Lyrics Alley: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  Faced with such obtuseness, Nabilah’s anger began to subside. She now wanted to know details, wanted Batool to speak instead of scream. She wanted Ferial to stop crying. Already the child was distraught, not only from the ordeal she had endured, but now the sight of her mother attacking Batool.

  The facts were revealed, piece by piece, through Batool’s hiccups and sobs. While Nabilah was at the airport, Ferial was lured over to Waheeba’s quarters. She was told that Zeinab was having a party and that there would be sweets and many girls her age to play with. Indeed, it was a celebration of sorts for Zeinab, though it was kept low-key because Mahmoud had forbidden circumcision in his household ever since the procedure was declared illegal by the Anglo-Egyptian government. Clearly, his authority had been overridden by Waheeba, who insisted that her granddaughter must follow tradition. Zeinab was dressed in a new red satin dress and the women of the neighbourhood were invited. They sang wedding songs, and the older girls danced, miming the bridal pigeon dance. Only the best midwife was summoned for the Abuzeid girls. She injected them first with procaine and the instruments she used were sterilised. Afterwards, to prevent infection, she administered penicillin.

  Batool reassured Nabilah that the stitches would be removed after two days, then Ferial would be up and about. She would be like other Sudanese girls, girls like Soraya and Fatma. If Ferial was now in pain, Zeinab was in pain, too. If Ferial was now traumatised, Zeinab was traumatised, too. Waheeba herself had held the girls down one by one, gripping their knees apart. The deed was done and the procedure was irreversible. The slice of a knife, the tug and cutting away of flesh, and Ferial was someone else, one of them. She could never ever be like her mother again.

  Nabilah surrendered to the nightmare. It held her in a vice. Such unnecessary pain, such stupidity and malice. She dismissed Batool.

  ‘Don’t ever set foot in my house again. I don’t want to see your face.’ She fired the nanny for not protecting Ferial. ‘Pack your belongings. First thing tomorrow morning I want you on that train back to Egypt.’

  The girl started to cry. Farouk, caught in the middle of this, was also reprimanded for not looking after his sister, and yelled at even more for wanting to see her wound. Nabilah wanted to summon a doctor to check on Ferial. Yes, she would bring in an English doctor, scandal or no scandal, and expose Waheeba’s crime. However, the telephone lines were down. She ran to catch the driver but it was too late. He had already gone back to Khartoum to pump the punctured tyre with air and wait on Mahmoud.

  Ferial would not allow Nabilah out of her sight. Her light-skinned, smooth-haired daughter brought so low, whimpering and clinging. She needed help to drink, to eat, to change into her nightdress. She needed help to pass urine – and that was the most difficult process of all, because the fear of burning her wound made her hold herself back. So much did Nabilah empathise with her, so much was her reaction visceral, that she herself, when her bladder felt full, could not pass water. She sat on the toilet seat, trembling and crying, but not for long, because Ferial called out to her and she scrambled to her feet again. In the end, the two of them lay down on the bed. The power failed and the ceiling fan came to a halt. Darkness and heat: this ghastly accursed country. Nabilah moved the children out to the terrace. A bit of fresh air, but Ferial would not settle.

  ‘My feet hurt,’ she whined.

  Her feet! What now? Nabilah lit a candle and examined her daughter’s feet. True enough, there were red welts running sideways on the bridge of each foot. She washed them down and applied mercurochrome, struggling to identify the cause. She came to understand that during the circumcision Ferial had been placed on an angharaib without a mattress. Waheeba held down her upper body while her heels were tucked through the strings of the bed so that she wouldn’t kick the midwife. That was why there were now marks on her feet from the ropes that made up the base of the angharaib.

  ‘Where were you, Mummy? Why did you go out and leave me? Why did you let them do this to me?’

  The reproach grated on Nabilah’s nerves. She kissed Ferial, she wept and mumbled apologies. She smoothed her daughter’s hair and promised everything from candyfloss to ice cream to a trip to the zoo. Rage still pulsed inside her, and she began to fret over the consequences. In the short term, the risk of haemorrhage, septicaemia, urinary and genital infections. Time and again, she checked Ferial’s temperature. She encouraged her to drink more liquids and pass more urine. But even if all went well in the next few days, until the stitches were removed, there would still be long-term consequences. She recalled the horror stories she had heard since arriving in Sudan. Brides, whose wedding nights were a disaster because of too tight an infibulation; the story of a baby’s head damaged during labour, endless complications.

