June 8, 2014

Afribian Nights IV: Memoirs of a Concrete Pavement (Chapter 2)

Her wails pierced my ears, and echoed through each of my bones with grief. I looked around to see where she was, I didn’t know how she had seen me since I was still standing at the doorstep of our house. Perhaps it was what they called “a mother’s sixth sense”. Perhaps she had felt the weight of her dead son’s soul fill the air. Perhaps she heard the sorrow that played basketball with my heart in my chest. I edged through the doors of our little house and found her on her knees; her hands covering her mouth as her eyes turned pink with tears and her chest danced to the rhythm of her sobs.

I looked for the words to console her, to explain to her why the little boy who had ran through these same doors with a bright smile on his face, had come back wrapped in a kafan (white cloth). I wanted to tell her why I had not come home for three days, and who was responsible for the unbearable pain in her heart. I knew I could have said a dozen things at that moment, instead I settled the corpse of my brother on the nearest ‘angareib and I walked into the kitchen to bring her a cup of water. I extended the water with one hand while I used the other to cup her elbow and help her off her knees. I sat her on the bed across where my baby brother lay, cold and still. She buried her face into my neck and whimpered, inna li Allah wa inna elayh raji’oon (We belong to God, and to Him we shall return). We sat there for a while, my arm around her, soothingly rubbing her shoulders while she shook with grief. I wanted to tell her that he was probably in a better place now, but I knew she would let another piercing wail escape her throat before she yelled then let me join him Ya Allah! And I feared that, perhaps the Merciful would decide to heed to her wishes and take her away too.


“Goom,” she managed between sniffs and sobs “Get up and find Nazim and Essam. We should prepare for the burial.”

                                                                          ~~~

The sun sat, unsolicited, atop the clear sky and watched as we walked to the narrow grave that had been dug for Osama's small body. I held him over me, with my fingers fixed around his waist while Essam supported the weight of Osama's upper body between his neck and his right shoulder. Nazim walked behind me, barely touching the tips of Osama's toes which seemed unnecessary since the corpse felt as light as a feather. We walked for a while in a herd of white jellabeyas and men who didn't know how to grieve so they fixed their eyes on their toes, watching each step, careful not to miss their ques. La illah illa Allah Mohamad Rasool Allah (there is no God but Allah and Mohamed is his prophet) I heard someone say, before the rest followed suit and I found myself glaring down at a part along the earth, wide and dark, waiting to swallow my brother whole. My knees shivered despite the early May heat that filled the air. La hawla wla quwata illa billah (there is no might nor power except in Allah) I heard the chants come as quick as the arms that wrapped themselves around my arms and elbows, fumbling to support my weight and catch Osama's corpse before it could fall with me. I kneeled in front of the grave, the rocks under my knees felt hot and urgent like the realization that settled itself in the middle of my mind. This is his new home. While Nazim and Essam gently lowered the corpse into the ground, the men around me lifted their hands to the air to ask God for something in a prayer I was unfamiliar with. Their whispered voices blended into each other as I felt a warm tear rush down my face. Osama hate's the dark. I remember whispering to no one in particular, before the last pile of sand fell off the shovel and settled over Osama's grave.

                                                                        ~~~

Soon, the same men and I were gathered in my front yard, and the neighbors filed through our doors, wailing and crying at the top of their lungs. I knew hajja Nafeesa, the chatty neighbor with caramel skin and the aftermath of five kids on her waist, would grieve half-heartedly and scream louder than everyone else to make up for the other half. Khala Mariam, the aunt known for her never-aging dark hair and complimentary brooding mood, would offer my mother two minutes of grievances for Osama before she remembered her own late son and began to mourn his loss like a healed wound had just been ripped open in her chest. Still they were the closest people to my mom, and I was glad they could keep her company while I stood outside, held back by a long line of tradition that decreed mourning the dead as an act done best in segregation.


