E-Book, Englisch, 150 Seiten
Sakin Samahani
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-7384463-7-7
Verlag: Foundry Editions
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 150 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-7384463-7-7
Verlag: Foundry Editions
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Abdel Aziz Baraka Sakin is one of the most prominent writers from Sudan today. He was born in Kassala, eastern Sudan, in 1963 and was living in the city of Khashm el-Girba until he was forced into exile abroad by the Islamist military regime in Khartoum. Although most of his major works are banned in his home country his books are secretly traded and circulated online among Sudanese readers of all generations. Sakin's seminal work, al-Jungo Masameer al-Ardh, which appeared in English as 'The Jungo: Stakes of the Earth', was the winner of Tayeb Salih's Novel Award. His other novels include Maseeh Darfur (The Messiah of Darfur), al-Aashiq al-Badawi (The Bedouin Lover), and al-Khanadrees (The Khandarees).
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A Young Woman in Love
The Blessed Princess loved the scents of the marketplace, particularly the fermented coconut when the breeze mixed it with the scent of cloves, fresh ginger, and lemon, and carried it to her delicate nose. She loved the colours of mangoes: rich yellow, green, gold, pink. They reminded her of her childhood of endless frolicking. They also reminded her of the strange discoloration on her growing breasts. The princess could trace each scent back to the kiosk it came from. The market was divided into eastern and western sections, with vegetable kiosks on one side and perfumes and oils on the other, ending at the slave market. But it was the smell of burning sulphur she could not help but follow to the kiosk of the Indian goldsmith.
Since her revelling husband had agreed to sever his relations with all his concubines – the Romanian, the two Ethiopians, the voluptuous Ungujan, the mercurial Copt, the Indians with the perky breasts who never stopped talking, the strange Sicilian recently bought from Oman, who some suspect is a jinn because an old Omani slaver claimed to have captured her from the Indian Ocean – she had developed an obsession with spending the money he had sold them for to buy all the jewellery she could get her hands on.
She fantasised about making them drink her urine, so deep was her hatred for them.
Whores. Vulgar thighs of all colours filling the house with their clamour.
Her ultimate aim was to lure her husband – not because she loved him but because she wanted to captivate him, to overpower him, knowing perfectly well that he loved nothing but the throne.
He can wait all he wants. My father won’t die any time soon.
The princess loved the din of the market: the pedlars’ cries, the slavers’ auction bells, the call to prayer, the braying of donkeys, the hammering of ironsmiths, the shrieking of saws on wood, the roaring of mills operated by heavyset slaves whose hands grew sore and cracked, the bleating of goats being led to slaughter. But her favourite sound was that of the young Unguja singer Uhuru, which she preferred even to the music of the ensemble her father had sent to Egypt for training and which she found odd and lifeless. She loved Uhuru’s songs. Uhuru was the only free Negro on Unguja, save for the old people begging and picking rotten fruit and vegetables off the streets, emancipated only once they became a burden on their masters: too old to work and in need of care.
She loved the discordant rhythm of Uhuru’s three-legged drum. From behind her diaphanous veil, the princess cast covetous, envious glances at her naked breasts, which Uhuru carelessly displayed like forbidden fruit tainted by darkness. No one dared touch her, no human nor jinn, not even the princess’s reckless husband. The singer often stood at the corner between the slave and gold markets where the turbaned goldsmiths sat, their heads full of numbers and one-liners to draw money out of purses. She wore a goatskin loincloth and sang “My Homeland is Heaven for the Occupiers and Hell for the Natives”. The princess found the song somewhat hostile; or rather it made her feel a tinge of shame. She preferred the rhythm of another, far more brutal song, which described the day slavers had attacked Uhuru’s village. Uhuru had memorised it in her native Swahili, spoken in the dialect of the Kaimondi tribe.
As I was hiding among the trees
The slavers came to Nyamwezi
From my post, I watched them leave
In the house were women galore
A bad man came, and then one more
Forced one to bed, forced them all
The only one left behind
Was the woman heavy with child
As Uhuru started to dance, Sondus, the castrated slave and the princess’s personal servant, urged on the donkey that carried the princess, who sat majestically in a flowing Wakingo gown, drenched in glittering jewels, like a Kushite queen of King Solomon’s era. The princess did not neglect to throw a handful of Maria Theresa thalers for Uhuru, taking care to keep her distance, for it was widely believed that anyone who came into physical contact with Uhuru would be struck by black magic. This was one of the reasons the slave hunters, who only saw people in terms of their market value, stayed clear of her. Uhuru picked up the coins hastily and put them in a secret pocket inside her tattered loincloth. “Asante sana,” she said.
