Lyrics Alley

XVII

It was Time that defeated Soraya at the end. Changes all around, but weeks, months and a whole year passing without the slightest improvement in his condition, or the faintest of progress. She had held on to hope for so long, she had been stubborn and she had been fierce, but Time won at the end. Not what people said to her, and not even when Uncle Mahmoud broke off the engagement. It was the ticking clock. It was life moving forward, and sweeping away her hopes for a miracle. It was how days and days passed, and Nur didn’t recover. Now, when they said he was ill, they meant he had influenza or an upset stomach. Now, when they said he was well, they meant he was singing along with the radio and laughing out loud with his friends. Enough of her tantrums and tears, enough of her threats and scenes every time her sisters said, ‘You won’t marry Nur, you will marry someone else.’

Time tamed her at the end. Not knowing where to turn or what to do, she put her head down and poured her energy into studying for the school leaving certificate. She had always been a good student, but this dedication was new. Sister Josephine was shining a light in another direction and challenging her to work harder. And there was a prize to be won. Unlike Halima and Fatma, Soraya had managed to complete school. Now she could be the first Abuzeid girl to step into university, the first girl in the alley to get a university degree. When the examination results came out, and Soraya’s science grades exceeded all expectations, Sister Josephine invited the Abuzeid brothers to a meeting in her office.

Soraya stood outside the door and strained to listen. She would miss the familiar columns and the blue tiles stretching all the way to the statue of the Virgin Mary; the open, shady courtyard, the nuns bustling and in white. How purposefully they walked! If she never, ever married, she would be like them, forever a virgin, cut off from motherhood and running her own house. The prospect filled her with self-pity. She moved closer to the door of the office. She could hear her father’s voice, loud and irritated. Idris seemed to be addressing Mahmoud, ‘You insisted that she be allowed to wear her spectacles and I gave in for your sake. Enough! Why more?’

Sister Josephine replied to this, but her voice was too low for Soraya to hear. Without the spectacles, she would not have succeeded in her examinations. But Idris had not completely caved in. The permission did not extend to wearing the spectacles in his presence. That would be asking too much! On one occasion she forgot to take them off as she was bringing him a glass of water.

‘Get away from my face!’ had been his immediate reaction.

She could now hear Uncle Mahmoud saying, ‘Soraya will not be the only girl there. She will be in good company.’

He began listing the names of their acquaintances whose daughters were allowed to enter university. Idris merely grunted and resumed his predictable objections. No need for university. No need whatsoever. If only Sister Josephine could talk a little louder, but only a few snatches were audible: ‘. . instead of sitting. . let her attend. . Medicine is an honourable profession.’

Soraya heard Uncle Mahmoud’s gentle response, but she could not now make out his exact words. When the meeting was over and the Abuzeid brothers walked out of the office, Sister Josephine looked tired. She put her arm around Soraya’s shoulder and said, ‘Apply yourself well.’

Soraya knew then that Sister Josephine had won, but it would not be wise to reveal any expression of glee now, because Idris was scowling and in a hurry to get to the car.

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she whispered, and Mahmoud smiled at her and winked.

The new academic year started and she was one of the handfuls of girls to enrol at Kitchener’s School of Medicine. At first she was in awe of her surroundings, of the lush, spacious lawns of the campus with their tall palm trees, and the young men who stared at her and gave her shy smiles. She had to wear her white to be every day.

‘Don’t even dream of taking it off,’ warned Fatma. ‘One wrong move and Father will put an end to this university business!’

It was a miracle that Idris had agreed to let her attend in the first place. He was even dropping her off every day, driving through the main gate, right up to the quadrangle in front of the library. To become a doctor. . It still didn’t feel real. Soraya would do her lab work and study until the small hours, but she found it hard to believe in herself. Campus gossip had it that the boys were laying bets on which of the girls would be married off and out of college by the end of the academic year. Soraya was a strong contender, but she was not the favourite. She was, it was agreed, ‘too tall’. When she heard this, she was strangely disappointed. It was not just hurt vanity or a competitive spirit, she genuinely felt bypassed. Such a reaction did not make sense, because, of course, she wanted to continue and had no intention of abandoning her studies. If she was not going to marry Nur, she told herself, she would have a vocation where she could be passionate and useful, respected and more reliant on herself.

