Afribian Nights IV: Memoirs of a Concrete Pavement (Chapter 1)

I twisted the stub of my cigarette into the ground and watched the ashes turn from orange to grey in a split second. It was the third one I had absentmindedly consumed in that shadow of an hour, and minutes later I knew I would light my fourth. It had become a habit that was too difficult to break, just like everything else around which my mundane life seemed to be centered. Here I was, back strewn across a cracked wall with nothing but a few joints and the chirps of a cricket to keep me company. My childhood friends, Essam and Nazim, were around; corpses strewn across my backyard's floor, fast asleep under the influence of a sedative that had become too common for young men like ourselves. But it numbed the despair, and that compensated for its haram-ness. I tried not to think about it too much, or to lump my friends as sinners because I was not better myself. Had it not been for the fact that I promised my widowed mother I'd be more of a "righteous man"(whatever the hell that meant), I probably would have sipped myself drowsy to sleep, too.

Earlier that day, I was with Mona, the old college sweetheart I was indebted to for my last twenty boxes of Bringi cigarettes. We had quarreled about her own drinking habits, which seemed futile now. I don't know if I was mad at her ability to numb down her pitiful problems, or if I actually cared for her. Most things became hard to distinguish as life grew fuzzier these days. It had also been a while since I last heard coherent words echo off the walls of a lecture hall. A year ago this would have caused me heartaches induced by the back of a mind that could no longer grow. But now it was manageable. Anyways, nothing deserved my undivided attention and affection anymore; except maybe my mother and Osama, my autistic baby brother. For those two, the air my own lungs needed would become cheap at the cost of giving them a few more whiffs of life. I could not explain this idolatry relationship I shared with my fragmented family. I was not really emotional and I had spent half of my life in isolation. The other half went to waste on the street, selling things that no one really cared for. I did this ever since my father had passed away during Afribia's gold rush. That is the last I remember of my childhood days.

Your father was a good man. My mother had always told me. But as I grew older I found it harder, and harder to believe. Had it not been for my father's greed I would have become a doctor by now, was the only thought that ran parallel to the memory of my father. I could have been working on therapeutic methods to help autistic children—something I had wanted to do ever since the brother I waited so long to play with, threw a tantrum at the sight of a bouncing red ball. Anyways, I didn't have many thoughts to spare for the dead man. The streets grew to father me. Their code was my law, and to maintain a roof over my family's heads, I had to abide by the law.

"Montaser!" Osama called in a whimpering voice.

I shook my head of the bitterness that had filled it. I picked myself up and walked into the house, towards my brother's room.

"What's wrong ya batal (champ)?" I whispered, soothingly trying to pat him back to sleep.

"Osama s-saw bad things w-when he was asleep so he called you and y-you didn't come to save him. Why didn't you c-come?" Osama stuttered, looking down at his fingers while they nervously twisted and untwisted around the loose strings that hung off his blanket.

"I didn't come?! Are you sure? Laa! No, maybe I was just about to come when you woke up. See if you had been patient maybe you could have seen me come in and make the bad things go away." I replied, walking my index and middle fingers up Osama's bony little arm. He anticipated an attack on his ticklish armpit so he retreated as quick as he could, but giggled anyways.

"Oh! Sorry then. I-I just thought you didn't hear me. I'll try again, just come q-quickly okay. I won't call you twice this time."

I held back a chuckle, untied my brother's fingers from the blanket strings they held, and tucked him in. "Okay ya batal. Scoot over, I won't even leave your side."

Laying beside my younger brother, I allowed the subtle rise and fall of Osama's chest to knock me out of consciousness. I don't recall the things I dreamed of. But I do suppose it involved lab coats and better alternatives. Maybe short blissful intervals to the life I longed for, the life Afribia had deprived me of.

The next morning I woke up to the alarm of bullets, and my mother shaking me by the shoulders.

"What?! What's wrong, now?"

"Nayem leha shno?!(Why are you still asleep?!) Where is your brother? Waladi wein?! (Where's my son)" She cried, pounding on her chest with a miserable look on her face.

"What do you mean where is Osama?" I replied, quickly glancing at the empty space beside me, before I jumped out of bed and slipped into my ragged old shoes.

"The country is in flames! Be careful ya waladi!" My mother called, her trembling voice betraying the tears she was trying to hold back.

I rushed to the door and walked out to be greeted by a mass of faces, some I knew, and others I was seeing for the first time. I pushed through the crowd that chanted "Freedom! Peace! Justice!" and watched as tires rolled down the streets in flames. It was terrifying to imagine that my poor little brother, who was afraid of loud noises and the color red, was out here somewhere! I skipped over several shards of glass that were scattered at carelessly organized spots under their broken window frames. It was hard to understand what was going on or why the masses had assembled. I flipped my mind over for ideas as to how all this could have happened bein yom w leila (overnight). I remembered seeing similar sights two years ago at the death of Afribia's favorite singer, and then again at a feeble uprising of scattered revolts. But they were never this... this... loud! Could this be the real awaited revolution? Was Afribia finally tiptoeing out of the shade of tyranny?I was not sure, but none of it mattered as much as the whereabouts of my brother did.

"OSAMA! OSAMA! WHERE ARE YOU YA BATAL?! IT'LL BE OKAY, JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE. IT'S MONTASER, OSAMA! CAN YOU HEAR ME? YAKHWANA I'M LOOKING FOR MY LITTLE BROTHER, HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?" I yelled out again and again, sometimes louder than the crowd, other times in muffled streaks that only I could hear.