The men would hold back their tears and pity every time they lifted their hands to their faces, rapidly murmured the seven verses of the fatiha, and patted me on the shoulder. These were the same men who indifferently walked past Osama each day, as he stood at the doorsill of our house. The same faces that crumpled with confusion when he hyperventilated because there were too many people in one room, or when he furiously shook his head right and left to avoid looking people in the eyes.

The Imam's voice filled the house with serene verses of what sounded like condolences, or prayers I suppose. I looked around at the faces that had filled the confines of my concrete yard as the scent of hurried funeral coffee tickled my nose.

--------------------------------------[~]--------------------------------------


"You t-think I could ever glow like that?" Osama asked as he glared up at the night sky.

"How do you know you're not glowing now?" I retorted, thinking he does a better job at lighting my days than the stars do the night sky.

"Hmmm... because when I l-look at the sky I feel something in-inside. L-like I'm not al-alone. L-like when I look at M-mama, and I feel nice. M-mama glows.. B-but I know thats not h-how Saleh from school feels. He always says to me, t-t-talk properly! So I know I'm not a s-star yet, I'm not glowing yet b-because I don't make everyone feel nice in-inside."

Except he was a star, for no other seven-year old could be that bright. Despite the darkness, I knew that he was crying because he held his breath. Just as I was about to extend my arm to comfort him, I woke up. The doors of the cell banged to one side as another group of disheveled men were tossed into the stuffy little prison cell.

"Bastards!" One of them muttered. Something about the revolts had made people a little bit more daring than usual.

He was a tall lanky fellow whose broken glasses drooped over the edge of his nose. I looked down as he scanned the room, hoping he wouldn't sit by me and decide to bother me with useless chatter. Of course it didn't work since I was the only person around his age in the cell. He slowly dropped himself a few inches from me, sighing like they had just lifted the world off his shoulders.

"Are you here because of the protests too? Which political group are you with?" he asked.

I lifted my head and looked his way before turning around to attend to my daydreams.

"You're right, I wouldn't answer either. With a country full to its brim with lying, cunning, disgusting amanjeya (secret police service) you have to be careful what you say to people."

I really didn't care what or who he was, but I hoped his assumption that I was scared of him would win me a few more minutes to wrap myself within my mind.

"My name is Ahmed El-Tahir, student from the University of Khartoum, faculty of economics." he paused waiting for a name I would not give him. "You know, I was peacefully sitting at home studying for some exam when someone called me and told me my best friend had been shot with a rubber bullet. He bled to death. All I wanted to do was dignify my best friend with a respectable funeral. But of course these bastards wouldn't have that. So they arrested me and now I'm here. I wish I were here for actually protesting against these dogs, but yeah. That's my story."

"Montaser Mahmoud Alsir?"

My name bellowed off the concrete walls of the cell, and cut right through Ahmed El-Tahir's rant. I walked up towards the bars that creaked open to reveal a stubby man's frame. He had a kinder face than most of the pigs in blue and black around here. I could tell that he had a long day by the way his eyebrows fell apathetically atop his reddish eyes. His shoulders slouched forward a little, to compliment the skin that lazily slouched into wrinkles under his eyes and over his ashy knuckles.

"Sign here," he said as he edged a paper and board closer to me.

I had half a mind to read it, but I knew that was uncalled for. As with everything else in this country, you did as you were told. You let society and it's authorities think for you if you wanted to live a simple, easy-flowing life. So I signed the paper and followed the old officer to the doors that led you out into the bigger prison. I had only been held for a few hours, but the streets that opened up to embrace me were much older. I was not familiar with the tire ashes that covered the sidewalks and sandy streets. I did not recognize these Afribians with stern faces, and heavy bags of courage on their shoulders. At least Osama had not died for nothing, he couldn't h...

"OUT! GET OUT!" Someone yelled, reeling me out of my reveries and into the front yard that seemed crammed with faces I was not familiar with. Did all these people know my brother?

"GET OUT YOU SHAMELESS PIECE OF ZIFT!" The rest of the mourners echoed.

1 comment: