Tears of the Desert (16 page)

PART THREE

DESERT 
of
  FIRE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Med School

The evening prior to setting out for university my mother made me remove my gold jewelry, to leave with her for safekeeping. In the boarding house there might be thieves, she said, so it was best to be careful. Early the following morning my father and I said our goodbyes. We drove to Hashma and made our way to the train station. My father had travelled to Khartoum before, as that’s where he’d purchased the Land Rover. He knew it would take us a good few days to get there.

I had with me a green metal trunk, which was in reality an old ammunition case that we’d bought at the village market. Inside I had packed all the food that my mother and Grandma had prepared for me. There was dried
kissra—
the flat, sorghum pancakes; there were roasted groundnuts and sweet cakes; there was dried, spiced lamb meat; and even a few dried locusts that Grandma had saved from the last big swarm time.

All of this was crammed in among my university clothes, and a pretty
muslaiyah—
a Muslim prayer rug—that my father had bought for me. The
muslaiyah
had a picture of a mosque woven into it, finished in a rainbow of bright colors. On top of everything I’d packed a beautiful new
bataniyah—
a thick bed cover. My mother had woven it from sheep’s wool, and it was to keep me warm during the months of the cold season.

The train puffed out of Hashma station shortly after midnight. My father had booked a first class cabin for the ride to Khartoum. There were four bunk beds, and we were sharing it with a married couple. They were friendly and the beds were comfortable, and we had my mother’s food to sustain us on the journey. But in spite of the fact that everyone else was soon snoring away, I was too excited to think about sleep.

At some stage I must had drifted off, for I awoke to sunlight streaming in through the cabin window. Each time the train came to a station people rushed along beside it, holding up trays of food at the window. There was fresh fruit, dried fish, juicy dates, and chunks of barbecued chicken. Others were selling live goats with their feet bound together, or cages of live chickens. Arms reached out from the train, money changed hands, and the animals were passed through windows and into the carriage.

The train pushed onward toward Khartoum, the landscape becoming a flat, dry brown wilderness, with a few scraggy trees. Here and there a faint pathway snaked through the scrub toward a distant village. But there was little other sign of life here. It was very different from the green, leafy place that was home. We passed through a series of towns, each of which seemed bigger than the last, and in places there were gray factories by the side of the tracks.

As the train rattled along my father talked to me quietly about how I should try to live my life at university. It would be the first time that I stayed in a place so far from home, a place where we had no close relatives. I should keep to myself, and I should be careful. I should study hard and be wary of others—at least until I had got a measure of what they were like. I should make friends only with those that I could trust.

On the evening of the third day a blanket of velvety darkness descended over the flat, featureless landscape. Up ahead I caught sight of an orange-pink glow, the horizon lit up in the darkened bowl of the desert. The very sky seemed as if it was on fire. Those were the lights of Khartoum, my father explained. As the train was sucked into the big city I felt myself engulfed in its blocky, concrete darkness. The windows of the many-storied houses stared out at me like a thousand empty eyes. How would I ever survive here, I wondered? How would I make this my home?

The train clanged to a halt at the dimly lit station. For a second or so I sat there, glued to my seat, and then my father grabbed my green metal trunk and called for a taxi. We drove in silence across the dark city to the house of a Zaghawa friend of my father. After a sleepy welcome I was shown to a room where I could rest. I lay awake for what seemed like an age, staring out at the weird, pulsating glow of the city, my ears full of the roar-hum of the traffic. The city seemed to eat and to breathe and to move, almost like an animal—an animal that seemed never to need to sleep.

The next morning my father’s friend drove us across to the university. It was the induction day, and each of us first-year students was to be interviewed by our Head of Faculty. Mine was a friendly-looking man called Dr. Omer, of mixed Arab-African appearance. He greeted me and asked: Where are you from? What does your father do for a living? Why have you chosen to study in his department? I told him that my dream was to become the first ever medical doctor of the Coube clan of the Zaghawa tribe. There was no doctor in our village, and I hoped one day to return there to practice medicine.

Dr. Omer seemed to enjoy my answers. He told me that it was a worthwhile dream for a young woman to cherish. If I studied well, there was no reason why I shouldn’t achieve it. With an encouraging smile and a few scribbles of his pen, Dr. Omer confirmed that I was registered to study for a degree as a medical doctor. I breathed a sign of relief. If all the university staff were as gentle and supportive as Dr. Omer, my time here would be enjoyable.

I went with my father to find the university boarding house. All being well, this would be my home for the next six years. It turned out to be a fine building. Like others we had passed on campus it was of recent construction, with strong brick walls, wooden shutters on the windows, and a polished concrete floor. It had a shiny, galvanized iron roof, insulated on the underside with thick wooden boards. But I was surprised to find it almost completely deserted. Where were the other students, I wondered?

The lady who ran the boarding house showed me around. I chose the top bunk in a row of beds in one corner of the dormitory. I placed the contents of my metal trunk in the wooden cupboard beside it, or at least those things that would fit. I had to share the cupboard with whoever might take the bunk next to me. So all my mum’s gifts of food had to stay in the metal trunk, which was pushed underneath the lower bunk bed.

There was only one other person present in the dorm, and like me she was in the company of her father. I asked her why it was so empty. Had we got the wrong day? Perhaps we were too early? She gave me a smile. She’d been worried about the same thing herself, she said. But it was the right day for induction. Perhaps the other students would turn up the following day, when our lectures were scheduled to start.

