I left my family's house ✍️ Professor Awad Ibrahim Awad
I left my family's homes in a time with green features, gentle features, beautiful nature, a merciful character and a companion to people wherever they were, and headed into the unknown. I did not know what fate had in store for me or what the ordinary nature of time would have in store for me. Life was an eternal ambition that could not be matched. Hope fills the wings from every angle. The common denominator between them is that the sequel is necessarily better. I didn't wonder what fate had in store for me in the times to come. All I know is that I was too ambitious, too in love with new things, and too anxious. The distances between me and the stranger were short and could not be measured in kilometers. My older sister gave me five pounds, all she could save, to help me on the journey of the days ahead as I began the journey out of my small town and into the wide gates of the life. I then took this abundant supply and headed towards the capital. I'm not saying Khartoum, but rather the capital with all its hustle and bustle and its endless sleepless nights. The capital, with its Omdurman, its sea, its prison, its barracks, its republican palace, its supply gardens, its railways, its French market and other monuments which dazzled all those who came from the countryside with their splendor and their bright colors every time a boy entered them into the glory of innocence and the beauty of the prime of life. She received me with her comfort and the beauty of her gypsy features, which were not devoid of glamor and narcissism in her dressing. She had legendary features, Babylonian colors, a sign of generosity and a Parisian evening. Little by little, I found myself one of his spoiled sons at college among a group of friends, and on his wonderful radio among a group of fans who didn't know why they liked this skinny boy from the humble frontiers from Kordofan? Little by little, the simplicity of the heritage of the village and the small town that I fled faded little by little due to the ambition and the intensity of hope that wanted to discourage me from living there. and force me to reach the outskirts of the capitals. One of the temptresses fell in love with me and asked my weak self to marry her, and I don't know why? But in my simplicity and naivety, I apologized to him by telling him that I was related to one of my relatives from the village. This was the first resounding lie imposed on me in my new life, in which similar lies continued due to the need to coexist with the townspeople. The years passed in their usual agitation. The city grew around me and its expansion accelerated until it subsided. Instead of prisoner, hashmap, supplier, and Khor Abu Anja, the vocabulary around the bracelet on my wrist included: London, Moscow, Cairo, Istanbul, Kuala Lumpur, Washington, Berlin, New Delhi, Casablanca , Kampala. , Riyadh, Abu Dhabi, Baghdad, Tripoli, Beirut, Jakarta and even the South China Sea. Oh my God, this bold violence and noise. What is all this rubble? And the long distance argument? And the cold of old airports? What is the absurdity of the intensity of the inspection procedures, photographing fingerprints and searching clothes right down to their sensitive areas? What is this boring waiting in often comfortable and often uncomfortable chairs? Why do the hours pass slowly and monotonously in all the inextinguishable transit halls? Suddenly, memories came to mind that imposed themselves on my consciousness without prior presentation. I remembered the simplicity of my family in the neighborhoods of Al-Nahud and its small alleys between Al-Qatati and Al-Hishan, built of ash wood and covered with straw and thorns. I cried until I was drunk recalling the memories of the Dabuja store, Tama Fula, Muqraa Abdullah Al-Rai, Rahad Al-Hussein, Hosh Haskannit, the sheep of Wad Bagari and the donkey of Fatna Umm Kampot then that she passed in front of our house carrying bundles of firewood. From the middle of the houses, Hajja Amna, Ahmed Nour's dog, comes to her and asks her each time: (What is your darling, Fatima?) What does it mean how much you sell a bundle of firewood, Fatima? She replies: “My generosity is two piastres”, and Hajjah Amna complains, denouncing this exorbitant sum for the bundle of firewood, while Fatima and her daughter's son (Al-Nour) were exhausted to the bones to collect this firewood and tying it with a strong Ashmiq rope, then they carried it on the back of the injured donkey and brought it back from the borders of Wad Bukhari to sell it to the people of Al-Ashmiq and they return with dirhams which do not heal. the thirst. Oh my God, I almost cry remembering those wonderful days full of simplicity and sublime. There were no travel tickets, no ID cards, no advance reservations with tourist agencies, no hustle and bustle in city airports and no noise from strangers at train stations arrival. Freekehs, Abu Dabaya, Abu Awanqi and Ankolip beans were our biggest desires. The autumn showers and rain have given us the secret of living without question or trouble. Aah, one of those moonlit nights on the sand of the roads, and aah, then aah, one of the torments of life that have enveloped our days throughout time, as we advance through the airports of the capitals, between columns of supplications and supplications. devotion, on the borders of wishes, in search of peace between the fangs of lions and the ravages of impossible lands.
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