Just then, smoke filled the air and people began to disperse. Salty drops of tears began to form, involuntarily, at the edges of my eyes. Where there were ten people around me with footsteps echoing my own, there had now been two unconscious bodies. One of which seemed oddly smaller. My eyesight was cloudy, but I could have sworn it looked like Osama. Confusion, agony, pain, and drowsiness rushed through my body all at once. Then, without any forewarnings my knees buckled. Did I tell them they needed to fall to get a closer look? If I did what were my eyelids doing weighing down on my sight?

"Osama?" I called, as I peeked through my drooping eyelids at the corpse in front of me. "Osama... it's Montaser... I'm... I'm here... it'll be okay." I whispered as I exhaustedly edged my hand closer to cup my brother's face. The last thing I could remember was the shock of a damp sticky fluid that oozed down Osama's chin and onto my fingers.

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I woke up to the pinch of sharp needle piercing into my arm.

"Finally, you're awake. We're in Soba Hospital. The tear gas knocked you out for a while." Said a tall, bouldering female figure in the most matter-of-fact tone. "Hold still. We need to take some blood."

"Where is Osama?" I remembers asking. "The young boy who was next to me, my brother, where is he?"

"Asbet! Hold still!" She repeated. I looked up at her dark face with scrutiny. Her bold features had an intense look of concentration strewn across them. I examined her dusty white uniform, and shoes that might have once been white. She flicked the ends of her sky-blue scarf over her shoulders and looked up to hold my gaze for a split second. I saw that she was trying to muffle some emotion. Frustration? Sympathy? Nervousness? It was hard to tell, she probably masked her emotions quite often at this tired old hospital.

"Yakh asma'eeni, (listen) did the boy I was holding come with me? Do you have him here?" I felt a pang that must have been purposely orchestrated by the nurse to get her point across. "Yakh, Why are you taking my blood, anyways?"

The nurse continued to ignore me while her needle filled up with my dark red fluids. As soon as she was satisfied she turned around to leave, when I grabbed her arm.

"Please! Do you know anything about the boy?! Osama?" I pleaded.

"The doctor will come to talk to you in a while." She replied, yanking her arm from underneath my grasp. "Don't exhaust yourself."

As I watched her back disappear around a corner at the end of the hallway, I reached out for my IV tubes and yanked them out forcefully. This was the second time I had dozed off while my brother was, God-knows-where. If anything happened to him, I would have no one but myself to blame.

"Excuse me! What do you think you're doing?!" Yelled nurse "asbet" from the farther end of the room. "Stay where you are, you're in no position to be moving around. Listen, ma tghalebni! (don't trouble me) There are hundreds of others I need to attend to, so just stay in your..."

But I would not listen, I was already tying my shoe laces. I had to find Osama.

"He's in the operating room." She blurted, flatly.

There it was—my worst nightmare in its most vicious forms, reenacting itself at that very moment.

"What?!" I bellowed

"I'm sorry. He was shot. That was what the blood was for..." She replied, almost sympathetically. "Now can you please stay where you are. The doctor will tell you the details. Just stay for a few minutes."

I looked down at my feet, begging them to move. But they would not budge. I did not know how long I held that frozen position. I imagined the grief and disappointment that would shatter my mom's heart. How was I going to tell her that her youngest son was shot, while her eldest was asleep? How would I live with myself? More importantly, how could I live without my brother?"

"Ya ibni? Ya ibni. Son? Son, can you hear me?" A balding man repeated, as he shook me by the shoulder. "Son I need you to listen to me. Are you okay? Do you know where you are? I need you to talk to me."

"Is he okay?" I managed

A few minutes seemingly dragged themselves into an endless silence, and as I looked up at the doctor's face I understood.

"I'm so sorry, son"

"Where is he?"

"The shot was aimed directly at his head, and we did everything..."

"'Everything we could, but we still couldn't save him? This is God's will? You're so sorry?'" I furiously mimicked, "Listen, I know you have patients to attend to, just cut the crap and tell me where he is."

"They want you at the morgue to identify the..."

I dashed past the doctor and followed the signs to where the morgue had to be. I could not cry, I could not yell, I could not breathe. I was numb, broken, and very much confused. As I walked towards the room that reeked with the stench of soulless bodies, a man in a blue and black army suit nudged me to a halt. I looked down at the butt of the Kalashnikov on my chest, then up at the man who was holding it there to stop me.

But Juba, You Were Supposed To Be The Good One!

So the world's youngest country, South Sudan, has alegedly just squashed down its first coup. They have successfully carried out the Sudanese legacy of political strife, and yet again, gunshots fill the streets with the familiarity of rivalry. Yay or nay?

Neither. This could be just another post about my "expert" opinion (because we all know everyone who is bold enough to state their opinions on such matters, usually thinks they're an expert of some sort) on the state of affairs in South Sudan. Or I could go on and on about how grateful I am that the state is steering clear of what would have been another heavy load on it's plate. But I won't. The idea that has been itching at my surface is more fitted to the grand scheme of things. 

Legacies?

As soon as I heard about the turbulence surrounding the coup, two completely contradictory thoughts struck my mind. The first was "Oh my God! I hope this does not escalate into another civil war, with the South Sudanese people getting caught in the midst of it, yet again." and the second was "Hah! So much for "ethnic" rivalry. I can't wait for the details behind this whole matter to go public, it will be a good waking call."

