March 3, 2015

Memoirs of Possibility


Dear diary,

The air smelled heavy with tea, musk, and hope.

I followed the echoes of laughter as they led me to the patio. The sun was shying away from the horizon, and the clouds responded by cracking themselves open to reveal some pink and orange streaks of light that clashed with the clouds’ blue­-white demeanor. It was almost magical, I thought. The sunsets never color the sky like this anywhere else.

I sat down, across from strangers. I mean, they were practically family, but I had only been around them for a few weeks. They spoke in hurried sentences, and blurs of hand motions. Sometimes, I tried to reach out and grab a word or two from under their lips, so I could decipher them later. But, whenever I pulled the words out of my pockets at night, they came out withered and empty. It's almost like they're wired to the souls of these people.

Such a shame, I would have loved to take some of their language away with me, when it was time to leave.

They didn't notice me, of course. These humans never do, but I sat there anyways. Looking for something out of the ordinary to capture with my pen. There was the mother I had been following around. She was wrapped in her usual array of colors streamed onto a long cloth they call thobe, which complemented the bundle of stories she carried under her half smile. Her long fingers, crinkled and soft, were wrapped around a white teacup that marked the coming of the afternoon in all of the houses of this country. I don't know what the milky brown liquid in it tastes like, but to me it smells a lot like ritual. Which is comforting. I have always liked ritual, she is a loyal friend.

Then there were the others. They were quite odd puzzle pieces, but then again, this country is full to its brim with extraordinary pictures. This house had a little girl who wore her hair in two braids. Her name was Mona, she was fresh with enthusiasm. I figure she's quite young, you know, because it shines brightest around her. But then again, you can never trust enthusiasm to tell you anything about age. These humans are unpredictable. Most of them dim down their enthusiasm as they grow older, but in my lifetime I've seen quite the number of outliers, I can tell you that! Anyways, Mona was sitting by the young man. I don't know what his name is, but they call him Jidu. I know that is code for grandfather in their language, but he had no withered skin, nor did wisdom come to visit him as often as it does all the other grandfathers I've seen. How strange.

Across from Jidu, on the other bed that took up half the length of the patio, sat the father. He sipped his tea while he flipped through pages of the world. I think they call it a jareeda. I suppose I've told you about it before, it's that fold of pages with pictures and words on it. The humans like to read it in the morning so that they can, later, talk about the things that happen on the other sides of the sea. Many of them put a lot of faith in it and believe what it tells them with very little reluctance, but not this father. He wears skepticism under his seeing windows. I've grown to like him, he's clever, I just wish he would lift this heavy veil he places between him and myself. He would be interested to learn of my adventures abroad. I could teach him a few things about change.

There was a knock on the door, and Jidu went to open it. Hails and greetings filled the air as a few of the father's friends walked onto the patio. The mother rose and walked into the house to bring some more white teacups from the kitchen. The knocks on the doors surprise me as an odd gesture, because no one really leaves their door closed around this time of the day. Everyone is expecting a visit at any time, although they never really know it’s coming. It remains a mystery to me, but then again, many things about this country do.

The afternoon dragged on, and I was asked to leave the father and his friends' gathering because politics was coming. Politics wasn't a bad guy you know, but our chemistry usually doesn't allow us to co­exist, at least not here. That's just how it is. So I followed Jidu around for a change. He was standing under a tree, whispering into a little box.

“I’m alright Alhamdulillah , I just miss you. Yeah he’s here, but I don't think they'll discuss any of the formalities today. My father is reluctant, but I told him it was secure enough... but... I know, but... I’m looking for one in Qatar, or the UAE... I don't know if I want to tear you away from... It isn't easy you know... You're all the family I want, but every home needs some ornaments too.”

He sighed, and then began to talk about his day. His laughter was broken whenever it escaped his lips. I wondered who he was speaking to, although I figured it was a girl because these phone calls always made him wear that face. It was hard to describe what it looked like, but whenever I saw a boy wear it his heart declared its existence more loudly, and his nerves intertwined into butterflies and fell into his stomach. It was interesting to watch.

Anyways, that’s almost everything noteworthy I remember about that day. The musk wore off, the tea was sipped dry, but hope lingered on to the air. Something was coming.

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Dear diary,

I lurked around for a few months, and the time flowed about with grace. I was growing stronger, but I had an odd sense of isolation. I failed to understand it, never had I felt so alive, yet so invisible. This country was growing on me in uncanny ways.

The family was getting ready to celebrate Jidu’s wedding. My friend joy was everywhere, fat and suffocating. Two days ago there was a full set of humans who came to the large red tent that was now standing in front of the house. The people here always build tents in front of their houses when they wanted to declare their occasions to the country. I think the tents are too small, because when these people come together to celebrate or mourn their loved ones, their joy or sorrow always manages to spill into the streets. I have never seen compassion shared like this before.

Gladly, this time around it was all joy. Jidu was getting married to the girl I was telling you about, the one that made him wear that face. I went to visit her once. I mean, I know I was assigned to this family, but I just had to see for myself who they were writing into their tree of kin. She lived right next door, and boy, was she beautiful! Her eyes took up a glorified place over her cheeks, and they were deeper than any book I had ever read. There was a lot of enthusiasm glowing from her, and charm never left her side. Her hair danced about her waist, and reflected darkness the color of earth. She made her own music, which sounded like laughter, but better. Then there was her skin. It was a shade unique to this country, like the clash of two cultures was written into her cells. She looked like she hadn't been out of the house for a while. When I came to visit, she was sitting on a low stool with a large cloak wrapped around her. Smoke evaded her body wherever there was room between her and the cloak. It must have been some local sauna ritual. When she was done, her skin smelled like musk, and she was radiating from all the herbal delicacies that had left their marks on her skin. Anyways, I didn't stay with her for too long, someone else was assigned to her house. Thank god! I feared she would make me wear that face too.

