Lyrics Alley (26 page)

‘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 force.’

‘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.’

Shortly before midnight, the driver drove him home. In the darkness, lulled by the movement of the car, his early cheer subsided. He dozed, and the image of Nur settled before him; supine and good for nothing, his body dead but his mind and soul young and alert. How strange it was, how strange! Questions sprang like rebellion to his mind: if Fate was intent on striking one of his sons, why Nur? Why not Nassir who was already a disappointment? Why not Farouk who, as a young child with a foreign mother, seemed distant and insubstantial? And if Mahmoud was meant to lose Nur, why didn’t the sea take him
once and for all? Death would have been devastating, but sharper and infinitely more decisive. Instead of this daily, hourly, lingering suffering. And the boy’s eyes, with their hot pain and bewilderment, waiting patiently for what – a cure or just oblivion? Mahmoud sighed and lit a cigarette. There was no benefit to these unanswerable questions. The English were right in keeping their stiff upper lip; that was the civilised way. Everyone had cried enough over Nur, even his fiancée, Soraya. Young men would queue to ask for her hand, now; she would be married off in no time. And Mahmoud would smile at her wedding and throw parties such as the country hadn’t seen before. Let no one say he was sour because she was marrying another man’s son!

He tapped his ash in the car’s ashtray and shifted in his seat. Thinking of Nassir was no consolation either. His brother’s accident hadn’t sobered him in the least. True, he rounded a good crowd of friends to keep Nur company, but he still came into the office late every morning, and he was listless and inept. The move from Medani to Khartoum had not straightened him out. Instead, there were new rumours which Mahmoud would have to confront; hints that Nassir was keeping a mistress in Khartoum. He sighed. Nabilah was good at getting him to forget his worries. Looking at her youth, her outfits, her mannerisms, lightened his temper and eased him into a brighter, frivolous mood. With her he became an image he favoured, the dashing Bey, a man of the world, sophisticated and dynamic. But he was to return home that night to discord and aggravation; a traumatised daughter and a furious wife.

The next day at the office he could scarcely concentrate on the details of the tender that was spread open on his desk. Ferial in pain, butchered for no reason, no reason at all. He winced as he pictured the mutilation and her screams. He blinked and took a sip of his Turkish coffee. The small cup rattled against the saucer. Even if he were to call a reputable surgeon, nothing could be
done to restore her to what she was before. He took another sip of coffee.