Here is why I think that. For as long as I can remember, Sudan and South Sudan have always been at each other's throats. The country has witnessed decades of civil war, and for the longest time I was made to believe that this was a war of ethnicity. The 'Arabs' of the North are at war with Black-Africans of the South. (Or in weaker relays of the story, they'll tell you it's just another Christian minority being victimized by the wicked Muslims.) For as long as I remember, any paper or article that spoke about the North and the South did not fail to distinguish the rivalry along ethnic, religious, or racial lines. Which in my humble opinion, is pure bullshit. I don't mean to say that there aren't any distinct differences between the two Sudans, but these differences hover over the (once) whole country. Sudan has always held different ethnicities within its borders. For ages, this has resulted in new cultural fads, so that the Sudanese individual, whether he identifies as an Arab or an African, inevitably carries a legacy from both cultures. Whether you like it or not, we are all bottles of 2-in-1 products. Anyways, I'm going on a tangent that's not the point.

The bigger picture is, this absurd simplification of a multilateral issue that has plagued Sudan for a long time, is now coming to show its real teeth. Many of the commentaries on the recent coup have had a surprised undertone to them. Especially the ones who've grown used to calling it an ethnic/religious/racial dilemma, you know, the outlets who have only bothered to examine the issue's surface. They, of course will not understand what's really going on right now.  I mean technically, the South is all parts black-African now. They've gotten rid of the evil Muslim majority. So what's the problem? Why isn't this new Sudan working, Goddamn it?! 

My idea is because they (as in the bigoted commenters and, to an extent, the South Sudanese public) have address a problem that did not really need addressing. The problem was not that the North despised the South for their religious/racial belongings, therefore exploiting there resources and killing them mindlessly. The problem, at heart, is not an idealogical one. These are all means of polarizing ends and adding oil to the fire. The problem is a natural one. Resources. It has always been, and will always be a problem of resources.

Every single entity (as far as my research goes), whether they identify themselves along idealogical, religious, racial, or ethnic lines, has this obsessive want to over-eat. Every one wants the bigger piece of the pie, because no one believes there is enough pie to go around. (Economists will tell you there isn't, but let's assume we all just want enough pie to satisfy our hunger, minus the idea of profit.) Thus, no matter whose narrative it is, Somalia or South Africa; be it a democracy, or an islamic dictatorship; the bigger man always wants to eat the smaller man's pie. So what does he do? He calls the small man black, or Christian, or whatever, and then exploits him. The world of course believes it and says, look at this! Smh. Another bigoted African state going at it like hyenas and monkeys. Poor them. When will they learn how to steal like civilized human beings (because let's face it, we've yet to see a euphoric corruption-free country that truly shares its pies equally and fairly.)

Thus our ill-management has bred these trust issues that tempt men to plan coups and dishevel a fragile state, as is going on with South Sudan now. Almost every Sudanese individual, in this day and age, has trust issues with "the other" especially if they are in power. Which is only normal. If you lived for decades, seeing power corrupt whoever it touches, you'd have an issue with it too. If you grew hungry, oppressed, illiterate, and distraught every time you stood farther and farther away from the leading group, you would hate "the other "too. So, I think we need to stop calling it an idealogical problem. We need to peel this  nasty colonial skin off of our minds, and stop drawing the problem along racial/religious lines. We need to grow up and look our demon in the eye! We need to admit that we are incompetent, as a nation, and as state leaders. Then we need to seek therapy. Yes, therapy to cleanse our systematically brain-washed souls, so that we can fix what's really broken. Our bellies.

Anyways, the point is, if you were one of those people who though, NO! Juba, you were supposed to be the sane Sudan. The good one that has fought to gain its freedom. The one who knows what the struggle looks like, and therefore works long an hard to give her people that light at the end of the tunnel. Good news, you're not alone. Bad news, you've been looking at it wrong all this time. Sadly, it seems only natural that the coup would take place. The average student only knows what he is taught, and this is what Sudan's history has taught us. Impatience. We all want our country to be the glorious state it (assumedly) once was. But more importantly we want our basic human rights. So we fight everything standing in the way of that, except our own incompetence. We fight the British, then we fight the South/North, and now we(as northerners) are fighting extremist Muslims, while the South fights a superficial ghost of democracy. Our neighbors are only our friends so long as we have the same enemy, upon which we can hang our dirty coats of failures.  Each time we are victorious over (what we think is) another demon, we are left frustrated because our problems fail to disappear with that victory (be it independence, another political coup, the subduing of a rebellious ethnic minority, or the partition of the Sudans). That is why as soon as our joint enemy is out of the equation, we look to our neighbors and our neighbors look onto us in search of another scapegoat, or coatrack. Meanwhile, we remain malnourished, pain-stricken, illiterate, poor and cold. All problems of resources, because we can neither trust "the other" to give us our basic human rights. Nor can we identify with "the other" to give to them like we give to our own.

Retweet, Revolt! Hashtag, Abena!

"I think people in Sudan should stop protesting (in the chaotic way they did when the revolts first sprang up) because if this continues we'll just turn into another Somalia." She said "And seeing what happened with the other Arab countries, I don't think it's worth it."

"But we don't get to decide." I replied sourly. "I don't think they should stop, but I do think they should get organized. Also this is nothing like Somalia, what happened there was because no one had a common enemy, each group wanted to hold power over 'the other' and they fought about it for decades. WE, collectively want to be in power, as in a democracy... but what we want more is to live with dignity... Or should I say THEY..." I sighed, "Because realistically we have to sort of separate ourselves from the people in Sudan."