  When Nabilah had first heard these stories, they had sounded abstract and distant, folklorist tales of backward women. Now her own flesh and blood was incriminated. In the future, when Ferial got married, she would suffer pain and alienation from pleasure. A progressive, liberal man might not even want to marry her in the first place. He would have to be Sudanese, one of them, and Nabilah, casting her vision to the future, had always wished that her children would marry Egyptians. Even more consequences: every time Ferial had a baby, it would be necessary to slit the circumcision skin fold during labour and stitch it up again afterwards. Nabilah could visualise the future scene in a modern Cairo hospital, the obstetrician shaking his head, disgusted to come across such barbarity, the kind of barbarity only found among peasants and the uneducated. Nabilah’s face burnt with shame. She dragged herself away from Ferial’s side, stumbling in the dark until she reached the bathroom and retched in disgust. A pulse beat in her head. Why? Why all this? Waheeba had struck her a terrible blow, but she must be strong for Ferial’s sake.

  There was no one Nabilah could talk to until Mahmoud came home. Farouk, after she had made amends with him, was fast asleep. This was a blessing, as she had neither the energy nor the peace of mind to answer his questions. Ferial continued to cling and whimper, reproachful and unforgiving. But who could blame the poor child?

  ‘Go to sleep, my love. Close your eyes so that your body can rest and be better again.’

  She herself was wide awake and alert. She stared up at the sky and the twinkling stars were mocking and cunning. What should she do next? Would she ever be able to get back at Waheeba? Ferial sighed and started to doze off. In turn, Nabilah relaxed a little. Mahmoud would surely be furious; Waheeba had done something he had explicitly forbidden. In his own house, she had flaunted his wishes, let alone the deviousness of taking Ferial behind her mother’s back. He will divorce her, Nabilah thought. He must. Waheeba would be cast out in disgrace. And that would be the ultimate retribution.

  XIV

  Earlier that same evening, after bidding his in-laws farewell at the airport, Mahmoud went smiling to Barclays Bank (Dominions, Colonies and Overseas). The news was official. Earlier this morning, the Financial Secretary had called for a special meeting of the Legislative Assembly to reveal a budget surplus of twenty million pounds. Due to the Korean War and increased demand from post-war Britain, cotton prices had risen to unprecedented heights – prosperous times for the government, and prosperous times for the man whose name was synonymous with the private sector. With the backing of the bank, Mahmoud had established almost all of the private cotton schemes. The trade figures for 1951 were published today. Nigel Harrison had the details and the two men beamed over the results.

  ‘Exports from Cotton Ginned,’ Mr Harrison read out, ‘forty-seven million, four hundred and forty-nine thousand and six hundred and six pounds.’

  ‘Nearly one third of that,’ smiled Mahmoud, ‘came from Abuzeid Ginning. Excellent.’

  ‘The country now has no national debt, no fear of insolvency, and the government’s reservations regarding the private sector will finally be laid to rest.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mahmoud, ‘the government will be freer with its licences and concessions,
now. I will start to have competitors – but you will have more clients!’

  ‘Indeed I hope so.’ Mr Harrison closed the folder in front of him. ‘But you and I will continue to do business together. With your credit history, you are in a fortunate position well ahead of the competition. Any new projects on your mind?’

  ‘Industry,’ Mahmoud replied. Nigel Harrison made a sceptical face but Mahmoud continued, ‘During the war, when imports were halted, I set up a glass factory in order to meet local demand. I would like to venture into ice as well as vegetable oils and canned food stuffs.’

  ‘But my good man, these are modest projects, not worthy of your stature. The Sudan is an agricultural country and it will remain so. The government has just approved a five-year plan to develop alternative cash crops to cotton. This is the direction I urge you to take. Industry is not lucrative, certainly not in comparison. Nor is it suited to a developing country with such a poor infrastructure.’

  ‘But our thinkers and politicians are directing us towards industry. An independent Sudan will need its industries and I want to serve my country. True, the Gezira Scheme has been a spectacular success and the Sudan is now a model for other African countries to follow. But industry is vital, too. However, I shall consider the alternative cash crops you recommend. Meanwhile we can congratulate ourselves for championing the cause of private enterprise and making a success of it!’

  Nigel Harrison laughed and stood up.

  ‘This calls for a celebration. Let’s go for a drink!’

