It was towards the end of May. There had just been a sandstorm, and Dad’s car was covered in dust. He was washing it, and I was playing with Jemima at the front yard. Her mother had gone to the market where she sold the mats she wove in their house. Jemima’s hair was braided to the front of her forehead. I liked the style of her braids. She wore a trouser and a long blouse. As we rolled the used tyre Dad changed from his car up and down the yard, two men walked into our compound and stood before Dad. They were men who looked as tall as Grandpa, but their bodies were lean.
I rolled the tyre in their direction. Then, I ran towards Dad’s car to pick it and heard what they said. “Tell him to return to the camp. Tell him the commandants of the SPLA want to see him.”
“I hope . . . all is well?”
“He knows why he’s avoiding us. But tell him that he cannot run forever. He cannot. We loved him; we trusted him. His fathers before him championed the Dinka cause, he even lost a daughter to this war, but he betrayed his people.”
I heard the tall, lanky man clearly. I raised my head and watched as he approached Dad, so close that his nose was almost touching Dad’s.
“Look—”
“Tell the general that if we could risk everything to travel to Khartoum to deliver this message, it means we can get him if we want. He needs to come back and clear himself.”
Dad was silent.
They walked away.
When Dad turned and saw me, he asked that I go into the house. When we got to the living room; Mum was standing by the door. She was looking tired, afraid. There were beads of sweat on her forehead. She was holding a table towel and her hands were trembling slightly.
“I know one of them, eh. The one who spoke last,” she said.
“Oh! You saw them?”
“Yes, from the window. He is a devil. What’s wrong, eh?”
“It is your father’s issue with the SPLA. Look, I don’t know what is wrong. But whatever it is, I think it is huge. They said he cannot run away forever. Whatever that means. And that I should tell him that if they could risk their lives to enter Khartoum, they can find him.”
Balls of tears escaped Mum’s eyes, and Dad caught her in his embrace and led her to the couch.
“Shhh!” he said, “Shhh! All is well. All is well. They’ll sort themselves out. Look, your father is a survivor. He is a warrior. He is their lord.”
That night, Dad called Grandpa’s friend, Doctor Malik Al-Jazrula, and they talked briefly. When the call ended, he told Mum that Doctor Malik promised to contact Grandpa. In the morning, the phone rang several times before Dad reached the sitting room. It was early in the morning, at about half past five, cocks were crowing occasionally. The breeze was not much, but it had not been a hot night. I was on my bed dreaming of Grandpa when the telephone sounded and woke me. I could hear Dad saying, “Okay, sir. Okay, sir. Look, I will come right away.”
Dad entered his room and talked with Mum. After some minutes he drove out.
In the morning, Mum said to me, “Your father has gone to see Grandpa in Atbarah, hmm.”
I once went to Atbarah before with Grandpa. It is in the north-east. One of Grandpa’s rich friends who always argued with him was from there. The last time he hosted us alongside Doctor Malik Al-Jazrula, he said the war would teach the South not to mess with the North, but he became angry when Grandpa said that it was people like him who caused us not to live in peace in Sudan.
“Because of the likes of you, I wonder if there is a time when we will live in peace in this country unless Sudan is divided. Now let me tell you, what caused this war is the North, because you people have nothing. This whole place is a desert. You see how hot it is, and this is May. In the South, there are oil fields, and the revenue from the oil gives Sudan over seventy percent of her GDP. In the South, we have a lot of tributaries to the Nile, a lot of water bodies. So, our land is more fertile, we have more rainfall.” He raised his voice, “Take Khartoum for instance, they have rainfall for only a few months in the year. The rains are never as enough as in the South. The North is sitting on the edge of the Sahara Desert, literally.”
When Doctor Malik and another friend tried to interrupt, Grandpa said, “The North is greedy. And it is this greed to control our oil that will make this war to continue.”
“Your oil or Sudan’s oil, James?”
“Here we go again!”
*****
The radio had just announced a coup, and people were running helter-skelter. Everyone was talking about it. It was said that Colonel Omar Hassan al-Bashir had become the president, prime minister, chief of state, and chief of the armed forces of Sudan. In the midnight, a car stopped in front of our house. I peeped from my window and saw some soldiers come out of the car and standby it. Grandpa came out too and glanced about. He came to the door. Dad opened it even before he knocked. It was the last day of June.