I had this conversation with my cousin early last week, when riots had flooded the country with destruction. During the early signs of revolt, when both private and public property were vandalized, most people were reluctant and fearful of what the future would hold for Sudan. We all felt something big was happening, but we were reluctant to call it a revolution yet... probably out of fear that we might jinx it like the last two times. Some are still reluctant to call it a revolution to this day; sure, these few share half a brain and/or wear military uniforms but we'll assume their voices count toward something, just for the sake of playing it even or whatever. Anyways, later that week, I spoke to my cousin again before I headed out to the demonstrations in front of the Sudanese embassy in Washington, DC. She asked me what good it would do and I got all defensive, despite the fact that I, too, was initially reluctant about the idea of a revolution. (Actually, had you asked me two weeks ago if I thought Sudan should revolt, I would have convinced you that it shouldn't. But that is a whole different story.)

On my way to the embassy, I told myself a number of lies to convince myself that I was serving the cause. I mean look at me, I am a great Sudanese citizen that hasn't forgotten her country or lost her identity despite being born a global nomad. (Seriously, where's my medal?) Tonight when I go to bed I can pat myself on the back for a job well done! It is not my fault that I can't put my life on the line for Sudan even though I really want to. "انما الاعمال بالنيات"(The value of deeds are in the intentions they are carried out with). Actually, so what if the people dying in Sudan don't know that some girl lost her voice in protest because she wanted to see a better Sudan, just like them. (If you know me at all you could probably guess this turned into a metaphoric existential discussion between me and an imagined voice of Sudan. No joke.) Anyways, by the end of the protest I felt uplifted, and as the crowd dispersed they rolled up their signs and went on living the lives they had just put on hold for a few hours.(another luxury people in Sudan could not afford. Damn us moghtarbeen and our luxurious life.) Of course we reassured ourselves by promising that this was not the end. The demonstrations would take place again, next week. The revolution would go on until victory was attained.

When I came home, my father (who, I think, was a little bitter since he couldn't join me because of a bad leg) sarcastically asked me "Aha, inshallah you brought down Al Basheer?" Of course I was infuriated beyond words. I simply stomped out of the room, but it is hard to say his words only sunk in skin deep. So for the next few days, my role as an expat(or the lack thereof) paranoid me. I kept thinking, if this revolution fails (yes, I used the F word. I'm sorry, bear with me) the expats would surely carry part of the blame. But when it succeeds, how many expats can rejoice and say "WE did it!" without feeling like they were free-riding off copyrighted efforts? Furthermore, I continuously asked myself "What the hell am I doing?"

The question soon turned into a more pressing one, "What could I do?" Tell people in college about it? Write a new poem? Preform it any time an open mic presented itself so people knew what was going on? Retweet informative tweets ending with #SudanRevolts/ابينا#? Would that be enough? Maybe I could write a new story that would raise awareness? The story of the martyrs! Yes, I would etch them into a living memory. But then how would I get their stories? Where do I start? What if their families don't have access to the internet? If only I was in Sudan... All roads lead back to Sudan... Sure, condescending such efforts is a bitter train of thought because we all know the great role social media sites played in the rise and fall of former dictators during the infamous Arab Spring. But realistically speaking, those means were put up on a pedestal because they helped organize the masses. Again I ask, what role did the expats play? Moral support?

As ridiculous as that may sound, I do think that the Sudanese diaspora is one of the leading exporters of moral support for those within Sudan. Which might seem of little value, but let us consider one ofthe sole reasons this revolt has gone on for so long. Dam Al Shuhada'! (The Martyrs' blood!) However which way we choose to look at it, the protests on the street are refueled by the anger of losing hundreds of our brothers, sisters, daughters and sons in a week, backed by the inconceivable thought of their blood ruining in vain. This thought, in essence, is just a form of moral support isn't it? So why is it that we undermine the moral support provided by tweeps and facebook-ers abroad?  Of course, the revolution feeds itself. Most of the government's vicious acts only pour into the nation's anger, and that tips over the Sudanese pot which has been boiling for decades with the bitter ingredients of bloodshed, civil wars, poverty, disease, and (dun dun daa) the rising number of expats and refugees. However, the whole of the revolution is really just a sum of its parts.

We expats, sadly, have very little physical influence on this revolution. My options are limited, and I know many members of the Sudanese diasporas in various countries share my frustration. We do play a tiny part, but it persists to be a part that must be played. All of us do not need to die, for Sudan to get better. In fact, none of us should die in this transition. (Besides various members of the Janjaweed and the NCP. I swear if air could speak it would say: stop wasting me and drop dead.) The country will definitely need people to build it back up when all this is over and done with, by then we can discuss physical contributions. For now, you should be content knowing that the faith we put into protestors on the street plays a part in the revolutions success. Knowing that the spotlight is on them, and an increasing number of people are watching their plight and praying for their success will hopefully strengthen their will and eliminate any possibility of backing down!

