A Conversation to Keep Despondency at Bay

Rashid Abdelrahim
An inept and bankrupt government, a strange and bewildering war, and drone attacks that turn light and brightness into darkness: these are among the causes of the despondency we are living through. We once enjoyed a relatively easy, comfortable life, in which we could seek meaning and values and practise a form of religiosity that matched the innate disposition of the Sudanese people.
To escape this reality, I have immersed myself in memories of unusual, unassuming people endowed with noble qualities and profound meaning. My most recent article about Uncle Tango inspired these recollections, and I hope to return to that subject whenever circumstances permit.
In a village or neighbourhood, someone may be regarded as one of Ahl Allah — people especially close to God — because of what they represent and the unusual, almost fantastical things they do. Others believe such individuals live beyond the bounds of reason and label them accordingly, calling them a dervish, a madman, an idiot, or something similar.
Sharaf—that was his name—was well known in our neighbourhood of Berri Al-Mahas. From his youth until his death, he devoted his life to a single task.
His mission was to open the mosque doors and go to the muezzin’s house shortly before the call to prayer. He would stand outside the door without knocking unless the muezzin was late. He would then accompany him to the mosque, skipping ahead with delight or holding his hand, as he did with our elderly neighbour, Osman, a blind man blessed with a beautiful voice. Sharaf carried out this duty even though an alarm clock was available.
During school holidays, the number of people attending the noon prayer at the mosque dwindled, and often no one gave the call to prayer. Despite my hoarse voice, I took on the task myself, and I was fortunate enough to enjoy Sharaf’s company. He would come to fetch me and walk with me, saying nothing, skipping ahead until we reached the mosque. Afterwards, he would accompany me home, even though I didn’t need an escort.
When the congregation began praying, Sharaf would stand at the doorway, placing his index finger against his front tooth as he watched the worshippers. He never took his eyes off them, nor did he join the prayer. It was as though he were standing guard over them.
After escorting the muezzin back to his home, Sharaf would return to close the mosque, then head home to his family, happy and content.
No one ever saw him except on his way to or from the mosque and his home. He never attended social occasions, whatever their nature.
We had a warm relationship with him, despite the absence of conversation or much companionship. He did not speak beyond the confines of the mission God seemed to have prepared him for.
Those who never understood his secret called him an idiot. Others regarded him as one of God’s beloved, entrusted with a divine secret.
Yet Sharaf married a beautiful young woman. I used to ask him about her, and he would tell me that his heart, in its every beat, uttered her name: Najat. Najat — though that name is my own invention.
I moved away from the neighbourhood and later learnt that he had been blessed with a daughter and a son, both remarkably beautiful and intelligent, and outstanding in their studies. For many years, I have carried a wish in my heart to see his children, having missed the opportunity to share his company in his final years. Sharaf truly was one of God’s signs.
Sharaf reminds me of Al-Zein, the protagonist of Tayeb Salih’s novel The Wedding of Zein. The two share certain qualities, including a profound spiritual dimension and a single-minded devotion to a task they seem destined to fulfil. Al-Zein, for instance, was beloved by one of the village’s most renowned pious men, Sheikh Al-Haneen.
Al-Zein attended Quranic recitation circles but did not recite alongside the others. Instead, he would listen to those reading with deep affection. The villagers believed that he drove misfortune away from their community. He also loved helping people without being asked, and never accepted payment for his efforts.
Al-Zein had an unusual appearance: bulging eyes, large ears, and a tall, thin frame. People described him as khallāfa — an odd-looking fellow.
Whenever Al-Zein admired a young woman, he would express his feelings with his famous cry: ‘I’m dying for the girl in the house of …!’ That cry became a pathway, and a key, to marriage. Any woman who wanted to marry hoped he would visit her family’s home, or at least see her and utter his celebrated cry, which seemed to carry her straight into the marital home.
Perhaps Al-Zein’s reward was to marry one of the most beautiful girls, Na‘ma. His wedding was attended by a vast gathering of people from the village and surrounding areas. Camels, sheep and goats were slaughtered, and everyone was fed. People rejoiced, sang and celebrated until dawn.
Why do we no longer encounter or witness such people—individuals who enrich life with meanings that dispel its hardships and loneliness, encourage us to reflect on it, and nourish the healthy instincts of our humanity?

Shortlink: https://sudanhorizon.com/?p=19533