Love On The Banks Of The Nile

‘Tahir!’ I called out his name. I know he is gone forever. I stood on the banks of the Blue Nile starring into the open water, my head filled with thoughts as many as the grits of sand on the banks. I was born in Cairo 1929 to an Egyptian father and a Sudanese mother but grew up in Khartoum, Sudan when it was under Anglo-Egyptian Condominium.

My father worked as a doctor in Cairo before his medical license was revoked because he joined a group that rebelled against British imperialism in Egypt. When my mother’s father offered him a job as a supervisor in his trading firm, he reluctantly accepted. My mother came from a wealthy Sudanese family that traded with merchants from the gulf countries. She worked as a pre-school teacher in Cairo for British expatriates and Egyptian elites.

When we moved to Khartoum, my mother stayed as a housewife to raise six of us. It was not a pleasant moment for the family because she quickly became angry and will usually get into fights with my father. He never beat her, something that was common in family circles in Sudan. I was the eldest and the only daughter and was never circumcised. When we came to the Sudan my mother’s sisters and aunties wanted me circumcised but my father issued a strong warning and they backed off.

My mother no longer did make-up. Her usual travels to London had ceased. In fact those days the women used to visit our household and listen to mothers stories about London. How the women in London don’t cover themselves and keep the hair in their armpit grown. Stories about how their men supposedly made love to them in different positions.

Visiting my Aunt Talia was something I loved doing on Saturdays. She lived in one of the apartments in the Nile estates. It was one of those visits that I met Tahir. He was a black Sudanese from the west, Darfur, Zaghawa tribe. He lived in Khartoum where he attended University. Tahir’s father worked in one of the local cotton companies and they lived in the apartment below Aunt Talia’s.

He proposed and I accepted. I was 18 and he was 20. At that time the Second World War had ended three years ago and Tahir and many academics across the African continent were concerned with the land grabbing by ex-soldiers of the war especially in south and east Africa. This and many other issues occupied his thoughts. Meeting him at the banks of the Nile was a routine.

I remember lying in his arms exhausted from love making. I did not notice how fast it went till I felt him breathe heavily, quicken his pace and finally spilled his seed in me. My son Abit is a reminder of something precious I had with Tahir who died before Abit was born. At his burial I watched in pain as his remains were wrapped in white cloth, put in a coffin and carried away after prayers had been said for his soul. Tahir was just 23 years, a promising academic.

How did Tahir die? Hmmmm!  Samir, long before I had met Tahir, he had expressed interest in me. His side of the family approached my father to start negotiations for marriage but I rejected his proposal. It did not go well with Samir and his family. When he heard about my relationship with Tahir he fumed and issued threats but I ignored him. My father was a liberal and will not allow his daughter into any union she did not approve.

My mother however did not take it lightly: Samir came from a rich family and she wanted me to marry an Arabic Sudanese just like herself. Tahir was not her choice, he was black African Sudanese. On that fateful Tuesday Tahir had been sent by his father to deliver a message to the Imam. A bullet penetrated his chest. It was Samir; whose marriage proposal I had rejected earlier that pulled the trigger and sent my beloved Tahir to his grave at a ripe age. Blood oozed out and the white shirt he wore was stained with blood. He fell instantly and breathed his last.

When news of his death reached me, I wept uncontrollably. I was a month pregnant and was thinking of ways to inform my parents. It was an abomination to be pregnant without a husband in Sudan. After the burial, I gathered courage to tell my mother. She hit me and rained insults on me. A decision was made.

I was sent to Cairo to live with my father’s family where I gave birth to Tahir;s son Abit in 1952, same year Gamel Nasser and his men had deposed Farouk in a coup-de tat ending Turkish heritage rule in Egypt. I learnt dress-making and proceeds from my craft are what I use to take care of Abit. I have not yet gathered the courage to tell him about his father, the love of my life. I still dream of the Blue Nile.