It was her old schoolfriend, Amal, who was voted most likely to be whisked off to the marital nest. When the two of them walked together to classes, they provoked comments on how Amal was petite and curvaceous, while Soraya was slim. It was one thing to be tall in a girls’ school and quite another matter in university. Here, she was taller than many of the male students and that was something, she realised, they didn’t like. No wonder Amal and her dimples were so widely admired. In the girls’ common room, which Soraya hated because it was the hottest, stuffiest room on campus, Amal stretched out on a bench and said, ‘We need to find you a bridegroom taller than you.’

When Soraya was engaged to Nur, she was flawless. Now that she was available on the marriage market, her imperfections were all on display: short-sighted, loose-limbed and soon to be over-educated.

‘How many men,’ mused Amal, ‘are ready to marry doctors?’

‘Well, they could be doctors themselves. .’ Soraya had flung off her to be and now slipped off her sandals ‘. . or so rich and confident that no woman could threaten them. Then, of course, there are the desperate lot. Over sixty, or with a ghastly skin disease, or widowed with seven children, or deaf and dumb. .’

‘Stop it!’ Amal laughed. ‘Enough! You never used to speak like that at school!’

It was one of a number of things that had changed about Soraya. Her tongue had become coarse, her sarcasm more searing. She developed the ability to pinpoint hidden weaknesses and exaggerate obvious faults. One of their lecturers — Dr Williams — had a limp and a stutter, following a severe injury in the war. When the common room was full of girls, Soraya would mimic his clumsy walk and make fun of him. What happened to Nur had turned her sour.

‘I have no intention of getting married unless I’m allowed to finish my degree afterwards,’ she said to Amal, chomping through her sandwich, which was the only reason that kept her in the common room. The university might be a modern seat of learning, but the student body was traditional. Coming from an exclusive private school, the two friends hit against incredible customs, one of them being that decent girls did not eat in front of men! So while the boys enjoyed the leafy shade of the student cafeteria, the girls had to eat indoors.

‘My brothers are stufly, but my father’s put them in their place. He’s really eager for me to become a doctor,’ said Amal. ‘He will make finishing my degree a condition to my getting married.’

‘My sisters are on my side,’ said Soraya.

She saw herself in a dress and a white coat, stethoscope around her neck, moving forwards, away from Halima and Fatma, separating from them. They would do her housework for her and look after her children while she went to work. All her future fantasies included a villa in Khartoum, modern furniture like the kind Nabilah had when she was in Umdurman, and daughters who were not circumcised. As for the head of that household, he was faceless, nameless — almost insignificant. Someone who would not insist that she wear a to be, someone who would leave her alone. Someone who would accept, if not understand, that he had committed the most unforgivable sin in her world, the sin of not being Nur Abuzeid.

She took out of her purse the latest poem Nur had written. It was about a girl who walks towards the narrator, carrying her degree. She’s made the whole country proud, and now, with a casual glance, she ensnares the poet. Admiration beats in his heart, he describes the colour of her skin, her supple figure and how the way she walks gives him pleasure. I will never betray you. Soraya forgot that she was in the common room. She forgot that it was Tuesday, and that she had just been talking to Amal. She was inside the poem, memorising every line. Nur’s own words to her, written, by necessity, in someone else’s handwriting. She would buy a notebook with pink roses on the cover, then she would copy out all his poems in her own handwriting. She would put the date next to each poem, the date on which she received each of these precious gifts.

On Thursday night, Nassir, in the role of the dutiful husband, took Fatma and the children to the Blue Nile Cinema. Soraya went along, too, to watch An American in Paris. She enjoyed it even more than she expected and was determined that one day, when she escaped the alleys and conventions of Umdurman, she would cut her hair short like Leslie Caron’s. Paris, with its exhilaration and appreciation of beauty — Soraya would go there, too, and on the Champs-Elysées they would approve of her tall slim figure. During the intermission, Nassir bought peanuts and ginger ale. Their box had enough seats for the children and Soraya was relieved that she did not need to sit Zeinab on her lap. However, the child came to stand next to her and said, ‘Look up, it’s a full moon!’

‘Did we come here to watch the sky or watch the screen?’

She knew that Zeinab wanted the rest of her drink.

‘There is nothing on the screen now.’

Zeinab reached for the bottle in Soraya’s hand.

Soraya held on to it tight and put her mouth close to the girl’s ear.

‘You just had a whole one. Stop being greedy! If I give you mine, you’ll pee in your bed.’

Zeinab looked embarrassed and moved back to her seat. Soraya laughed and raised the bottle to her lips. She caught a glimpse of the sky, the wash of clouds underneath the darkness. So much darkness made her uneasy. There was definitely a weight pushing down on the world. Misfortune was always hovering close around people’s shoulders. But she would fight it off, and keep fighting with all her might. Otherwise she would be annihilated by this nameless, all-reaching gloom which she couldn’t figure out or map. She was eager for the intermission to be over, for the colours and dance of the film to roll again.

