Tayeb Salih: ‘Yes, the Nile Speaks to Me’

Introduced and translated by Adil Babikir

“I was always fascinated by the river from my very early childhood”, Tayeb Salih once said. “And I think I somewhat understood what the river is trying to say.”

That comes as no surprise. For all those who live in northern Sudanese villages by the Nile, the river has always had an overwhelming presence in all aspects of life there. That influence naturally found its way to Salih’s fiction. In Bandarshah, the river comes out as a mythological creature patiently whispering into the ears of the bank, which does not seem to understand what the river is saying. In the same novel, the river tosses out a stranger to the village, who eventually becomes a member of the local community and transforms the lives of the villagers. In Season of Migration to the North, the Nile offers the final resting place for the restless soul of protagonist, Mustafa Saeed.

Even in Salih’s non-fiction, the Nile emerges as a powerful symbol: solemn, caring, and patient, although there are moments when it shows a tougher side! The piece below, one of numerous articles he wrote on the state of affairs of his home country, demonstrates how he builds captivating allegories around the Nile as a source of both life and death.

Zainab Bit Sibair

By Tayeb Salih

Old-timers like me who lived through the years of British colonial rule will recall that people in the northern province used to dig canals along the two banks of the Nile all the way to the northern borders of the province.

That served many purposes. During the flooding season, the Nile would vent its surplus water onto those canals, which would carry it to the thirsty soil along its banks, thus preventing it from causing damage to the village.

Through those canals, the flood water spilled over to extensive areas, creating extra space for cultivation and grazing, and allowing forests of acacia trees such as taleh, sayal, as well as oshar to grow. Besides, the newly created green zone helped in stabilizing the sandy soil, fending off the hot simoom wind and spreading shade along the Nile banks.

In our village, there was a huge taleh forest that fed from those seasonal canals. It flourished and expanded because the local authorities strictly prohibited tree-cutting except in very few cases.

One of those cases was weddings. As part of the wedding ceremony, celebrants would parade to the forest to cut a talehtree and carry it back to the bride’s house.

I still remember one particular wedding ceremony that became a historical landmark. That was in the 1940s, when I was a little boy. The bridegroom was Ismaiel Sibair from Karmakoul, who was the only son in the family, among many sisters. The bride was the daughter of the late Abdalla Abbas, a senior customs officer, and one of the first Gordon Memorial College graduates from our village!

Another reason why that particular wedding remained fresh in the memory of the village was that the groom’s sister, Zainab, organized an unprecedented wedding parade for her brother. She was a young pretty lady, barely 25 years old. I still remember her glowing complexion, her brilliant smile, her noble posture, and her captivating singing voice that no words can describe. In the lantern light, she appeared to me as she surely did to everyone in the village, as an angelic figure that had landed from some distant planet!

Mesmerized, we paraded along, guided by her mythical voice, from the bride’s home in Karmakoul in the west, all the way to the forest at Dabbat al-Fugara in the east.

She continued to sing for three or perhaps four hours all the way until we cut the taleh tree and returned to Karmakoul. Her voice was getting deeper and stronger and more charming, while her words reached our hearts like fluttering of grouse wings:

You are my pride and joy.

A formidable tiger

swaggering across the wilderness

When I grew older, I realized that Zainab Bit Sibair had come up with superb art that night, portraying her brother as a true legend: a personification of the ultimate qualities of beauty, generosity, bravery, and richness.

Not only that, she embraced the entire village into the realm of her mythical world, and we came to see our village—and ourselves—in a new light. Such is the impact of true art.

I must say, however, that life in those days had a sweet taste that only those who lived it can describe. What was so special about life then that we have ceased to have now?

Only a few months after that memorable night, Zainab Bit Sibair suddenly died at the prime of her youth. She disappeared like a phantom that hovered over our heads briefly before returning to where it had come from.

One can hardly see nowadays in any village in northern Sudan a wedding ceremony comparable to that legendary one in which Zainab was the star. The villages today look deserted as most of their inhabitants were scattered to the four winds. The forests on the two banks of the Nile are no longer there, and the turtledoves called off their singing and migrated.

The once compassionate river seems to have turned violent as of late, destroying and wiping out everything, as though it wants to say something. Perhaps it cannot put up with detention within its two banks anymore.

When will the canals open up for the Nile and the people? When will the Nile rage subside, and the singing turtledoves return?

Tayeb Salih was a Sudanese writer, journalist, and a staff member of UNESCO. He is best known for his novel Season of Migration to the North, available in English in Denys Johnson-Davies’ translation and now considered a classic in several languages. His most recently translated book is the charming work of nonfiction Mansi: A Rare Man in His Own Way, translated by Adil Babikir.

Adil Babikir is a Sudanese translator and copywriter based in the UAE. He has translated and edited several works, including Modern Sudanese Poetry: an Anthology (Nebraska, 2019) and Mansi: A Rare Man in His Own Way, by Tayeb Salih (Banipal Books, London, 2020). His latest book, The Beauty Hunters: Sudanese Bedouin Poetry: Evolution and Impact, was published by University of Nebraska Press in April 2023.

Image source: Library of Congress.

This short piece originally appeared in the journal Almajalla.