By Akut Francis
Education closes the gap between life and fiction; and that, artistic energies are channeled into the nourishment of the collective, thus our lives inspire our stories so that our stories can enrich our lives.
2010 instant. The year of in-between my ex-Country’s general (s)elections, at the time law and sanity were both recuperating in the steaming “Dustur El Sudan” (Sudan’s constitution). The quest for power and (s)elections was a nessecity, and like everyone else, I was not left out. I endorsed on a benchmarking lobbying from office ‘X’ to ‘Y’. I had bribed my brain too, and reasoning became my major lack. Each time I attempt to reason, “I felt as if I was administering medicines to the dead”. I had become what I wanted not.
In the morning break of that year, I had planned on an evangelical courtesy visit to one ‘super’ shrine hoping to make friends with ‘accomplishement and victory’.
The alleyway to the shrine was unbearably narrow, and led me to a door three quarters my height. Above the rotten door hung a lopsided sign; on it was a messily written – WELCOME – (أهلا بك). I squatted on the floor and knocked on the door thrice. I waited about a half minute before the door was opened by a down-to-Earth dwarf, clearly in his late 60’s. I was surprised when I saw that he wore a fitting SPLA khaki uniform. “Divinity and military combined”, I noticed.
His round face was a distant plugged-away from his head, with (sa’ud) perched inside his lower and upper jawslines, as though he was grazing merrily in the Sud swamp near my village. His hair was neatly combed back, and his hands washed clean. Judging by his front door, I would have expected a more scruffy looking old man. He gave me a once-over and spoke in an elegant, yet demonic tone. Greetings.
“Sabahu Al-khair ya shaab.”
I retaliate with salutation as this small-man watched me try to squeeze into the doorway opening in to his dwell place, making no attempt to assist me. Finally, I was completely in his living room, squatting as not to hit my head on the dim ceiling. He handed me a small transparent Lipton glass of tea – before I was about to tell him what I had come for, my next door neighbour knocked at my door asking for a matchbox. I woke up and joined him as we cook Awalwala.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Merry Christmas Everyone