Afterwards, on the drive back to Umdurman, when she was going over the last scene in her head and smiling at Gene Kelly, Nassir said, ‘Let’s pass by Nur. I haven’t been to see him today.’

This was a further treat for Soraya. It had been a whole fortnight since they had met. Fatma (and Halima when she visited) had been holding her back, and university had not left her much time or space to battle with them. Tonight, though, because it was Nassir who wanted to go, Fatma did not raise any objections.

They found Nur in his room, listening to the news on the radio. The room seemed to hold more possessions than when Soraya saw it last. The shelves were laden, not only with his sports trophies from Victoria College, but also with more books — whole volumes of poetry — and there was a new record player, too. But it was medical and nursing supplies that dominated the room, and an all-pervading smell of disinfectant. Soraya felt as if she had dropped into a different world, far removed from the Blue Nile Cinema. Nur was propped up in bed, wearing striped pyjamas, and his arms were bent at the elbow like the greater and less than signs of mathematics, facing each other. There was stubble growing on his chin and above his lips, and the sheet was pulled up to above his waist and tucked under his folded hands. He was much thinner than when she had seen him last, the skin stretching over his forehead and cheeks. There were shadows under his eyes, which lit up when he saw her and followed her movements. No one could want to take his place, no one could envy him. . A density filled the room, lulling laughter and restraining exuberance. She wished she had stayed behind at the cinema to watch the second showing of the film. All the gaiety was there, not with him. Here the colours were deeper and richer, here the beauty was of a twisted kind. This was not going to go away. She was becoming a doctor, she should know. The human body was made for movement, and this stillness was a threat to life itself. Tears came to her eyes. Not again! They served no purpose. She must be sweet for his sake, light-hearted and entertaining. She must share the film with him, make him laugh by saying, ‘I want to cut my hair really short, a la garçon just like the actress in the film.’

It was not because Nur was gloomy or uncommunicative that his room carried that other-worldly ambience. On the contrary, he was welcoming and friendly, with a cheerful word to each of them. Even Zeinab was given the chance to do what she liked best, which was to climb on his bed, slot a cigarette between his lips and light it up. Because Nur was socially sophisticated, and because of the genuine pleasure he took from their company, he hid from their eyes the persona of the querulous, peevish invalid. Only Soraya knew that demanding, self-centred, almost elderly Nur, in the same way a lover is aware of the naked skin hidden beneath layers of clothes.

‘Before the news,’ Nur said, between puffs, ‘they played a new song by Hamza Al-Naggar.’ He sounded excited. ‘It was mine! Would you believe it? Travel is the Cause. Such a surprise, I had no idea Hamza would do that. I couldn’t believe my ears. It felt so strange to hear it put to music, as if it became something else. And then the presenter said: “Lyrics by Nur Abuzeid”, in the most matter-of-fact way. My name was said on the radio!’

They all exclaimed in delight.

‘Congratulations,’ said Nassir. ‘And I am not moving from here until they play it again. I have to hear it.’

They did not have to wait for long, as the song was aired immediately after the news. Hamza Al-Naggar’s celebrated voice, a gentle melody and lyrics telling a story that was intimate and completely theirs, describing feelings none of them had ever imagined would be made public. Soraya burst into tears and dashed out of the room. She collided with Waheeba, whom she clung to in the expectation that her aunt would offer a comforting shoulder to cry on, but Waheeba shoved her aside and waddled with purpose into the room. Nur, Nassir and Fatma looked up at her. Like a bird with a broken wing, sang Hamza.

‘What’s this?’ she gasped.

Nassir was the one who spilled the beans. Waheeba’s face darkened. She walked forward to the radio set and twisted the knob to off. The room fell silent except for her heavy breathing.

‘Your father will know how to put an end to this,’ she said.

To the youngsters’ dismay, Mahmoud met with the head of Radio Umdurman first thing in the morning and succeeded in putting a stop to any further broadcast of the song. Nassir pleaded with his father, but to no avail, and Soraya took the unprecedented step of telephoning her uncle in the office.

‘Nur needs this. .’ she searched for the right word, a word an adult would understand, ‘. . this hobby. It fills his time. Please. Let people hear his lyrics. It will make him happy.’

