‘Did you meet anyone on the plane that you knew?’ Majdy asked. One always does travelling to and from Khartoum, a small city with many familiar faces. I lied and said no. I lied and did not tell him that, on the first part of the journey from Khartoum to Cairo, I met the Ostrich.

I never could train myself to remember his real name. I always thought of him as the Ostrich and maybe I even called him that to his face, although I have no memory of his response. More likely I told my friends and was probably disappointed that they didn’t start using that name too.

He really did look like an ostrich with his thin protruding neck and his long dangling arms. He walked head craned forward, eyebrows raised, taking wide, tentative steps. His hair was light in colour, sticking out in a large Afro that swayed when he moved, matted flat at the back of his head as if he was too lazy to reach that far with his comb. It was when we were in our second year at university that he descended upon our class, after we had sorted ourselves out into groups, after we had set labels on each other. He should have been in his fourth year, but he lost two years when a speeding car knocked him down. His body healed, but his eyes were permanently damaged and they remained large, bleary and unfocused. They placed him in a world which he alone inhabited, where everything was fuzzy and everyone saw him as unclearly as he saw them.

‘Your bags were so heavy,’ Majdy was saying. ‘Did you have to pay excess?’

‘No … It’s the grapefruit I got you and the white plaited cheese that you like.’

‘From the land of famine you bring me food.’ Again the mocking tone, but I knew he was pleased. They were things he secretly missed.

‘It’s not as bad as they make it out to be here on TV, or not in Khartoum anyway. Normal, I suppose, weddings, funerals, but still a feeling of depression. Everything is so expensive … and everyone wants to leave. Every family I visited has someone abroad. In the Gulf, in Egypt, in America. Remember your neighbours, Ali and Samir?’

‘The ones with the white Mercedes.’

‘Mercedes or not, they’re away too. Ali in Bahrain and Samir in Norway. Imagine Norway, and his sister and her husband are busy filling in forms to immigrate to Australia.’ I laughed. It was like a scramble.

‘That’s what I keep telling you. There’s no future back there, and if people who were much better off than us aren’t coping, how can we ever cope if we go back? I’m doing the right thing, sticking it out here in any way that I can.’