As soon as he entered the living room, I ran out and hugged him. He kissed me on the forehead.
“How are you, Goddess?”
“Fine, Grandpa.”
“How do you do? Did you miss me, my Nubian queen?”
“Oh yeah, I did, Grandpa.”
He dipped his hand into his pocket and fished out a necklace. The pendant had Pharaoh’s face carved into it. It looked like a mask. Mum came out, rubbing at her eyes. He hugged her and kissed her chin.
“Dear. Dear.”
“Pa. How are you? I have been scared.”
A police siren could be heard in the distance. Some crickets chirped at the backyard. Grandpa was silent. Then he turned and said to me.
“My goddess. It is night. Run to your room and sleep.”
“Okay, Grandpa. Will I see you in the morning?”
“Yes, of course, my goddess. I will be sleeping over.”
“What of those soldiers? They are waiting for you?”
He hesitated and looked away from me.
“Yes. They will wait until morning. Now go, my goddess.”
I went to the room but did not get into bed. I eavesdropped.
“We have food in the house. Should I get food, Pa, eh?”
“Don’t worry. I can’t even sit.” His voice changed.
My heart was thudding against its walls. I wondered if they could hear the sound.
“Pa, I am scared.”
Grandpa ignored Mum and said, “Now. Listen, James,” he addressed Dad.
“Sir?”
“Did you make travel arrangements as I asked you to when you came to Atbarah?”
“Yes, I did. Our documents are ready too.”
“Documents? I didn’t know . . . James?”
“I am trying to get things fast-tracked, sir.” Dad ignored Mum.
Grandpa looked at Mum and said, “Calm down, Mary. I asked James not to tell you.” He took in a deep breath and sighed. An owl cried loudly somewhere close by.
“I may not have much time. Some treacherous people are after my life.” He lowered his voice; it was shaky. “I am going to leave for Egypt within the next few days. From there I will travel to London. I have saved enough money in a bank in Britain, if anything happens to me. Take this.”
He gave Dad a bulky envelope. “It will be of help to you when you get to Nigeria. Your company in England can help you process it. It is a lot of money. I have made you next-of-kin. You hear?”
There was a long silence. “Nothing will happen to you, Pa.”
“Nothing will happen to me, my child. Listen, if I get to Egypt, I will travel to London, and you and Leona can visit. Perhaps you may all relocate. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now, I have to go.”
There was silence. I could hear Mum sobbing. Then, I opened the door and ran out.
“Grandpa!”
He turned, and I ran to him. That moment, the room became so cold and sent shivers down my body like I had never experienced – not even on those nights that I stood on Dad’s car in the cold, counting rays of light. The frogs at the drainage outside the house became silent. Grandpa held me for some time. It seemed as if he held me for one hour, but it was less than a minute. Mum was on the sofa, holding the helm of her night wear over her mouth.
“Would you like to come to London, Goddess?”
“Yes, Grandpa. But don’t leave now.”
“Don’t worry.” He held me so I could look at him. “Hey, listen. Listen. I am travelling to London. Now turn.” I did.
“You see what your father is holding? Yeah. You see, I have given him some papers that he will use to bring you to London soon. Okay?”
I recalled that Margaret came from London. I liked Margaret.
“Okay, Grandpa. Are you sick, Grandpa?”
“I am fine.” He looked at me and asked with conviction, “How old are you?”
“I am nine, Grandpa.”
“Good. Now you are a big girl. Big girls don’t cry, you know?” I smiled and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Now, go,” he said. “James!” Grandpa called.
Dad came and held me. Grandpa kissed my cheeks and left.
After a few seconds, the car roared to life and went into the night.
The new president had just established the Revolutionary Command Council for National Salvation and had banned all non-religious institutions including the trade unions and political parties. There was panic on the streets. Women sat in front of their thresholds, gossiping quietly; but men were silent because one did not know whom to trust and whom not to talk to.