‘It’s too late, Soraya.’ He sounded impatient and busy, with the sounds of the office behind him. ‘I can’t go back on my word now.’

‘Please, Uncle. .’

‘Look, this sort of exposure is not seeming. It is not fitting for our family’s name.’ His voice became distant as he moved the receiver away from his mouth, ‘Victor, I want you to send this telegram. .’

Soraya pulled out her last card. ‘If Nabilah were here, she would have been on Nur’s side. She would have approved of these broadcasts.’

There was a click and the line went dead.

‘Miss,’ said the operator, ‘the gentleman has ended the call.’

On that same night, Hamza sang Travel is the Cause on the stage of the National Theatre. Never had any of his songs been banned from the radio and his voice rang out with intensity. It was as if he was urging the audience to listen, listen well, for you might not encounter this particular, simple beauty again. Listen, because these words are new. When he finished the last line, Fly to me, come, there was a pause, like that of a surprise, before his listeners collected themselves and were on their feet applauding. Encore, encore! Such was the response in the theatre, such were the ripples it produced, that pressure mounted on Radio Umdurman to reinstate the song. And so, when gentlemen of calibre, when high-ranking officials, and men with stellar reputations in the market, pleaded with Mahmoud Abuzeid to reconsider his position, he relented.

It was a victory. The song, unfairly imprisoned, was released and Radio Umdurman broadcast it again and again. And everyone agreed that it was Hamza Al-Naggar’s best. His popularity, already strong, was set to soar. Soraya would walk down the alley and hear snatches of Nur’s lyrics coming from the houses. She would sit up in bed and sing along with the radio. And every time she heard it, the pain decreased and the enjoyment increased. One day, in the university common room, she heard a senior girl singing a few lines. One morning, during lab, the student working next to her kept humming the tune. Fatma had stories, too, of the neighbourhood women in Umdurman realising that the lyrics were written by Waheeba’s son. Nassir’s friends wanted to meet Nur and he was more than happy to bring them for visits. Naturally, Idris was uncomfortable, while Mahmoud, after losing the battle with Radio Umdurman, wavered between embarrassment and surprise at the spreading popularity of his son’s lyrics. In general, the older generation found themselves pushed into a corner.

A few years ago, in front of Mahmoud, Waheeba and Nabilah, Idris had torn up one of Nur’s poems and Mahmoud had urged his son to leave such frivolity and concentrate on his studies. Now their objections were defeated. Now they did not have the heart to chide Nur and found themselves gradually affecting indulgence.

‘Anything to keep the wretched boy diverted, anything to comfort him,’ they repeated, and in Soraya’s opinion they were wrong again. They were underestimating Nur, as if he had not suffered enough, as if he was not deprived enough.

‘Poor boy, whinging and making his complaints rhyme,’ they said, but Hamza Al-Naggar knew, and the listeners of Radio Umdurman knew, that these lyrics were beautiful and these words were true.

One day on campus Soraya passed a ‘Sudan for the Sudanese’ rally and stopped to listen. The speaker was adamant in his rejection of any kind of Egyptian influence over a future, independent Sudan. He spoke with passion and serious purpose, then, as if to change tactics, he smiled and said, ‘Haven’t you heard the poet say In you Egypt is the cause of my troubles?’

The crowd laughed and Soraya’s heart was beating hard. Even though the paraphrasing was not entirely accurate, it was impossible not to be proud. These people didn’t know that Nur was an invalid. For them all that mattered were his words.

At home, Fatma was excited, but for another reason. She paused in the middle of stuffing a green bell pepper and said, ‘Halima was just here with good news. You have a suitor! An excellent one, and guess who he is? Your friend Amal’s brother! His mother went over to Halima’s house to test the waters. If she senses encouragement from our part, the men will come to Father and make a formal offer. I neither encouraged her nor discouraged her — I wanted to speak to you first, before I speak to Father. Then I will answer her.’

Soraya had been about to sit down and help her sister, but she kept standing.

‘Don’t even mention this to Father! Just tell Halima to tell her no. Say I want to finish my studies.’

‘That’s what we said to the mother of the previous suitor, and the one before him,’ Fatma snapped back. ‘This one is your friend’s brother. You must give him a chance.’

Soraya walked to the bedroom, tossed her books on the dressing table, and took off her to be. She switched on the radio. Fatma marched in after her.

‘Girl, answer me!’ She was still holding the pepper in her hand.

Soraya threw herself on the bed.

‘He’s not progressive enough.’

‘How can you say that? His sister is studying like you are. He himself has a degree and. .’

