New Short Fiction from Sudan: ‘Is She Tamimia . . . or Taghlabia?’

By Abdulhafez Maryoud

Translated by Nassir al-Sayied al-Nour

Apparently, it’s difficult to translate all that. Still, I’ll give it a try: “Yesterday, I dreamed of you.”

The sky was cloudy, the air fresh, and the meadow a deep green. You sat in your bright dress, smiling as you faced me, and boys played around us. I stretched out a hand to touch you, but you were just a dream. I’d like to fall asleep so I could see you again, but I can’t sleep.

All that’s nothing, just a part of a song you liked.

Were the words beautiful, too, like its melody?

“Yes, I liked it so much, it’s become my favorite song,” I said. “By Teddy Afro.”

“It’s my present to you: whenever you listen to that song, remember that I’m always there, smiling at you.”

She laughed delicately, like a waterway. She went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of beer, and sat down. She went on chatting, waiting for another customer to appear. It was almost three in the morning, and there were no more customers. Who would come at this time? Only a bewitched man like me or a pernicious jinni. 

“Why are you here in Nigeria?”

“I’m on a vacation, nothing more.”

“There’s a lot of your people here, tempting our girls with their surplus money.” She laughed like a child. In fact, she never stopped laughing except to say something new that would make her laugh again. Every time, I pretended to be serious, but she didn’t care.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Back home, I’m a reporter.”

“Have you traveled much?”

“I’ve seen most of the countries in the world,” I answered.

“You’re so lucky.”

“I know I’m so lucky.”

I gathered up my cigarette box, lighter, cellphone, and prayer beads.

“See you tomorrow,’ I said.

“Good night,” she said. “I’ll wait a little longer, then close the shop.”

*

I strolled along Boli Street, heading toward the hotel, which was not too far off. There were a few drunk men and women of the night in their nearly transparent dresses, calling “hi” to everyone who happened to pass by. I say hi back brusquely, in order to avoid anyone who might give chase and show me their wares. Whenever one was indecisive, he would be assailed from all sides.

For days, Sara had been puzzling me. She managed a rundown shop that sold burgers and cheap pizza. Ever since I’d eaten there the first time a few days earlier, I’d gone for a rendezvous every night. She was friendly, worth knowing. I intentionally visited her shop at midnight, when customers became so few that we had a chance to chat. She was twenty-five and clever, and when she realized I wanted nothing but to chat, she became as open and free as a breeze.

“Did you know that I’m Saudi?” she asked me once.

I was shocked.

“How’s that?”

“My father was a Saudi from Jeddah. He married my mother in Yemen and then he took her back here. She was a nurse at a hospital in Sanaa, and after they got married, he took her back to Ethiopia. Every year, he stayed for three months and then went back to his country.  My brother Ahmed looks a lot like him. You must’ve met my brother when you first came here, since he was serving food. Every day from three to eleven p.m., after he’s finished with his studies at the institute, he comes in to help. He studies accounting.”

For a little while, I stare. Oh, I realize. That guy whose features and skin had looked Arab. Also, she herself didn’t look much like Ethiopian women. I started examining her again. Yes, something in the details suggested she was Arab, but it was difficult to figure it out at first glance.

“Do you have a Saudi ID?” I asked.

“No, absolutely not. We’re Ethiopian, and only my father is Saudi.” She gave a childish laugh, as though she didn’t care much about the matter of national affiliation.

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“A little. Enough to communicate with my father on his holidays.”

“Does he speak Amharic?”

“A mix of Amharic, Arabic, and English. We communicate just fine. Language has never been a problem.”

“In our country, Nigeria, you’re identified by your tribal and racial affiliation. Where do you feel like you belong?”

She laughed. “That’s bullshit, don’t be so philosophical. I told you that we’re Ethiopians. How can we belong to the unknown? In fact, how can we belong to what we’ve completely ignored? My father has never stood for anything but Ethiopia. Last year, he asked my brother Ahmed to get a passport so they could travel to Morocco. They both traveled, each with different passports, father and the son. What’s the problem?”

“Give me a burger and don’t ask me whether I want cheese or not, like you do every night. I don’t like the questions of beautiful women. If I were younger, I’d marry you and take you to Abuja. You’d love my country. There’s something about it that matches you. Did I mention that I no longer live in London? I returned home after only nine months. I would take you over there if I were younger.”

“You’re only forty-nine, not so old.” She paused. “Our girls say Nigerans have heavy weapons, is that true? They like those weapons.”

I didn’t answer, but turned my face away. She took a cigarette from my box and lit it. She went on, “If I was to risk an adventure, I would go to your room to test your heavy artillery.”

“I knew you’d get embarrassed,” she said, laughing until the cigarette fell from her hand. “Don’t be so serious, I’m just teasing you. You’re here to spend your vacation, why are you so serious?”

“You know very well that I’m from northern Nigeria. I told you we’ve been raised on strenuous Islamic rule.”

“And what am I?” she asked. “I’m a Muslim, too. Does your Islam prohibit laughing and fun?”

“I asked my father to give me money to set up a tourism company. He told me that I can do anything except tourism.”

“Why did he refuse?” she asked.

“I didn’t know. But it was my mother’s decision. She was the one who doesn’t like me working in tourism.”

“Why?” she went on.

“I don’t know. She’s just like that, she’s never given her reasons. Once, a young Fatima wanted to accompany my father to Bahr Dar, but she strictly refused. My father got furious, and he went to live in a hotel. We often visited him there or elsewhere, but she stubbornly refused to see him at that hotel. My mother said, ‘He has a house, if he wants to come!’”

“When will you get married?” I asked.

“Who’s said that I’ll marry?” she replied with a laugh. “I don’t like marriage—someone comes along and shares your wardrobe. Then you have to find somewhere new to put all your things. My friend complains and complains about her husband, that he always messes things up. I’m just perfect the way I am. I love an Indian man from South Africa who works for the African Union, but I’m not going to get engaged to him. I don’t like those far countries, the men who go away and leave their families and crammed wardrobes behind.” She laughed.

“You still don’t want me to test your weapon?” she asked.

I collected my cigarette box, lighter, cellphone, and prayer beads.

“Are you angry again? Wait, I won’t test it. You’re so strict. Wait for me! We’ll take a taxi together. I’ll drop you off, and then I’ll continue on.”

“No need. My hotel is close. Just take it yourself.”

“Ok. Come back tomorrow night, I’ll be waiting for you!” She laughed. “Leave your heavy weapon in the room and come to me. Will that work for you?” I heard her laughter ringing down the street. Crazy, I muttered to myself.

 Short-story writer Abdulhafez Maryood was born in 1969 in Nyala, in southern Darfur. He has published short stories nationally and internationally and also written the scripts for films aired by Al Jazeera, BBC, and TV5, including a film about Tayeb Salih. He has won various prizes for his writings and documentaries, and his publications include the short-story collection Habashiyat (2018). Currently, he lives in Khartoum and works with a variety of research, translation, and cultural projects.

Nassir al-Sayied al-Nour is a Sudanese critic, author, and translator.

Also read: ‘Lalibela’: New Short Fiction by Abdulhafez Maryoud