by Enas Suleiman
Ants marched through the cracks
of the black dotted ceramic floor
I watched them in sympathy
knowing it would be their last venture.
I untangled the green water hose
and gave them my heartfelt condolences
as the gush of angry water
drowned their minute bodies.
The smell of sand and water
rose from the cracks they marched upon,
exuded into the roasting heat,
and into my receptive lungs
as I thought of my Sudanese summer of 95.
A summer of power outages
we lit long white candles,
huddled up by the only source of light
and watched wax drip onto the wooden tables.
Buckets of sweat later
The neighbour’s kids cheered
“Al kahraba jat, al kahraba jat!”
11-year old me joined them in their anthem
index finger in the air
“Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar!”
like I was part of their high pitched choir.
A tang jar that was hidden for special guests
suddenly appeared in tall glasses
with slightly discoloured ice water
in celebration of the return of the damned electricity.
A summer of curiosity
of re-used pepsi bottles
lined up like bowling pins
of scattered bottle caps
trapped in the dried mud
shining like diamonds that can’t be retrieved.
I sat outside on an abandoned car tire
and just as I drew the smile of freedom from adults
I saw my uncle heading towards my brother and I
waving a safinja in the air
ready to use the weapon of mass destruction
because, according to him, only hoodlums
sat on tires and wandered the streets.
We snorted out laughter whilst being beaten
but cried real tears.
A summer of family gatherings
around a cheap cardboard Ludo game
Fights over the best counter colour
as if that one colour will always be victorious.
Four players on the ground
with legs crossed
and shoulders rocking
back and forth in concentration
while the rest cheered on
waiting for their turn to play.
A summer of watching aunties
Opening their closets
Not understanding why they hid their keys in their bras.
On the bed I would stand behind them,
jump to glance
at the dax-stained newspapers laid down
over the top shelves.
A half empty Vaseline tub,
cheap Chinese eye shadow,
broken eye pencils,
and a rusted mak7ala
but my eyes focus on the halawa baggar
that I never succeed to steal.
As I continue to breathe in the hosed housh
I sit back in my Granddad’s 30-year old chair
that I fell in love with in the summer of 95
and wonder if I would ever own
an old piece of furniture like this.
I wonder if my children would fight over it,
or throw it away like it has no history.
I let my thoughts trail
as I inhale and exhale home.
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