‘I have specific requirements and he doesn’t meet them. I want to live in a modern villa in Khartoum, I want to travel, I want to have short hair and smoke cigarettes. I want to wear trousers!’

Fatma gasped and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Have you lost your mind? What kind of man is going to put up with all this?’

‘Exactly! So I’ll just stay as I am, then.’ She had been waiting for the song and there it was, the first familiar notes of Travel is the Cause. It was luxurious to stretch out on the clean sheets, to roll over and mouth the words. ‘Fatma, let me listen. .’

Her voice was low and slurred. Already she was intimate with him, in his deep, other world, caught in the pendulum of his thoughts, surrounded by the crystals of his dreams.

The next day at college, Amal was not as forgiving.

‘How dare you turn down my brother? Who do you think you are?’

Soraya was taken aback. She repeated the excuse of wanting to continue her studies and hoped that Amal would simmer down. But Amal settled into an aggrieved silence. When Soraya squeezed in to sit next to her in the biology lecture, Amal huffed and moved away. Then the following morning, when Soraya went forward for her daily hug, Amal turned away. And she continued to give her the cold shoulder. The two of them had always done things together; now the university felt awkward and lonely. The breakfast break in the girls’ common room became a punishment without Amal to share it.

On impulse, Soraya walked over to her old school. This was a risk, for she had not taken prior permission from her father. Idris, as usual, had dropped her off at university and expected her to stay there until he picked her up in the afternoon. Besides, he would not have approved of her walking in the streets alone without a chaperone. Still, she needed to see her friend Nancy in order to complain about Amal. Nancy was now teaching at the school. She had moved seamlessly from senior student to teacher and the nuns who used to be her teachers were now her colleagues and employers.

Soraya hovered outside the First Junior classroom, watching her friend teach Little Women. Nancy’s hair was no longer in Goldilock curls. It was in a ponytail and, with her long skirt, she looked every inch the teacher. When she saw Soraya, she smiled and came out to greet her.

‘I’ll be finished in ten minutes. Wait for me.’

Soraya walked around the empty, shady courtyard. She could hear the faint drone of the teachers in the various classrooms, and the younger students chanting out their times tables. Part of the grievance against British rule, she had come to learn in university, was how they established missionary schools to undermine and lead astray the Muslim population. But Soraya felt comfortable to be here, she always had. She walked to the grotto with the statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in a flowing blue robe and a light white veil draped over her head. Mary was looking upwards. Upwards towards that expanse she understood and loved; that heaven which Soraya was afraid of. During school examinations, the Christian girls would come here to pray and perhaps, she now thought, when they had problems at home they came here, too.

Soraya had never been spiritually inclined. Religious education always made her feel like a child trespassing into adult discourse. It was a language she did not instinctively understand. Besides, life was rich and juicy; it filled all her consciousness, leaving no space for what could come afterwards or what existed before. She did not have an imagination for angels or devils but she was now sure — after Nur’s accident — that people were governed by a will greater than their own. It was a power she was wary of — too wary to engage with, or try to understand. Instead, she closed her eyes and ploughed ahead, hoping she would dodge misfortune, trusting in good luck. Underneath her beauty and her sharp tongue, her popularity and social position, there was a spoilt child, demanding and capricious.

Nancy laughed when she heard about Amal’s brother.

‘Tell Amal the truth. Explain why you rejected him.’

‘She would just take it as criticism. If she finds fault in her brother it is fine, but the rest of us must think he is wonderful! She is being so unfair to me.’

Nancy fell quiet, then she said, ‘Nur is the one you love. That’s why you’re turning everyone down. If I were you, I would insist on marrying him.’

Soraya was taken aback.

‘What sort of wedding would that be? How would he hold a sword in his arm while I dance, how would he stand next to me for the photograph?’

‘The wedding itself is just a formality, just a party,’ Nancy soothed her. ‘It’s not important.’

But the wedding mattered to Soraya, it mattered deeply. She had her dream of more than one party, more than one celebration, traditional gold and African dancing and, on another day, a long white dress like Nabilah’s, with a veil and a train.

‘You will have your whole life together — the wedding itself really shouldn’t matter. So what if he is an invalid? No one is perfect.’

This was not what Soraya wanted to hear. Suddenly she wanted to change the subject.

‘Tell me about your news, Nancy. Are you happy working here? You do look happy.’

Nancy smiled and took Soraya’s arm.

