time and he had not been able to fulfil her dreams of a balcony, privacy, an apartment up a flight of stairs.

She was whispering to herself now, drowsy almost, but too roused to fall asleep.

‘Why, Uncle Hajj? How can you say this about me, your daughter-in-law? How?’

It moved Badr to see her dispirited. Even the pain of childbirth had not crushed her like this. Simple, good-natured woman, her honour precious to her — why must she suffer like this? Why, my Lord?