Apart from the dawn prayers being more vocal than normal, the morning passed quietly. The street dust remained undisturbed by the precious few bodies that promenaded, women in coloured tobes, males in new, Persil-white sheets. To the refugees who inhabit the space beneath a small, abandoned trailer that died below my 7th floor balcony, this day was nothing special. The yawning toddlers crossed the track to squat, mum moved into the shade of the derelict container by the thoroughfare, one-legged dad swung away, adroitly on his crutches, to wash his face at the nearby tap.
In front of the apartment block we have new neighbours. The corner house was demolished a fortnight ago and the vacant space is now home to another family. Their dwelling is a tent made from an ancient and bedraggled carpet thrown over a post that was banged into the former foundations. Their floor is a patchwork of flattened cardboard boxes held down by the weight (sic) of their pathetically small bundle of belongings. In this open-sided covering the couple and their three small children hide from the elements.
When the workers destroyed the house they damaged the shared wall with the adjoining property but soon mortared a few bricks into the hole. The remains of their pile of building sand is now a wonderful play area for the new kids on the block. Eagerly, they spend long hours of each day disporting in gay abandon, heedless to the plight that condemns them to an uncertain future; Southerners in the hostile environment of Northern Sudan.
At the gambling den only a handful of males had gathered for a morning game of cards and a shisha pipe, and the owner closed before long.
An old man filled a bowl from the tap (the main inlet for the doomed house, it is such a boon to the poor in the vicinity), staggerered into the shade by our main entrance and washed his smalls. The local dog (they are rarely tolerated by these people who are so afraid of anything that moves, except cats) wandered from his UN-employed master’s gate and flopped down in the shade. The old boy nodded acceptance.
At “Coptic Corner” (the track by my last apartment block is the centre for displaced Southerners to meet) the non-Islamic Sudanese relaxed beneath the trees as usual, discussing the momentous events which will soon change the face of Africa.
“Allahu akhbar!” It is one o’clock and the amplified words come from the first of the city’s minarets. The call to pray hardly galvanizes the populous. A few white-clad males begin a leisurely saunter along these backstreets, mosquewards, ignoring the brightly-clad beggar who roots around in the rubbish bin. The majority have chosen the air-conditioned comfort of their cars. Women are absent from this male-dominated parade of whitewashed peacocks; they are hard at work preparing lunch.
The bleating, that yesterday filled the area with goat-terror, has been replaced by today’s smells of char-grilled goat flesh that now waft on the wind, filling the city with tastebud-tingling temptations. From the rooftops and wires, the Black Kites wait patiently; their turn will come. The sun climbs to its zenith, a pleasant warmth at this time of year (only into the mid-30Cs), and boys do what boys everywhere enjoy, riding their brand new bikes through streets devoid of traffic and squealing to the thrill of throwing fireworks.
And then it was over; with a fizzle rather than a bang. Following a post-lunch siesta, traffic began to reappear, corner shops reopened, workmen arrived to offload steel rods at the local building site and men returned to their Shishas, cards and Ludo. The biggest celebratory day of the year was history. Gosh! That was a memorable Eid in the City.
Dave
