Fouz Haj Abdul Rahman: Be the fool in a time when the skin needs Nivea
(This word was republished from 1968 (Al-Sahafa 22 May) with a heavy heart. In it, I stabbed my teacher Abd al-Khaliq Mahjoub in a moment of anger. I congratulated the late Hajj Abd al-Rahman on his victory in the Atbara constituency in the 1968 elections. He deserved it. But my congratulations were not devoid of malice. Not only did he refrain from congratulating my teacher for winning the southern constituency of Omdurman in return, but I also appealed to him for the political softness of the non-proletarian petty bourgeoisie.1968 was a wild year when we got mixed up after the dissolution of the Communist Party and terrorizing the country with the draft Islamic constitution of the reactionary alliance of the Umma Party, the National Unionist Party and the Islamic Charter Front. Our teacher is responsible for the corruption of my opinion.
The date palm said to the mention of the date palm in its old anchorage on the stream: Haji Abd al-Rahman al-Haj won. Old things raise their plate, confuse their memories, and delusion and forgetfulness enter them, which necessitates an explanation and an addition. This is curious to say. The palm tree said: Believe who said that you are senile. forget it? That which gave us a whisper and a vaccine. Alrabaa friendly jovial. On which Karakji walked, the cliffs were green and brown, mixed with the lights of cowpeas and twigs of acacia. forget it? The one who, when he was obsessed with immigration to the city, took refuge in my torso weeping. So a newspaper came out of me with good thoughts. And he made her fronds on his cheeks as a mark of memory and history. forget it? Wad Abd al-Rahman, Wad al-Hajj, Wad Tour, the reciter and Hafiz, the worshiper, may God have mercy on him and make Paradise his resting place.
The outer semaphore said to the inner semaphore: I thought you knew him because his name was ringing on the radio. But it’s okay: Hajj Abdul Rahman Al-Barrad at the Umrah workshop. The four miles to the palace. Shalokh tells the story of a palm tree whose roots are dirty in the ancient soil of his village, Jawari. The column of Korti is the work of a Meroitic Rural Council. Woe! Who has been silencing the movement in your open arms year after year since 1948, when the workers deserted the workshops, the Al-Bandar stations and the deserts, inciting them to do so with his fat bass voice of revolution with anger and flames? The one who planted the paths of the neighborhood of Umm Bakul with coarse publications left him glowing and finding. And he who sowed in the heart of the workshops the struggle against arbitrariness and oppression, looking forward like the lights of the clouds of cliffs and the shady twirls of acacia..
And I said to the radio when it heard his name: O radio, give good tidings, and God is good. And your good news tonight is a moment of numbness with the Brotherhood, during which I belch to fill my throat. And I utter obscene words in it until I forget the long hours in which you held me close to you, staining the edge of my ear with names that perched, and still are, on the hearts of the people, heavy and exorbitant. When names penetrate the core of my ear, I feel as if I am turning the pages of the book “The History and Geography of Sudan” by the well-known Naoum Shuqair. The sons and heirs of the shuttle, Arabs, sheikhs, official scholars, revolutionaries, and the like.
And this, O radio, is a man from among us. We are the blur from the shadow of the history of this country that rises on our shoulders, the paper of our condition, and the misery of our days. We are always proud of being the fuel of the revolution. We haven’t mastered the plot. We disapprove of climbing and refuse to knee-soft legs. We did not compete at the power table. But we know the vices of eternity and the stability of the affliction. We have known heartlessness, blindness, deafness, and dumbness. And you know when the ordeal came to us, we got up towards it naked. He still fears the taste of our nails and fangs. And when the misfortune clears, and the affliction is revealed, we return to farmers and shepherds who plant palm trees, and guide the pursuit as we read the page of the sky, the torrents of the torrent, and the womb of the soil. We inherited nothing but patience to rain houses and farming courses. A sense of smell for danger, disaster, awakens in us a craving for fighting, and dusts off our swords, shields, and equanimity. Our condolences to wives, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and aunts.
And about manhood, Hajj, I’m talking. I am talking about it at a time when humiliation tramples men and the third gender emerges as a stronghold between the two sexes. And I strike a chord at a time when the skin needs “Nivea”. And I speak to you in particular, and time is lost, and the place is lawful, and the cows are similar, and the matter is mixed. Be a pilgrim, and a heart with the Mawasi people, this is what we want for ourselves over these young and old. Above the mirror and the aberration. And I penetrate to falsehood with what I inherited from an eye of insight, a scholar of the times of scarcity of nature and the times of laziness. And read the hearts and minds of men as the predecessors used to read the page of the sky, the womb of the soil, and the dwellings of the stars. And speak the truth even to yourself. And put out the eye of the oppressor with your hand before you cry out to us. And I make a restriction to take care of it. And if you sense the coldness of emotion that fills the house through the devices of humming, crackling, and obstinacy emanating from those who agree, then remove the microphone and read whatever you want: something from the wise revelation. Or from what you made of poetry while remembering the child and the family in your confinement in Naqqut, or I resounded with a sigh of dubit, the mourning of our ancient people. And make the upper part of it lower, if someone objects to you, or an obstacle prevents you from doing so.
He told me when he heard Hajj’s victory, but in Hajj there is foolishness and impulsiveness. I said: And in his forearm is strength that bridles the opponent if he brays with harsh and cold speech. That’s why I rejoice. By God, we are fed up, and you are not asking me for an ally. We are fed up with even the circulation of blood within us.
Ba Haj, Wad Abdel Rahman, Wad Al Haj, be the fool who wipes with water at a time when the skin needs Nivea.
umdarag1936@gmail.com
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