Khartoum, Sudan: On The Commute to Work (cont.)

A Nubian woman, with deep, ritual scars on her coal black face sits by the wall that leads down to the Nile. An old car spits smoke into the street as she feeds small pieces of tinder into the fire in front of her.

‘Qahwah min fadlak’ I ask as I place a few dinars in her hand. She smiles, with the few brown teeth she has remaining, and starts to prepare the sweet Turkish coffee that I enjoy so much. A spoon full of fresh grounds are placed in a small copper pot.

’Bisoon sukre’ without sugar, I request as she begins to spoon heaps of it into the pot, water then fills it to the brim. As soon as the pot boils, the contents are poured into a small glass and handed to me. I sit down on the curb next to her.

My Sudanese friends have often told me that drinking coffee would help cool me down during the day, but I have long since abandoned that theory. I sweat profusely as I enjoy the strong concoction.

A young woman that is walking past with a group of girls approaches me, a tissue in her hand; she gestures to her forehead as I look up.

‘Shokran’ thank you, I say as I smile and wipe the sweat from my forehead.
I often forget how closely many people watch me; there is rarely an occasion when, should I have difficulty with the language, or anything else, that someone doesn’t offer assistance.

‘We are just interested in what you are doing; don’t be hurt’ replied a man once when I asked him why a group of people had surrounded me while I was eating

‘Qahwah?’ Coffee? I ask the girl, gesturing for her friends to join us. ‘La shokran’ she says as she giggles slightly and returns to the group.

It’s time to get to work, so I finish the last of the coffee, leaving just the muddy dregs at the bottom of the cup and head back into the crowds.

At the entrance to the university stands five pictures of previous students, they are all dressed in army uniform; in the corner of each picture, in small Arabic numerals, is written their dates of birth, and death.

Another picture will soon be added to this spot; I was told just last week that another student, who went to fight in the South, has been killed.

I walk into the building through the courtyard garden and café where Colin is enjoying his breakfast of fuul and bread, up the stairs to the English Department and into the small lecture room. I’m at least ten minutes early but already the room is full; the women take the first six rows, the men sit behind them. A few dozen students sit on the windowsills or learn through the open shutters from the corridor, chatting to those that are luckly enough to have found a seat; the room seats about 100, but I have almost 180 students.

As a student wipes down the board, another comes in and places a coffee on my desk, I thank him and pass him some money, but he refuses as always. A final few students come into the room and sit on the steps as I turn to face the class: ‘Good morning’ I say, and as the students fall silent I begin work for the day.

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