‘Let me get you something to drink, I’m not being a good hostess, am I? Have you already said hello to Sister Josephine? She is so proud that you have gone to college.’ They walked arm in arm towards the canteen and it felt like old times. ‘I want to tell you something, something I haven’t yet told any of my friends.’ Nancy’s eyes were shining, and her grip on Soraya’s arm tightened. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, have wanted it for ages. And now it’s going to happen. I’m going to become a novice.’

On her way out of the school, Soraya met Victor, Uncle Mahmoud’s secretary, who was picking up his daughter. The little girl had come down with fever and was being sent home. Soraya hoped he would not, later at the office, tell Idris he had seen her, but there was no guarantee. As she was walking back to the university, she stood on the pavement to watch a woman driving a car. To Soraya’s delight the lady waved and stopped her car. It was Sue Harrison, and she remembered Soraya as Mahmoud Abuzeid’s charming niece who had accompanied him to their house for last year’s Christmas party.

‘Let me give you a lift, unless you’re going to Umdurman. That would be too far out of my way.’

Soraya scrambled into the car, not believing her luck. For the first time in her life she was sitting in a car driven by a lady!

‘I’m going back to the university.’

She had a hundred questions to ask: about driving, about short hair, and all the time she was staring at Sue’s bare arms; how tanned she had become since arriving in Khartoum!

Sue drove through the gates of the university and the car had to slow down because a crowd of students spilled from the lawn, onto the road. A political meeting had just broken up and the students were in a boisterous mood. Some of them were chanting.

‘Do you know what the occasion is?’ asked Sue.

‘It must be about changing the name of the university,’ Soraya remembered. ‘They told us the medical board would approve it today. The Kitchener School of Medicine and Gordon Memorial College are going to merge and have one name — the University College of Khartoum.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Sue. ‘I am fond of these Scottish names.’

The car was almost at a standstill. Soraya could get out now, but even if she did, Sue would still have to drive through to the other gate. She now beeped her horn. A couple of young men glanced over their shoulders but did not move out of the way. Sue blew her horn again.

Soraya felt awkward. She did not know these students personally but they were her colleagues and they were being either very slow or deliberately rude. It was true the road was crowded, but they could still be considerate and make way for the moving car. More ‘Free Sudan!’ slogans were shouted out. Usually Soraya enjoyed the rhythms and spirit of the anti-British slogans, but now she felt uneasy and Sue was becoming increasingly tense. She did not understand Arabic, but the hostile stares directed at her could not be mistaken.

‘I shouldn’t have driven in here,’ she said. ‘I should have known better. Nigel will certainly tick me off for this.’

‘Please don’t be afraid. They will go away soon,’ Soraya replied. ‘They are just happy that the university has a new name.’

But it seemed that minor successes, instead of appeasing the pro-independence movement, had the same effect as setbacks. They put the students in a combative mood.

One of them banged the bumper of the car. A voice called out.

‘Get out of our way, woman!’

Another, angrier, shouted out, ‘What brought you here, anyway?’

There were a few half-hearted jeers, and the car was thumped again.

‘Stop it!’ Soraya leaned out of the window. ‘What are you doing? Let us pass.’ When she sensed that her words startled them, she kept on haranguing. ‘Get out of the way! You have the whole pavement to walk on!’

One of the students recognised her and laughed out loud and it was this laugh that tipped and lightened the situation. The boys were all now craning to look at Soraya. They made way for the car, amused that she was angry. It was a sight not to be missed; how she was almost standing, halfway out of the window, gesticulating with her arms, her to be falling to reveal her long hair.

It was a subdued Soraya who went home that day, who lay in bed staring at the ceiling, refusing to study or eat. Nancy talking about love, showing her a new dimension, an altered vision. They had always been different, Nancy nursing a stray cat or reading to a blind child, Nancy not even flinching in the company of lepers while Soraya tagged along, bored and disgusted. Today Nancy’s words had affected her deeply. They painted a scenario she had never before visualised: to be the wife of Nur Abuzeid as he was now, after the accident. To nurse him and sacrifice her youth to him, to share his life with all its challenges and limitations, to dwell with him in the twilight between illness and death. .

Soraya switched on the radio and heard the presenter announce another new song composed and sung by Hamza Al-Naggar, with lyrics by Nur Abuzeid. This song was more searing than Travel is the Cause; bolder and more direct. The grown-ups would not like it, not one bit. She smiled, anticipating their discontent — and Nur’s further success.

Two days later, as she waited for her father to finish his tea and drop her off at university, he suddenly said, ‘You are not going out with me today.’

Soraya was taken aback. ‘Why, are there demonstrations in town?’

‘No, I have just decided that today you stay at home.’ He sipped his tea.

Soraya stared at him in disbelief.

‘I have important lectures today. Please take me.’

He shook his head. Fatma walked into the sitting room, carrying a plate of biscuits. She placed them in front of her father and made a gesture to Soraya as if to say, ‘I will explain to you later.’

But Soraya was defiant.

‘If you can’t take me, I can go with Uncle Mahmoud’s driver.’

‘You will do no such thing!’ He dunked a biscuit in his tea. ‘You are going to sit in this house today and not leave it.’

‘But I—’

‘Not a word!’ He swallowed. ‘Now get out of my face. Go to your room.’

She got up and walked to her room. She felt too energetic to lie down, and too annoyed to change her clothes. What had got into him? Had he found out that she had visited her old school? Was it Victor, the secretary or Sue Harrison who had given her away? As soon as she heard Idris grab his car keys and walk out of the house, she went back to the sitting room. Fatma was sitting in his place, pouring herself a glass of tea. Her eyes were red and puffy.

Soraya pounced on her.

‘So what’s the matter with him? Did he find out about the other day?’

Fatma sighed. ‘Yes, of course he found out, but he didn’t say how. Can anything stay hidden? He took all his anger out on me, I can tell you! He said I wasn’t guiding and restraining you enough, that Nassir and I should be living in Uncle Mahmoud’s saraya, and that the only reason he wanted us here was that I could keep an eye on you. He said I am no substitute for Mother. Fire begets ashes, he said.’

‘This made you cry, didn’t it? Poor Fatma. You know it’s not true. I am so happy that you moved from Medani and that you’re living here. Please, don’t go anywhere.’

‘I wish he were different,’ said Fatma. ‘I wish I could talk to him about my problems with Nassir. Maybe if he had a word with Nassir, then Nassir would go out less and stop squandering his money. People borrow from him and never pay him back and he is cheated every single day, the fool that he is! People think we are rich, but I’m at my wits’ end most of the time.’

Soraya didn’t know what to say. She put her arms around her sister. Tears rolled down Fatma’s face and she wiped them away with the edge of her to be.

‘This is what you stayed at home for,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘to pat me on the shoulders.’

Soraya was jolted back to remembering her missed classes.

‘Father is just so unreasonable.’

‘He’s angry with you.’

‘So this is my punishment, then? House arrest?’

She knew why her father hadn’t shouted at her or told her off. She was beneath that, not worthy to be addressed. He despised her to that extent! For years she had accepted his treatment, knowing she would one day get away from him to be Nur’s wife.

‘You know what I think,’ said Fatma, taking a sip of her tea. ‘It’s that new song that’s upsetting Father. He heard it again this morning and switched the radio off. The lyrics are shameless. Her ripe cheeks, her gentle lips. Your beauty keeps me up all night.’

Soraya laughed. Just hearing Nur’s words banished all the badness and put her in a good mood.

‘I want to be alone with you,’ she sang.

Fatma rolled her eyes.

‘And then, when Nur says she is slender like the baan tree, Father can put two and two together and of course he doesn’t like it. Especially when he worries that everyone else in Umdurman will reach the same conclusion.’

Soraya’s eyes were shining. ‘Nur will never give my name away, and Father’s hands are tied. He won’t dare criticise Nur now!’

‘Yes, but it’s your honour, and our whole reputation, which is at stake.’ Fatma was serious. ‘No one must ever know that you reciprocate Nur’s feelings. That would be a scandal. That’s why you can’t take a wrong step. You have to be above suspicion. Because Nur’s lyrics aren’t confined to his room. Do you know how far Radio Umdurman’s broadcasts are reaching? People from Sinja have been phoning Uncle Mahmoud!’

‘Good!’ said Soraya. ‘I want everyone to hear Nur’s lyrics again and again.’

‘Well, then, you will have to put up with Father’s anger. Believe me, he will take out all his frustrations on you.’

Soraya folded her arms. ‘Keeping me prisoner here won’t solve anything.’

‘A husband for you would solve everything,’ retorted Fatma. ‘Don’t you want to get away from Father and be the mistress of your own house?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’ That had always been the hope, the logical solution.

‘Tell me, apart from a handful, what have the rest of your classmates done since they left school?’

‘They got married.’

‘See? This is the natural thing. So stop being stubborn. When the next suitable suitor comes along, promise you will consider him.’ Fatma was looking at her, beseeching. ‘Promise you won’t dismiss him out of hand. Soraya, you have to look to the future in a different way.’

She knew. At last she knew.

‘I promise,’ she said, and wondered who he would be.

A few days later, on the first cool evening of the season, the two sisters walked down the alley to Waheeba’s hoash. It was the first time Soraya had gone out since Idris sentenced her to house arrest, but a plea for help from their aunt had made Fatma relent. Besides, she did not want to walk all alone in the dark. Nur was inundated with guests, Waheeba had said on the telephone.

‘I must serve them dinner and you must come and help.’

They found their aunt and the other women screened from Nur and his guests by several green wooden screens with a lattice design. The coal stoves were lit and Waheeba was sitting on a stool in front of a large pot of boiling oil, shaping each piece of ta’miyyah in her palm and throwing it in. She was pleased to see the two sisters.

‘Who are all these guests?’ Soraya tried to peer through the screen.

‘How do I know, my child? They are all strangers. Ever since these songs have gone out on the radio, we’ve had men coming and going.’

‘You will need to have a separate entrance for them,’ said Fatma scooping, with a long ladle, those pieces of falafel that were now a crunchy brown.

‘I will talk to your uncle,’ said Waheeba. ‘Nur needs more space now — not only his own entrance, but also a diwan, so that we’re not so cramped here.

Soraya edged closer to the screen. If she pressed her face close, she could see the whole of the men’s gathering. She put on her glasses and saw Nur propped up on his bed at the head of a large circle. One of the men was holding an oud on his lap and an elderly man was reciting a poem from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. She listened to the words, and when he finished, the comments of the others held her attention. She heard Nur’s voice. It came to her clearer than anyone else’s. She liked the look on his face; serious and happy, totally engaged. Some of the men spoke more than others, and some were quietly smoking. She saw Zaki come close to Nur and hold up a glass of water to his lips. Nassir walked in and shook hands all around, touching his brother’s elbow before taking a seat. Zaki passed round a tray full of glasses of water. Following a comment made by Nassir, the gentleman with the oud began to play and sing. It was a traditional folk song and the others nodded their heads with the melody.

When Zaki came over to the women’s area to refill the water jugs, Soraya called him over.

‘Tell me who is who,’ she whispered.

They ducked down together, for she had found a spot on the screen where several segments of wood were missing and that gave her a wider range of vision.

‘Most of them,’ said Zaki with authority, ‘are from the Poets’ Syndicate.’ He named a few names, some of which Soraya recognised. These distinguished poets, when they performed at the university, packed whole lecture halls, and now they were sitting casually in Nur’s hoash!

‘The one sitting right next to Nur,’ continued Zaki, ‘is his friend from Victoria College. Everyone calls him Tuf Tuf, but that’s not his real name.’

Soraya smiled and took a closer look at Nur’s friend. He was sitting with his legs crossed, the back of his hand rubbing against his chin as if checking for stubble.

‘Is he always that quiet?’

‘No, it’s just that he doesn’t seem to know much about poetry. He was here visiting Nur and suddenly all these others dropped by. The man with the oud is, of course, Hamza Al-Naggar. He almost comes every evening. It’s the others who are here for the first time.’

Hamza Al-Naggar started to sing Travel is the Cause and Soraya didn’t want to ask Zaki any more questions. She wanted to listen. Nur’s song. Her song. Nur joined in the singing and Hamza smiled and let him lead. ‘Ah ya kanari wa ah ya gamari. .’ and when Nur sang Ah the ache was there for everyone to hear, and everyone to share. His passion in colloquial truth.

Soraya wanted this combination of music and poetry to last and last and to become part of the fabric of Umdurman. For every wedding party, for boys to hum in the alleys on their way to school, for schoolgirls to copy in secret notes. For lovers, not yet born, to sing in the style of their times. .

She pressed her face against the wooden screen and listened. Hamza had stopped playing his oud and there was a hush. It was Nur’s turn to recite his new poem, in his own voice, his own words.

The prettiest girl in the alley can’t stand harsh words

‘I will not shackle you to an invalid,’ her Uncle Mahmoud had said.

She’s pampered, Nur was saying, but don’t ever scold my love

She could not be Nur’s nurse. She was incapable of such a sacrifice. She would feel hard done by and ignored, she who aspired, like her Uncle Mahmoud, to a modern, upbeat life.

This, instead, was where she belonged with Nur, right here, here in his songs. Here within the lyrics they were intimate, caught in the rhythm of his words, propelled by the substance of his dreams.

These songs would be their story and these lyrics their home.