It was late evening, exactly six days after Grandpa came. Mum was reading Margaret’s letter, which arrived from London that afternoon. She had been busy and could not read it immediately it came. We had not heard from Grandpa again. Then, Pa Thomas Makhar opened the back door of our house and came in. Dad who was coming out of his room was startled.
“Pa Thomas? Oh! What is wrong that you come in from the back door?”
“Where is your wife?”
“Mary?”
“Who else? How many wives do you have, man?”
“She’s in the sitting room.”
They entered the sitting room. Mum stood immediately. Alert.
“What is wrong? Has anything happened to Pa, eh?” Mum asked in trepidation.
“No. Sit down.” Dad and Mum sat.
He came and touched my head. “There is trouble. I have not heard from the general. But you need to leave here as soon as you can . . . this night.”
“Okay!” Dad said. Mum began to sob.
“The SPLA is searching for the general—”
“SPLA?”
“Did he not tell you what is happening, James?”
“No, he didn’t. But I understand there is trouble.”
Pa Thomas sighed heavily. “Listen. Your father-in-law. He accepted a lot of money from the government and established a rebel group. He got some soldiers who were loyal to him to form another group, outside of the SPLA. The idea was to sabotage the SPLA and cripple the cause—”
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Mum cried.
“Why would he do that?”
“I am talking, James. I don’t have much time. Your in-law believes that the civil war will go on for eternity. He thinks that the people of Southern Sudan will lose so much if it continues. He once told me that if we must secede from the North. It must be a gradual process, evolutional. He said our people need to acquire education, enter into trades, invest, travel out, and become influential. Then, we can do it. He believes that the military process is difficult and deadly—” Mum began to sob more. My eyes filled with tears and wandered between her and Dad. “This new faction is led by a man called Nasiru, a young man, ruthless and strong. He’s educated, but he was also trained in Somalia. Your in-law knows what he is doing, but he may have made mistakes. The SPLA is full of war-hungry and bloodthirsty people, full of people who are tired of what the North is doing to us and they know that, or rather, they fear that a democratic process will never work or will take hundreds of years. They have to take their destiny by force. The kingdom suffereth violence and only the strong taketh it by force. Do you remember that part of the Bible? I am old; I can’t remember,” he asked no one in particular and managed to smile.
“Now, the SPLA have declared him a saboteur, a traitor.”
The ceiling fan swirled slowly, producing little comfort and some discomforting sounds.
“Haaaa!” Mum cried aloud yet again.
A baby’s cry shrieked from our neighbour’s house. Jemima ran out, calling someone’s name. Some cars sped past. Then everywhere became calm again.
Pa Thomas stood. He was wearing baggy trousers and a brown shirt. He wore a bowler hat and spectacles, but he looked strong even for his fiftyish age.
“When should we leave?”
He stood, “Immediately.”
He walked out the way he came.
That night, around seven o’clock, a white Peugeot 404 wagon, driven by a short Arabian, stopped in front of our apartment in Khartoum. That night would open the door to the event that would change our lives forever.
“You have to hurry. Be quick,” the Arabian said in a whisper, all the time looking over his shoulder as Mum and Dad hurriedly threw a few bags into the boot. “You have to hurry.”
Dad pushed me into the car. We were smuggled to Omdurman.
Omdurman is the largest city in Sudan. As we were driven through the streets, there were shops open for business, cars speeding past in large numbers, and people walking about. Men and women held hands as if the tension in the country had no meaning in Omdurman. There were others, dressed in quftan, rushing to the mosques for the solat. In some shops, music blared and lights radiated like kaleidoscopes in the air. I could not stop staring at the lights.
Finally, a gate opened, and the car drove through a gravelled driveway and stopped in front of a mansion built in the style of ancient Egyptian architectural design.
“Look, Doctor Malik Al-Jazrula’s house,” Dad said to no one in particular. “Remember him?”
It was an intimidating structure. At the back of the mansion was an orchard that stretched out to either side of the building and visible from the entrance. The driver led us into the sitting room. It was a large room that led to a spacious courtyard of green lawns, made more beautiful by a water fountain and from there into several rooms whose doors opened into the courtyard. There were no couches, rather, there was an exquisite Persian rug and small pillows, and there were men sitting on the rug, papers spread in front of them. They were drinking milk from breakable china plates.