You might be familiar with my preferred style of blogging. I rarely state my opinions straight out because I prefer to present people with ideas to flavor as they like, and chew on at their convenience rather than giving you my thoughts condensed, to chug down or throw out. But on this specific issue, I could not think of a way to sugar coat it. If you think you're not contributing to the revolution every time you talk about it to a friend, or on a social media site, you're going about it the wrong way! There is a reason the government tried to bubble in news of the revolution by cutting off the internet. Everything counts! Just today I had a friend ask me about the demonstrations in DC, and whether the Americans knew what was going on. Did the world care? Yes the world cares, or at least the most important parts of it do. The little groups of Sudanese ambassadors called expats care, and we are proud of our nation for speaking up. We keep telling everyone who passes us by how proud we are, and they promise to keep you in their prayers. We will not give up on you, just don't give up on what's left of our homeland.

P.S.: There are other practical things you could do as well, such as collecting donations/donating for the treatment of people injured in protest. Also, if you have any access to the family/friends of a martyr(s), to whom I owe my deepest condolences, please contact me or help me get in touch with them. Thank you in advance!

Afribian Nights III: The Price of Love

She was the type of girl that reminded you of the Nile, the Takka Mountains, Meroe, and every other extraordinary thing God had only created one of. At a height just below average and hair of silk that danced about her waist, Mona was the eight wonder of the world that lived right next door. She was the name on every tongue, at every occasion, unless of course Muneer was within hearing distance. That would be too painful, because everyone knew the sound of her name could reel his heart out of his chest. Simply putting it, if Mona were graphite, Muneer's mind would be the walls of Brooklyn's streets that had Mona's name etched into the corner of every alley.

Each morning, you could pull your balcony's curtains open to let in Afribia's dreary winds and know, just as surely as the sun had risen, that somewhere around the corner, on the fourth floor balcony of a shabby ten story building, Muneer was standing as tall as his easel, facing his canvas, with brushes and pencils coiled into his soft, curly little afro. If you listened intently enough, you could almost hear him whistling Wardi's tunes as he painted Muna's big brown eyes to perfection. As the sun threatened to part with Afribia's skies to make way for the evening, Muna's doorbell would ring. Upon opening the door of her grandmother's homey three story villa, Mona knew she would find a mesmerizing portrait of herself neatly resting on their Welcome mat, just as she knew she would hear the artist’s signature—the sound of feet dashing down the street at the speed of light.

When the night’s skin erupted with twinkles from this star and that, the doors of Mr. Moe’s café would squeak open and the strumming of Muneer’s oud would fill the streets. Muneer had the type of voice that dripped honey right into your soul, and it was made sweeter by the passion that shone in his eyes. If you ever believed in cupid, then you believed in Muneer’s ability to make you fall in love with a girl you may have never even seen before; for no one could hear him preform without rubbing the upper left chambers of their chests as if they were trying to tend to a bittersweet wound left behind by some red arrow. Surely, Mona knew the lyrics to his songs like she knew Afribia’s anthem. Each night, after she tucked her grandmother into bed, she would sit in her room staring at a pile of portraits, and singing along to songs written in her name until she fell asleep. That was the love story that first enchanted the little town of Halfa.  soon, the tale wrapped itself up into the red sand grains of time to be picked up by the wind and whispered into every Afribian home that cared to listen.

One particularly hot afternoon, Mona came home from college and found Bash Mohandes (the engineer) Sa’ad, pelted on their Sofa puffing balls of smoke and giddy laughter into the air. She freed her hands of the books they carried and rushed to embrace her father.

“I’m so glad to see you! When did you arrive? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Mona inquired in one breath.

“Ah, I know you like surprises just as much as you like me. So I thought, why not give my daughter a double-wave of joy.” He chuckled as he resumed his seat, with his daughter by his side. Mona smiled, and then extended her arm and yanked the wilted cigarette wickedly positioned between her father’s index and middle finger.

“I thought you quit that garbage!” She pouted as she put the cigarette out and patted his pockets for any remnants of evil.

“I did, Wallai (I swear). That was my last one. Anyways, your old grandmother here has been gazing at me since I got here. She hasn’t brought me any coffee or anything, otherwise I would have found something better to do than play with a cigarette.” Mona rolled her eyes and rose to the kitchen to fix her old man a cup of coffee, while her father and his mother cooked up a quarrel. She laughed to herself and shook her head when she found a warm little cup sitting in the sink, emptied of its caffeinated components. Her father was a real joker at times, but she could tell he was making a genuine effort to redirect his compulsive nicotine addiction. He had not litanother cigarette, or tried to fight with her as she stole the one he was smoking. That in itself was a small victory.

“How are the deserts of Saudi treating you? Where is mother, why didn't she come with you?” Mona asked as she walked into the room with a tray that carried the round coffee pot she had bought from the Ethiopian Market on her last visit to Addis, and three little fanajeen (small porcelain espresso cups).

“It’s fine, you know, the same routine everyday—you work under the merciless sun until you say al-rob! Then you come home and try to pass your time watching the Catalonians make football history, or occasionally chatting up politics with a few friends. As for your mother, she is well. She sends her regards and apologizes that she could not get out of work for the week.” Sa’ad said, sipping on his coffee and tracing the rim of his funjan with his index finger.

“Okay, I’m glad you’re here old man. But why have you decided to visit us out of the blue like this? Did you simply miss the hectic case of Malaria that caught you by the knees the last time you were here?” Mona giggled.

“Ha ha. I am here to see my mother, what is it to you?” Her father teased, as he stood up and went to sit beside her grandmother, giving Mona his back.

Just then the doorbell rang. Mona looked outside the windows of the balcony and took note of the sun beginning to dip down behind the horizon. She anxiously looked at her father who was already immersed in a conversation with his mother about which relatives he would have to visit for this reason or that, and which houses he could afford to skip.