  The terrace of the Grand Hotel was busy this time in the evening. Both men came across acquaintances who would greet them from afar with a nod, or come over to their table for brief hellos and introductions. In a typical Sudanese fashion, shaped by a society where word of mouth mattered and everyone’s background was known, Mahmoud gave Nigel Harrison a detailed biography of the man he had just shaken hands with as they made their way to their table.

  ‘I knew him from the mid-thirties,’ he said. ‘He was with me on the committee which formally received the first Egyptian Economic Delegation headed by Fuad Bey Abaza. Our committee was set up by the Sudan Chamber of Commerce and they made me head and gave me the responsibility of receiving the Egyptians and touring the Sudan with them. Here’s an anecdote for you: the delegation was invited to his base in Gezira Abba by the leader of the Ansar, Sayyid Abdel-Rahman AlMahdi. You English call him SAR, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Nigel Harrison, ‘and we call his rival Sayyid Ali El Mirghani, SAM.’

  ‘Well, this is what happened. We came down the river on a steamer. Just as we were nearing our destination, the steamer had a technical failure and came to a complete standstill. Our host could see us from the shore, and we could see him, too, surrounded by about five thousand of his men. But how were we to reach him? Attempts to fix the steamer failed. So what did SAR do? He picked up a handful of sand . . .’ Mahmoud mimicked the action, ‘. . . and threw it in the river. His men went and picked up their shovels. In the course of an hour, they turned the water into land! It was an incredible sight. In a few hours of continuous work they built a road and we embarked from the steamer and into motor cars that drove us straight to our host.’

  It was now Nigel Harrison’s turn.

  ‘The one sitting on the left is Sir Christopher Cox. He used to be Director of Education, but now he’s with the Colonial Office. He’s been doing the rounds ever since his visit started. Sue and I met him at a dinner given in his honour by Sayyid Shingitti. We were told it was going to be a small dinner, but when we arrived at the house there were five policemen in charge of the car parking! Every leader of the Independence Front was invited, as were the whole of the Electoral Commission. It was quite an affair!’

  ‘No, he is Greek,’ said Mahmoud about the gentleman who had just greeted them on his way out. ‘He is the head of accounts at Mitchell Cotts and has been for years. His brother owns the GMH cabaret. Between them they own the most expensive, spacious villas in Khartoum, which they rent out.’

  ‘That young man,’ said Nigel Harrison, ‘graduated from Oxford University. He was on a Sudan Government Scholarship. Now he’s joined the Department of Finance as one of the first Sudanese graduate recruits.’

  Mahmoud looked at the young man. He seemed vaguely familiar and had, in fact, addressed him as Uncle Mahmoud when he came over to their table. He looked not much older than Nur.

  ‘Was he at Victoria College by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, I dare say he was.’

  Victoria. Whenever Mahmoud had visited Nur, he would take him and his friends, as well as every Sudanese student, out for lunch. Maybe that young man with the bright prospects had been one of them. How these boys used to devour their kebabs and koftas! Fond memories. Nur running across the field with the ball; Nur, all in white, playing cricket. Mahmoud felt a sudden shame. This was how he was coming to regard Nur’s condition: as a blight on the tapestry of the family’s life. The more Mahmoud threw himself into work, into daily life, the more Nur, on his bed, seemed unnatural, an aberration that was almost impossible to get used to. Every day, every single day after the morning session at the office and before lunch, Mahmoud went to see him. It was his duty to do so. Just to sit for a few minutes and ask, ‘Is there anything you need, son?’ Mahmoud’s consolation was doing practical things for Nur: summoning the doctor, buying him a bigger radio, encouraging his friends to visit him. He had no words of explanation or comfort for the boy, only diversions. He had promised that he would take him to London and cure him. They went and came back. Life was random blotches of misery and bliss, Fate lapping up good fortune and humans wrestling bad luck. How was it that he was always blessed where money was concerned? Even in London, in the midst of all the disappointments and expenditure, there came that commission from the Duke of Bedford.

  ‘Did I tell you,’ he now said to Nigel Harrison, ‘about the monkey nuts I shipped to Liverpool for the Duke of Bedford’s aviary?’