“As-salamu alaykum!” the men greeted.
“As-salamu alaykum!”
“Walaykum salam!” Doctor Malik Al-Jazrula stood.
He stretched his hands and hugged my dad. To my greatest surprise and relief, Grandpa stepped into the room. He took me into his outstretched arms as I fired questions at him. Then, Mum and I were taken to greet Doctor Malik’s first wife and her six children. Thereafter, we were taken to the left chamber of the building to greet his second wife, a Nubian woman who had borne four children. One of them, Lemya, who had recently moved in from her grandmother’s place, was my age.
Lemya and I shared her room that night, and she told me about her school and about her half-sisters, whom she said were Muslims and ate with their hands and prayed all the time. She said she wondered why one would pray many times a day as if God was stubborn and needed to hear the prayers often enough to answer them. Lemya told me that the first wife always covered her face and, at first, she wondered what she looked like but she had finally seen her face and the woman had scary eyes. I had never met someone who could talk so fast and so much at the same time – like a bird.
In the morning, after breakfast, a Volkswagen beetle came for us. It idled by the gate. We were to be taken to the airport so we could leave for Nigeria. Grandpa said he had arranged with Doctor Malik Al-Jazrula’s secretary to auction everything in our apartment in Khartoum. I had left many of my things, and I was unsettled about this. I was also not happy with the idea of travelling to Dad’s country where Mum and her friends said there were lots of witches.
Grandpa stood by the chocolate-coloured gate, just close to the car, waving at me. Then, Mum forgot something and came out of the car.
“Woman hurry up! It is not safe here!” Grandpa called.
Mum ran along the driveway towards the mansion. As soon as Mum disappeared into the large house, a new red coloured Peugeot 504 sped towards the Volkswagen, screeching, causing a cloud of dust to rise to the air such that we were blinded. Grandpa made to run back to the mansion but halted – perhaps he recalled we were in the car. He spun around and drew out a shiny pistol from his belt and aimed at the Peugeot. He shot once but missed, for the car had skidded past and stopped beside him. Four men rushed out, carrying machine guns. He shot the first man on the forehead; but his bullet missed the second man who swooped on him and knocked him down with the butt of his heavy gun.
Doctor Malik Al-Jazrula’s driver, who had been in the Volkswagen, ran down the street, screaming and flapping his hands, while we rushed out of the car. By then, three men had grabbed Grandpa. They stabbed him several times in the chest with three long daggers, and blood spurted and poured on their faces and their hands. I was screaming. Dad jumped over the Volkswagen, grabbed me, and tried to run towards the building opposite us, but someone rushed out of the Peugeot. He was pointing a gun at Dad.
“No move, Mister!”
He grabbed Dad by the wrist and spun him around.
“Please, in God’s name. Please!”
His blow sent Dad to the ground. Another man came out of the Peugeot. He was their driver. He stood watching as the man who had grabbed Dad looked at me and asked, “Where your mother?”
I was screaming, because of Grandpa and because the man who was staring at me had one of his eye sockets empty. A long scar ran from his forehead down to his chin. He was as tall as Grandpa; his head was shaven. His cloth looked worn-out.
“Where your mother?” he asked again.
I screamed.
“Please! Please, don’t hurt my daughter. She is also . . . she is also your daughter. She has Dinka blood in her. Please,” Dad begged.
The driver said, “I do not kill someone who does not look for my trouble. You are not from here, so I cannot hurt you, but your wife?”
Dad’s eyes met mine briefly. I understood and ran. I hid behind the hedge in front of the other building opposite Doctor Malik Al-Jazrula’s. The men did not give chase. The man with the hollow socket hit Dad and he fell. He forced Dad on his feet to face him. I watched as the others made sure Grandpa was dead. It was then that I noticed that people who were passing by had run back and were watching from a distance. No one came out of Doctor Malik’s house. I wondered if they heard the gunshots and the screams.
Then, the one-eyed man said to Dad, “We know your wife is in there.”