Mona composed herself and stood to answer the door.

"Where is the maid? Let her get the door." Her father said, over his shoulders.

"She's on vacation today. It's okay, I'll get it." Mona replied, locking eyes with her grandmother for a second as they both acknowledged that fact that no one answered this particular doorbell except Mona. But her father did not know this, and she wondered how long she could keep the truth from him.

As expected, there were the footsteps running down the street, and a painting at her feet.

"Who is it? Has the news of my coming spread already? This mother of mine is like Al-Jazeera, if she used her broadcasting powers like I tell her to, Afribia would have gone through seven revolutions by now." Sa'ad bellowed, only to receive a playful strike on his head from his mother.

"It's not for you, ya-'aboi ertah (relax dad.)" Mona replied

As she walked up the stairs to her room, she contemplated the fact that she was well on her way to becoming a pharmacist while Muneer only dreamed of spreading joy to the world through his music. Her mind raced to the lovely lyrics he had written in blue ink on the weathered letters that were attached to the back of each painting she had received. She wondered how her father would react if Muneer finally knocked on her door and didn't run away. If he walked into their house with his uncle and asked her father for her hand in marriage. Time and time again, the image had haunted her dreams. As soon as she tilted away from consciousness and into slumber, she would see herself wearing her best dress, and coyly carrying the tray of sweet hibiscus juice, that she would present to her fiancé as the neighbors yelped with joy. She sighed, plopped herself onto her bed and unrolled the letter behind today’s painting.

Whenever the tender breeze passes through your hair, 
Habibti I hear it sighing with passion. 
And your timid perfume that dissolved on your skin, 
Whenever it touches you, it sighs with passion.
Why, when you tell me you adore me 
Don't you want me to scream and fill the whole universe with my passionate sighs?
Oh, you’re a star, and whenever your light touches a stone,
It rises up high and turns into a moon.
I write your name, with dewdrops, on every tree’s leaves
Who can ever describe you the way I do?
Who can ever love you as much as I do?
Oh, you’re a dream, I wish for all hearts to experience.
You are the greatest feeling that has ever mesmerized me,
 Melted me down, and made me feel like I am human.
Why, when you tell me you adore me,
Don't you want me to scream and fill the whole universe with my passionate sighs?

M. Muneer

Just then there was a brief knock on the door, and her father, who did not really understand the concept of knocking, barged in and sat by his daughter.

“What’s this? Are you falling in love behind my back?” He teased, as he slyly took the letter out of Mona’s hands.

Mona did not try to take the letter back, nor was she ever in the habit of fighting against fate. He was bound to find out someday, she said to herself. So she sat on the edge of her bed. 

Her heart thumped loudly, gave out, and dropped to her feet as her father’s face turned cold and stern.

“Muneer, eh? How long has this Romeo been writing to you?” Sa’ad asked in a firm, low voice.

“A little over two years now.”

“Hmm… Because there are no men in this house, right?! Two years and I am like the deaf guy at a wedding. And you like it of course, otherwise you would not have let it go on for so long.”

“But ya-‘aboi…” Mona stuttered

“But nothing! Tell him to come tomorrow and knock on my door like a righteous man, as he should have done if he respected our custoums and traditions. Or do you want people to say Sa’ad has not brought up a good daughter?”

“People, people, people! Malna w mal kalam alnass? Why should people’s meaningless chatter bother us? If you go right they will talk, if you go left they will also talk. So is it not better to do what makes us happy?” Mona said in a small, angry voice, careful not to yell so as not to further ignite her father’s anger.

“Nonsense. This is Afribia, you do not live by yourself." Her father waved her words away "Tomorrow! This has gone on for too long.” Sa’ad said as he rose to leave the room. “Gal Malna w mal kalam alnass. Ha! Why should people’s meaningless chatter bother us? Why? Like she cares nothing for her father's name!” he murmured as he closed the door behind him.