The girl’s name was Rania. She came from the Mahass tribe, a mixed Arab-African people who are related to the Nubians of north Sudan. Like me, she was a very long way from home. I warmed to her immediately, and ever more so when I discovered that she was studying medicine.

My father did his best to settle me in for the night. Before leaving, he asked Rania to look out for me. He was going to spend the night at his friend’s house, then take the train back to Hashma the following morning. He gave me some money for my keep, urging me to look after myself, to study hard and be happy. As he did so I could see the tears welling up in his eyes. Whether they were tears of pride, or sadness at our parting, I didn’t know. I hugged him tightly, as the tears streamed down my own face.

“Don’t cry, Rathebe,” he told me. “Everything will be okay. You’ll like it here. And you’ve got Rania. You’ve made your first friend already.”

“I know,
abba,
I know,” I sniffed. “It’s just . . . It’s just I’ve never been so far from home. I’ll miss you all so much . . .”

“I’ll come to visit whenever I can. Whenever I can get up to Khartoum, Rathebe, I’ll come.”

I held on to my father, hugging him as tightly as I could. I was reluctant to let go. I knew he meant what he said about visiting, but I also knew how difficult it would be for him to do so. Finally he pried my hands away and with a kiss to the top of my head he was gone—striding off into the shadows and waving his goodbyes. That night Rania and I slept huddled together in the deserted dorm, sharing one mattress for comfort.

The dormitory proved to be stuffy and hot, even though we were the only students present. What would it be like at the height of the dry season, and when the beds were full? I was glad that I’d gotten a top bunk. I couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in the claustrophobia down below. That first night a heavy shower of rain drummed on the tin roof, beating out a deafening rhythm. But at least it took the worst of the heat out of the air.

In the morning Rania’s father returned, and he invited me to join them for breakfast. He was a teacher back in their home village. As with my father, it was his lifelong dream that his daughter would study medicine. Rania’s father was a kindhearted man. His daughter and I were the best of friends already, he told me, so I was like a second daughter to him now. It was easier for him to travel to Khartoum than it was for my father. So whenever he came to see Rania, he would also be coming to visit me.

Barely had we finished eating when a stream of new arrivals began filling up the dorm. Rania had bagged the bunk opposite mine, and the other beds were quickly taken. Rania’s father took us on a stroll around the campus to escape the crush. He pointed out how new and smart the buildings were. Apparently, the entire university was barely six years old. A tree-lined avenue led into the campus from the main road. It ended at a large dining hall, with lecture halls branching off to either side.

I marveled at the wonders of the university—this vast house of intellect and learning. There was a giant, ultra-modern lecture hall, which could easily house our entire year. It had microphones for the students, and rows of desks facing a raised lecture platform. All seven hundred first-year students would have their lectures here. Our first year would be spent doing a foundation course, which covered just about every subject one could imagine. Those who passed the foundation year would move on to study their specialized degree subject.

I quickly settled into a routine. Each morning I’d have breakfast with Rania, and then we’d rush over to the vast lecture hall to secure the best seats. We dormitory students had an advantage over those who lived off campus, as we had less distance to walk. In those first few weeks I fell in love with the university. I adored its studious air, coupled with the atmosphere of freedom and respect for all that emanated from the academic staff. No one looked down on anyone due to their skin color, their tribe, or their status in society.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect. There were regular power cuts, which meant that the loudspeakers and the microphones in the vast lecture hall stopped working. At times like those it was vital to be as near to the front as possible, so as to be able to hear the lecturer. The city power stations were old and crumbling, hence the shortage in supply. And of course, I missed my family. But the excitement of being at a place where Arab–African rivalry seemed a thing of the past almost made up for being so isolated from them.

There were still clear differences between village girls like Rania and me, and the Arab city girls. For example, I didn’t have a single photograph of my family, for there were no cameras in our village. But most of the girls were able to tape up glossy pictures of their parents next to their beds. At night they would stare at the photos, and sigh, and lament being separated from their families and sleeping in such a bare, uncomfortable place.

One night I awoke to one of the girls having a terrible fit of hysterics. I gathered at her bedside together with Rania, and some of the others. Why she was so upset, we asked? Was there some terrible news? She turned her distraught, tear-stained face toward us. She had received a letter from her parents, she said. Upon reading it she had realized just how much she missed them. I asked her where her family lived and when see might see them again. But it turned out that her home was just across the city, and she was planning to visit on the weekend.

I had little sympathy. I couldn’t for the life of me grasp what she was moaning about. She would be seeing her family in a few days, whereas I didn’t know when I would next be seeing mine. At the end of the term I would return to my village for the long summer holiday, but between now and then there wouldn’t be enough time, or money, for me to do so. The spoiled city girls outnumbered us some ten-to-one, but we seemed far more self-contained and robust and able to cope with the rigors of dormitory life.

There was no running water in the dorms. For Rania and me it was no great effort to lift a bucket of water from the well and carry it balanced on our heads to the wash tank. But the city girls complained bitterly. They were incapable of lifting such heavy loads, they said. They begged us to do it for them. We laughed. Why on earth should we? They may have had black servants at home, but we weren’t about to be their campus slaves. Some took to flirting with the male students, in an effort to persuade them to fetch and carry their water.

May, our first month at university, rapidly rolled into June. The heat intensified, the iron roof of the dorm becoming like a baking oven. Eventually, Rania and I decided to drag our mattresses outside onto the grass. It was far, far cooler out there—and it was what we would have done in the village. Gradually, the other girls followed suit. Eventually, even the precious Arab city girls were sleeping outside. The boys had their own dorm, and they had taken to sleeping outside of theirs, as we girls bedded down outside of our own.