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.’