Mona quickly put pen to paper and wrote to Muneer. She folded her letter and called the doorman who placed it in its usual place—under the rock that rested right outside their villa. For the remainder of the night Mona tossed and turned in her bed, trying to shake insomnia off of her pillow. But, it simply would not budge. She replayed the conversation that had went on between her and her father, over and over again. Each time tying a new meaning to the way her father had sat, the emphasis he had given to some of his words, or the way he had looked at her. It was quite ironic that she had said the things she did. Her speech about Afribia’s chatty society came from a place deep within her, but floated out with empty hypocrisy. Didn't she care about what people said when she asked Muneer never to wait at her door? Didn't she care about what people said when she refused his countless invitations to tea? Did she not care what people thought of her when she sent the doorman with a letter to hide under a rock? She did, because she subconsciously knew that they were worlds apart. Love did not know the steward from the chief, but her mind was well aware of it. Yet here she was, hoping with all her might that her father would approve of the poor boy next door. But did she, truly approve of him? She did not know. Nor did she know what to expect tomorrow, except that Muneer would definitely show up. 

~~~

"Welcome, welcome. Please, come in! Make yourselves comfortable." Sa'ad gleefully bellowed at his guests.

"It is such a pleasure to finally meet you ya bash-mohandes Sa'ad." Muneer said, taking Sa'ad's hand into both of his, and shaking it sternly. 

As they were guided to the living room, Muneer and his uncle looked about the grand house with amazement. The maid soon came and presented them with sweets and something cool to drink. The men chatted idly and exchanged greetings till Mona's grandmother came and sat by her son.

"As you know, Mr. Sa'ad" Muneer's uncle began, "Kids these days are not at all mindful of the traditions. They have not grown up in a time like ours, but it is our duty, so long as we are alive and well, to guide them and teach them of the righteous Afribian ways."

"Indeed!" Sa'ad nodded.

"There is no excuse for al'eib. What is wrong is wrong, and all we hope to do is prohibit it from reoccurring, and extending apologies sincere enough to keep relations between people jolly and well."

"Of course of course. You speak the truth. Indeed, what type of host would I be if I quarreled with my guest? I accept your apologies in good faith, as you seem to be a wise man surely brought up in a good family."

"Thank you. We are of humble origins, actually. I have been beating around the bush for due time now. So, if you may allow me to dive into the matter, we have come here today to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage to our son Muneer. He is a hardworking, talented young man, and he is prepared to complete the other half of his deen. (religion)"

"Mmmm, yes yes. Tell me son, what do you do for a living?" Sa'ad asked. 

It was then that the conversation took an expected turn for the worse. By the end of the evening Sa'ad had sternly told his guests that he had no daughters up for marriage. That was the end of it. There were no more letters, and no more paintings. The music that had once made the people of Halfa fall in love, now entered each person's heart and stroked out every painful memory it held. Each night Muneer would hear Sa'ad in his head telling him he would not go very far with a mere guitar in his hand. 

"You will not be able to afford her mahar (dowry), dear son. You would have to put together several months' pay. You may be able to bring her a nice ring tomorrow, but what of the days after that? Look at how she lives. Will you be able to sustain all her needs?" He had said to Muneer. Deep in his heart, Muneer knew he could but he had remained silent. He knew it was pointless to argue. He could have spoken of his priceless love, he could have said that he would put Mona in his eyes and show her joy no money could know. Moneer could have asked the esteemed engineer to have faith in him and his ambition. He could have reminded Sa'ad of where he came from before he was a n engineer. But he had remained silent. 

Instead every day, for a year, at quarter past ten, he would stand under the shade of a large baobab tree across the street from Mona's house, and wait for Mona to open her balcony windows. He would watch her as she tip-toed onto the patio to check the weather. Muneer would inhale her image and lock it into the fragmented chambers of his chest, before he turned around and went on his way to answer life's tedious calls. Then one day, he was deprived of that too.

"Miss Mona and her grandmother went to belad barra (abroad)." The doorman had said. Muneer nodded and walked away. He filled through the images he had stored away for this rainy day, singing:

I'm missing a look of affection

Or was it written for me to love and melt?

My eyes are looking at you

And I sent the messengers to tell you

But who can reach you?

You are the most high.

Who can reach you,

When you are the most high?

Afribian Nights II: Samara [Final Chapter]

“'You, the people, in your popular uprising succeeded in cutting off the monster’s head, but the lifeless body continues to deceive you that the monster is still dangerous. No, it is not! Having cut off the monster’s head, it is your sacred duty to push down the monster’s body, not to stand in fear of it.' He said, as we stood, peaking through the bushes at a man who radiated a unique eminence of prestige.

I did not know who he was, but I already felt safe within his proximity. With towering broad shoulders, he stood tall and scanned his audience of energetic cadets with small dark eyes, that swam atop firm circular cheekbones wrinkled from smiling, I suppose. His head shone all the way back to the apex of his skull where a thin twine of nappy hair formed a crescent that trickled down the sides of his face and dripped off his chin in a black and white goatee. He was not attractive, per se, but his presence filled the air with a captivating sense of something I still cannot find the right words to describe. His voice bellowed through the camp with an urgent sense of authority despite the serene, heartwarming words it conveyed.

'I appreciate and applaud your tenacity and courage throughout the difficult years of our struggle as a group, and I applaud your personal struggle as individuals. I salute your great spirit of survival and steadfastness. I commend you for the firm commitment to the cause of our people despite all the hardships and suffering you have gone through. Your Movement had always wanted to prepare you to be the future leaders of our nation. This is still the purpose; you are the generation that shall develop the new Afribia. Even though the difficulties and events of our struggle have separated many of you from the movement and some of us have scattered all over the world yet the aim is not lost.' He continued.