The princess hated the way Uhuru lost herself when she danced, exposing even her genitals and drawing out the most despicable men: bleary-eyed, drunk old fools who believed seeing a woman’s sex improved their eyesight. She spun out of control, like a crazed dervish or an animal in the midst of attack.
She acts this way so no one dares go near her. I can’t stand it.
The myth Uhuru had invented protected her from merchants and insatiable men, fuelled by their excessive intake of ginger and cloves, who took advantage of a law and social order that encouraged them to own for pleasure as many women and young boys as they liked.
The myth went as follows:
A mighty, faceless jinn will latch on to anyone who dares touch me. No one will be able to banish it, not even the most renowned sorcerers who fast all year and live in caves at the edge of the world.
I dare them to try.
I dare them to try to sell me to the ships bound for the land of the whites.
I dare them to untie the goatskin round my waist.
I will dance the devil’s dance, the devil you fear like nothing else, the devil that will consume your souls as swiftly as fire consumes dry grass.
With a little wickedness and some brazen lies, she protected her freedom.
Qaroon, the Indian goldsmith, was a crafty man. His namesake was a figure in the Quran known for his avarice. Qaroon was generous only when it was guaranteed he would receive his due in multiples. He waited for the princess, as he always did on the first Saturday of the lunar month. It was the day ships coming from the west laid anchor, delivering the most coveted merchandise.
The jewellery shop was small but well equipped. In a remote corner, a servant sat on the ground behind the forge blower. He was a brawny young man with a thick head of hair and naked torso, exposing a broad, hairless chest buried under layers of ash and dirt. His lower half was wrapped in a filthy leather cloth. He worked silently, occasionally scanning the room with his bulging eyes. He noticed Sondus, soft and clean, wearing silk and two large golden earrings.
Look at that pampered eunuch! And look at me! A big mass of flesh, dark and filthy. The servant was chained to a steel wedge so deeply embedded in the ground that not even the mightiest elephant would be able to loosen it.
Inside the shop were small safes firmly placed on steel shelves, and oil paintings of Indian deities. A dancing Shiva faced the entrance. A chapter from the Holy Quran, “Surah Al-Falaq”, transcribed in gold ink, was framed and placed over a large wooden box. And right behind the goldsmith was the sultan’s family tree. The law required all establishments and palaces to display it.
Qaroon couldn’t wait to show the princess his new selection of rare jewels, procured especially for her and sent by the chief goldsmith of France. She knew he was not telling the truth but chose to believe him nevertheless. She needed his carefully woven lies to arouse the jealousy of her conceited friends, the daughters, wives, and concubines of landlords and rich slave traders and clove merchants. Better still if she could kill them with jealousy. She paid him far more than the tatty accessories were worth.
Out of a small gold-laminated box Qaroon pulled a small photograph of a white woman in a silk dress posing pompously. “Would you look at this precious necklace?” he said, pointing with a finger at a big gold ring adorned with a big diamond – a real diamond, he assured her. “It belongs to Duchess Mariana von Padova, the most enchanting of them all. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”
“I haven’t.”
“She is the most glamorous star in Italy,” Qaroon said, with the photograph gently resting on his palm. “She captured the hearts of Italian and English poets alike. They have written volume upon volume in praise of her beauty. There’s a shanty you hear seamen singing around here that was composed for her.”
“Really?” she said, urging him to continue.
Like a seasoned burglar, the goldsmith sent his fingers rummaging inside the box and pulled out a glittering necklace. He swung it closer to the transparent veil. “A rare ruby piece. It adorned the great Duchess Mariana. And this in the middle is a black diamond – rarer than hen’s teeth.”
“How did you get your hands on it?” She reached out to examine it.
“The pirates!” he cried. His smile exposed yellow, decaying teeth. “The pirates, Your Highness, can acquire anything. My people in India believe the pirates created the oceans. Getting their hands on the necklace of Duchess Mariana is nothing to them.” He laughed.
Even Qaroon’s servant, sitting behind his forge blower, could see the princess’s white teeth glitter behind the veil. As she eyed the necklace, blood rushed through her veins. Her heart beat faster; she could barely contain herself. The smell of burning sulphur stirred an irresistible lust for buying. The Indian gods and Quranic verses hanging on the wall seemed to tremble under Qaroon’s thunderous laugh.
“It costs one thousand Maria Theresa thalers,” said the goldsmith.
“How much?” she...