  At Mahmoud’s age, there could be no turnaround, no starting fresh. He was reaping what he had sown; he was living a time of achievements, a time of outcomes. At this moment, for example, as he sipped his drink and appreciated the murmur of voices around him, he was proud that he was sitting in the Grand Hotel with an Englishman. This was a situation he had worked for. Every time he stayed at the Ritz in London, on his very first day, as soon as he walked in he would tip the doorman, the bellboy, the concierge and the chambermaids. What was the point of tipping them on the way out (although he did that too)? He tipped them on arrival so that they could treat him well, so that they would overlook his colour and his nationality and give him the respect he deserved. Money talks. A coin pressed into that white palm to hear the sweet word ‘Sir’.

  ‘He is politically anti-British,’ Nigel Harrison was saying about one of the Sudanese gentlemen at Sir Christopher Cox’s table, ‘but, on a social level, very charming, and with a great sense of humour.’

  ‘In this country politics are shaped by tribal affiliations and everyone’s allegiances are those of his ancestors and family.’

  ‘This is true for the older generation, but the young are different,’ Harrison protested. ‘The Sudan Student office in London sent out a circular requesting students to provide information on their age, tribe etc. Hardly any of them wrote down their specific tribe. They all described themselves as Sudanese.’

  ‘This is Britain’s aspiration, but I tell you, ethnic divisions run deep in this country.’

  ‘Not to the extent that it would hamper a Sudan free of Egyptian influence.’

  ‘Well, to be frank, I would not mind a unity with Egypt. This, as I said to you before, is a natural consequence of my family’s background.’

  ‘Do you sincerely believe that a union is in the interests of the Sudan? I do not.’

  ‘We are historically, geographically and culturally tied.’

  ‘Only the North.’

  ‘It was Egypt which financed Kitchener’s f
orce.’

  ‘My grandfather served under Lord Kitchener. He said it was a campaign that was left far too long. By the time they arrived in Khartoum, there was nothing worth saving.’

  ‘Oh, the chaos of the Mahdists!’ Mahmoud sat back in his chair. ‘To the extent that it has become an expression. Here’s an anecdote for you. When General Gordon was killed and the Mahdi’s army took over Umdurman, my mother was a young girl. Because she was fair-skinned, her parents hid her in the cellar. They were afraid she would be captured by one of these hooligans. No one trusted them. My mother stayed in that cellar for days. She hated it, and insisted that it was haunted by jinn! Whereas the jinn were out there, raping and looting Umdurman to their hearts’ content! When things settled down, the Mahdi himself moved to Umdurman and made it his capital. Every notable man lined up to swear allegiance to him. They had no choice. My father was one of them. He bent down on the floor and kissed the Mahdi’s hand. If he hadn’t done that his shops and land would have been confiscated and his precious agency would have been razed to the ground. I applaud him for this. He grovelled on his knees so that I could be the man I am today, so that I could have an inheritance. He was pragmatic in that way.’

  ‘Did he immigrate from Egypt?’

  ‘No, his father did. In 1801 my grandfather walked to the Sudan, yes, all this way on foot. Why? To escape recruitment into Muhammad Ali Pasha’s army, even though that army was actually heading here!’

  ‘I read that the Viceroy of Egypt invaded the Sudan to find gold and to capture slaves.’

  ‘There was hardly any gold – a little in the Red Sea Hills – but the slave trade flourished. That’s how our Nubian women found themselves in the harems of the Ottoman sultans!’ Mahmoud chuckled. ‘That was the mission my grandfather absconded from. He had an aversion to cruelty and injustice and he didn’t want to kill or loot or kidnap. He wanted to trade. He wanted to buy and sell, to exchange and barter and strike a deal. You know, Mr Harrison, I consider commerce to be a noble profession, whatever anyone else might say. While other men fight and hate, we give and take. We negotiate with everyone, Christian, Jew and pagan. Money and goods are what makes men equal. That is my creed. And true righteousness is not in taking a political stance or on serving slogans. It is in fair trade. I am not a religious man by any means, but there is one saying of the Prophet Muhammad that I cling to. He said: “The truthful and honest merchant will be with the prophets, affirmers of truth and martyrs.” I am not a perfect Muslim . . .’ Mahmoud picked up his glass of whiskey and held it up in the air, ‘. . . but when I die and meet my Maker I will say to Him, this is what I have done: I have never cheated and I have never defaulted. I have helped those who came to me asking for help, and I have spent my charity on widows and orphans. And I will say to God Almighty, yes, I disobeyed you at times, and I was lazy when it came to acts of worship, but I am that honest merchant which your Messenger talked about.’