The week was filled with music. On the first day people who looked like extended pieces of the family came to the red tent. They sat around Jidu and painted their hands black with soil. They called it henna. Jidu wore it around his hands and feet too. There was a woman with a drum who sang for them, her voice reminded me of my friend history. I would have to ask him about her someday. Anyways, it was one party after another. Often, the bride’s family was invited and other times it was just my family’s friends. The air always felt thick with community. Sometimes it became hard to tell who was a guest and who wasn't, everyone made themselves at home. Literally! I once saw a woman come from the house at the end of the block carrying a bucket of flour. She just marched into the kitchen and asked the mother to go to her room and rest. She then pulled a low stool and sat across a little firebox with a round, flat pan on it, and began to make a very thin, bread­-like pastry. There were tens of women doing that, humming with joy as they exchanged stories about their own wedding days.
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Dear diary,

Today Jidu walked into a hall wearing the moon on his forehead. It was golden, crescent­-shaped, and wrapped around his head with a strap of red silk. He wore a white jalabeya , the color of his immense happiness. It had streaks of red and gold, here and there. They say red is the color of new beginnings, I think that’s why they're covered in it. As for the bride, she was wrapped in red, and her head was covered with gold. So were her arms, which looked like canvases with deeply intricate henna paintings on them. The paintings matched the ones that stemmed from the souls of her feet to her knees. The couple was quite the sight for sore eyes.

The night dragged on. I danced about in the background. The music felt warm on my skin, its words leaking with meanings of tradition, and a long history of endurance that surfaced just beneath each beat of the drum. Some of them could see me, I know Jidu did. It must have confused him, since he had never sent out an invitation card with my name it.

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Dear diary,

I feel awfully sick, I don't know why. The atmosphere is fogged with tension at the house these days. I keep getting messages from my boss telling me I’ll have to leave soon, but I don't want to. If hope gets to stay, I think I should too!

Jidu and his bride left on their honeymoon to Dubai, and I was encouraged to go with them but I really didn't want to go on a vacation, to be quite honest. I have work to do here, I want to be seen again the way I was on Jidu’s wedding night.

Just then, the little box rang. The father pressed a button and began talking into it. As usual, I had to keep my distance from him and the veil he kept between us, so I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he eluded an air of mixed emotions. He was happy, but it was the happiness a soldier carried on his back at the end of a long war. It came at the price of loss, and held lots of reluctant despair under its breath. That’s when the mother came in. She took the box and talked into it, then she started crying.

“But we didn't even get to properly say goodbye... I understand ya walady, just take care of your wife and don't forget about us. Bring me home some grandchildren, ok?”

She said her goodbyes and gave the box back to the father, as she sluggishly went to sit by him. He raised an arm and gently placed his hands on her shoulder, rubbing the sorrow out of her. She shook with worry, and wept. What was going on? What did Jidu do?

I coughed till I was unconscious, which didn't really matter. I was still very invisible, but now I barely felt alive.

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Dear diary,

The air smelled heavy with tea, musk and loss.

The last time I had seen Jidu, we spoke. I told you he had seen me, but when I formally introduced myself he responded in the most unexpected way you could imagine. He laughed.

“This is impossible, you're supposed to be... umm...” “Abstract?” I replied

“Yes, pretty much.”

“Well, we are when we want to be.”

“We?” he looked at me with confusion. 

“Yeah, there are many of us. We come in different shapes and sizes. We’re assigned to families, or individuals based on the cards life has dealt them. Anyways, I'm glad you can see me. There’s a lot to be done in this country now that we've been formally acquainted.”

“Don’t you know? Me and my wife are traveling out of the country tonight. We're going to Dubai.”

“How lovely! I was in Dubai some years ago, I helped build that country, you know. Many others too. But I'll tell you about that when you're back. When will that be, by the way?”

“I don't know...” he had replied

Of course I didn't understand that he meant he had bought a one way ticket. I didn't understand why he wanted me to come with him, or why he told me not to wait when I politely declined. I was an expert on waiting, I had told him. He only laughed.

Later, I found out that he had found a job there. I wish I had known, I would have told him to stay right here, in Sudan. He could have done so much more here, I could have helped him. But now that he has left, I'm forced to leave too. Otherwise I'll be bedridden till I no longer exist.

Maybe I will visit him in Dubai, and convince him to come back.

I wonder if someday Mona will to be ready see me; or if I'll be reassigned to this place I've grown to call home. I think about it all the time.

This place has grown on me in uncanny ways, I wish it was as welcoming as I know it could be. I wish I could stay longer, I could teach this land a few things about change.


With love, 

Possibility.

1 comment:

  1. Don't be sad that you didn't get the chance to convince Jiddu to stay. Maybe that's just what these people need. Maybe they just need to reach the bottom of desperation, to loose hope and to be put in the situation of "extreme measures", cuz when life corners you and leave you no choice, just then you'll get to know your real capabilities.
    When you take life for granted, then be prepared to learn your lessons the hard way, and that's when Jiddu will come back.

    I liked this peace.. Keep it up.

    @ZoaLaoZ

    @

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