‘Maybe this will be the last English manager we will have to plead in front of. Imagine coming to meet a Sudanese like ourselves!’
Idris only grunted in reply. He was negative about Sudanisation and self-government, whereas Mahmoud kept an open mind and a determination to go with the flow. Because of the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium, Sudan was not technically part of the British Empire. The Foreign Office, rather than the Colonial Office, ruled it, which resulted in a more graceful colonial experience and the British officials Mahmoud came into contact with were refined and educated, well-travelled and diplomatic. He knew that when the day came, he would not help but feel sorry to see them leave.
*
Mr Harrison, an Oxford graduate with solid credentials, was tall, with black hair and grey, watchful eyes. He rose from his desk to greet them and spent several minutes, as was the Sudanese custom, exchanging pleasantries in beginner’s Arabic. It always irritated Mahmoud to hear his mother tongue grammatically distorted and heavily accented. There was no need for this, no need for the English to trouble themselves with a foreign language to try and gain favour with the Arabs. Especially when it was so clear who needed whom. Mahmoud was a man who appreciated hierarchy, the order and logic of it, and he had no problem ingratiating himself to this Englishman, young enough to be his son.
‘What do you make of our country, Sir?’ He sat on the edge of his armchair, eager to show off his English. He liked the roll of the words in his mouth, and the weight of the file with the proposal on his lap.
Thankfully, Mr Harrison stopped talking Arabic.
‘It is a fascinating land. From what I have seen so far, it has great potential, and Khartoum is a pleasant city. I’ve been to several functions, social as well as business, and I’m staying at the Grand Hotel until my house is ready.’
‘The best hotel in town,’ Mahmoud murmured. ‘An excellent introduction.’
‘Yes, it is comfortable. I must say I am impressed by the architecture of the city; it is of a very high standard. Yesterday, I attended a session at the Legislative Assembly and that building was interesting too.’
‘They voted to discuss the motion for self-government, I heard.’
‘Yes, then in the middle of the session the electricity supply failed and a dozen flunkies walked in carrying hurricane lamps!’ Mr Harrison smiled, clearly amused and Mahmoud laughed politely.
‘Have you had the opportunity to travel outside Khartoum?’
‘Not yet but it is something I look forward to.’
‘Then you must come to our farm in Gezira and see for yourself the cotton fields!’ Mahmoud raised his arms and turned to look at Idris to include him as a host. Idris nodded and reaffirmed the invitation. Mr Harrison must certainly enjoy their hospitality. He must partake of the celebrated Sudanese breakfast. He must bring his wife — no wife yet? Of course, he was too young for the shackles of matrimony. Laughter, and Mahmoud was liking this young man more and more, his wide-eyed innocence, his cotton suit slightly, only slightly, crumpled and his attractive modesty, because modesty in those with power and position was especially attractive.
Nigel Harrison looked and sounded his age now, his eyes bright with thoughts of leisure activities and a life outside work. ‘I have always wanted to come to the Sudan,’ his voice was more relaxed and confessional. ‘My grandfather was with Lord Kitchener’s army and often told me stories of the campaign. I grew up with a keen interest in the history of Sudan.’
‘Your grandfather would have told you about the invasion, but those days of war are over now, Mr Harrison. We are now in the days of commerce, profitable commerce for you and for us. This country has vast potential but I need not tell you. You know already.’
‘True, true. .’ Mr Harrison faltered slightly. He sat upright in his chair and became businesslike. ‘And what can I do for you today, gentlemen?’
It was the cue they had been waiting for. Out came the proposal, the facts and figures carefully calculated and the large loan they were aspiring to. The cost of setting up the first cotton ginnery in the private sector. Abuzeid cotton would be ginned by the Abuzeids themselves. The proposed location would be Hamad Nall’ah in Sinnar. Yes, the governor of the Blue Nile province, Mr Peterson has welcomed the idea. Mahmoud explained that Idris was the farmer while he was the businessman. Idris was the one who knew just how much more cotton the Gezira fields would be able to yield in the future. The future was promising and their business history was impressive. Two years ago, under the previous Barclays Bank manager they had been granted a loan to acquire the agency for Perkins motors, specifically the pumps for irrigation. The result was that the Abuzeid cotton fields were now irrigated by Abuzeid pumps. They no longer needed to buy or hire pumps from someone else. Idris explained the significant difference the pumps were making, their efficiency in irrigating the fields and how much acquiring the Perkins agency had cut costs. The Abuzeids were able to repay the loan in no time and it was with this confidence that they were now expanding into cotton ginning and asking for another loan.
Young though he might be, Nigel Harrison had done his homework and was canny enough to question his clients. ‘There are capitalists in this country, some of them foreign and some of them local, who would be honoured to ally themselves with you. They have the finances you need and you have the base and experience they lack. Why aren’t you allowing them to invest in your projects?’
The reply was confident. ‘We are a family business, Sir. We do not want outsiders to come between us.’
‘This possessiveness might do you harm in the long run.’
Mahmoud smiled. ‘We do not need anyone else, only Barclay’s Bank.’
Harrison responded with a small smile and went on, ‘But given the more than healthy profit of last year’s cotton yield, Sayyid Mahmoud, you cannot have any liquidity problem. Why are you seeking a loan?’
Mahmoud crossed his legs.
‘I have invested my cash in a building, Sir. The very first high rise in Khartoum. It will be a big building on Newbold Street, a building similar to the ones in Cairo.’
Nigel Harrison, like every traveller from Europe, had passed through Cairo on his way to Khartoum and he knew what Mahmoud meant. The brothers started to describe the building and its exact location.
‘Next to Hoash Boulus,’ said Idris.
Mahmoud rebuked him in Arabic, whispering, ‘What would he know about Hoash Boulus!’ Then he turned towards the desk, raised his voice and switched to English. ‘I will take you to see it, Mr Harrison. It will be a fine piece of architecture when it is ready.’
A week later Mahmoud met Nigel Harrison at a reception in the palace. He introduced him to Nabilah, proud that she was next to him in her jewels and cocktail frock, her fair skin radiant in the lamp-lit garden. In his dinner jacket, with a drink in his hand, Mahmoud was satisfied that they made a favourable impression. But it seemed an inappropriate occasion to talk to Mr Harrison about the loan or to ask for a response.
‘Is this a typical palace function, would you say?’ It was Harrison’s first.
Mahmoud was pleased to be asked this question.
‘Everything is exactly the same as in previous occasions. Even the brass brand is as loud as ever.’
Harrison smiled and raised his voice, ‘Perhaps it’s a ploy to hamper any attempts to have a sensible conversation.’
Mahmoud did not understand the word ‘ploy’ and faltered a little. He changed the subject.
‘Unless you have already met them, I will introduce you to my friends from the Chamber of Commerce.’
‘I would appreciate that. I’ve noticed that formal introductions are not the norm here. Everyone of consequence expects to be known, but that can be puzzling for a newcomer.’