'I have come to wake you up and remind you that your day has come, tomorrow is already here; you have very little time left to prepare yourselves for leadership in whatever fields: agriculture, carpentry, architecture, medicine, politics, economics, or even raising a family…all these require skills and all contribute to building the New Afribia, which we have fought and sacrificed the last twenty years of our lives for. Even before you have completed the task of organizing yourselves nationally, you have the eyes of the world upon you at this very gathering. I am confident in your ability to come together in a spirit of unity towards a greater good – bringing the world’s awareness to the plight of the desperate people in Afribia. I have great faith that you will conduct your business as responsible leaders, rising above factional and political differences. As you speak, the world will hear and learn about the lost boys and girls of Afribia, the children of Afribia's war-torn countryside. Millions of your people have lost their future, their lives; they have no voice, except through you. The despair and tragedy spans every tribe, every religion, every language, and every culture found in your vast land. But still, we hold out hope for a day where we will again know the security and comfort of our family’s love, the prosperity of a country no longer at war, and peace in our homeland. Such cherished dreams will require all of the love, work, faith, trust and compassion we can assemble as allies and friends across the world. If you master this spirit of unity here," he gently placed his palm over the upper left side of his chest "You will truly be maturing into the leaders deeply needed by your country. Each one of you has my respect and admiration for enduring a life that no child should ever face, and for recognizing that the road ahead is still long, filled with both hardship and unexpected joy, self-discipline and the barest glimpse of cherished dreams that...'

At that particular moment his eyes held mine, and I witnessed a benevolent smile play about the corners of his lips. The young cadets turned their heads to face us. A girl, with height exceeding her age walked towards us alongside a sturdy, buffed boy with deep creases of anger drawn across his forehead. They ruffled the bushes with their machine guns and extended their arms to clasp the muddied cloth covering our shoulders; thugging us, front and center, on our knees right under Sargent Garang Joe's mercy. I looked up and he tipped my head down, held me by the arm and helped me to my feet.

'No child, if you intend to sit on your knees and look up with weakness let it be in prayer to your God, not to me. I am not your enemy, unless you declare yourself to be mine. If you do not, you will remain in God's mercy and my grace. What are your names?'

'Samara Salih Alsir,' I said 'And this is my friend Karam Mohammed Ahmed' I completed before Karam found his voice to speak.

The Sargent smiled radiantly as he glared at Karam. 'Has the rat gotten your tongue? Is it the woman who should speak for the man now?' He mocked.

Karam cleared his throat, 'No, my tongue is right here. If she speaks for me it is because I allow her to. But she knows who remains in the position of authority here.' he managed to tease back, despite the tension that eroded him.

I elbowed him in the waist, and he screeched.

'What I mean to say is, actually, this is no ordinary lady. She is my equal in strength and wit, so I am glad that she speaks on my behalf. It is as if I am speaking, but in a prettier voice.' Karam corrected himself.

Laughter contagiously spread from the Sargent's belly to that of everyone around us. Soon enough, Karam and I found ourselves unloading our heavy weight of fatigue and worry, and submitting to the stream of giggles and chuckles that took hold of the air at that moment.

The Sargent then stroked my hair away from my face and looked into my eyes. Extending his other hand out in salutations he whispered, 'What a pleasure it is to meet you Samara. You are just as fierce as I would expect any daughter of Salih Alsir to be.'

It didn’t make sense to me why I had survived when my family didn’t, until I came across Sargent Garang Joe’s camp. Most of the comrades at Joe's camp knew who I was as soon as I stated my last name, they knew who my father and brother were. They said my family had been part of the rebellion for a long time, and that it was no accident. They told us of the people who had raided the town we stayed at that miserable night. Deewajanjas, or the devil's advocates, as they called them, were barbaric men who had been employed by the Cup-Heads to run Afribians out of their homes. The Deewajanjas were taught to hate our kind, they aimed to create some unrealistic, silly sense of ethnic "uniformity". As such, they had been tracking my father down for a while, the Sargent explained.

Gradually, each night, after we had completed our chores and attended training sessions of self-defense, the Sargent would have us sit around us as he explained Afribia's politics and history to our young, yearning minds. He lifted the cloak off of the injustice that had seemed to divide our land. We learned of the malicious people who wanted to drink Afribia's black gold, and leave Afribians thirsty. We were taught to unify under our understanding for each other's loss and grief, but we were constantly warned against allowing hate to fuel our ambitions.

'Hate is a volatile emotion that can turn against you, my child. If you let it motivate your pure intentions, then you will become vengeful and bitter and that same hate will come to eat you out. Today our country runs on a hate for those in power, and that is why we do not move forward.' The Sargent constantly reminded us.

I grew ten years older each night. Months passed and soon I, too, carried a gun. Whatever child had been left of Samara at that point, was wiped out clean. I dedicated the following ten years of my life to finding the people who had torn my family apart, and bringing down the men who ruled our country with such loose chaos. Occasionally, our camp would be discovered by enemies, but we always had God and the truth on our side. Until one day, while Karam and I were out hunting food for the camp, a man larger than Mohammed, the jail keeper, came out of the bushes with raging red eyes. We fought him with all our might, but he did not come alone... and that is how I ended up here, and Karam probably ended up somewhere in heaven." Samara bowed to hide the tears that threatened to fall.

"Now, they want me to become a traitor like them; to reveal the truth about Sargent Joe’s efforts. But I spit in their faces and they wipe off that spit by lashing me. Idiots. They don’t know that my voice is in a place their whips cannot reach. A place powered by this,” She made a fist with her right hand and pounded the upper left side of her chest.

"The heartless butchers try as they may to bruise my skin and break my bones, hoping they may reach my soul and destroy that too; but it is wed to a cause forever immune to their blades."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

So that, my children, is why we tauntingly sing of Butchers.

“Is she dead now Ms. Maha?” asked a young face among the keen Afribian audience.

"No, baby love. No." Said Maha

"Samara is Afribia, and Afribia never dies. She’s right here, in the sand, the wind, the Nile; between your veins and arteries and on the petals of every Hibiscus flower. She dances around Afribia weightlessly now. All that those bad men did was free her from a body that would have gotten old and useless anyways. Samara, the daughter to Christian Black-African Nuha, and Muslim Arabian Salah, lives on forever in these tales that my mother, Nahed, once told me. Today, I pass it on to you so that you may later tell your children and they, theirs."

As Maha patted one of the children on the head and got up to tend to supper, she saw a little girl extend her arm to her friend who, in turn, stroked her palm open with his fingers and began to sing,

The butcher, the butcher

The Kisrah and the stew

The butcher, the butcher

Where lies the home of your groom?