Saba jumped on the cart next to Hajj Ali, her legs dangling over the large wheels. The nomad smacked the donkey’s back with his long stick and the cart edged forward. I followed it as it turned right, plodded up a hill and then slowly trekked over the narrow passage, and into lanes onto which wafted heavy breathings, moans, baby cries, dreams spoken loud, stories told to the ghosts, and when it entered the square, the cart sped up past the imam, who was about to enter the mosque with his oil lamp. Then it stopped.

Holding the hands of her grandmother and the Khwaja, Zahra limped past the aid centre, as if she were carrying Tedros on her back.

Let’s go. Hajj Ali’s voice rose as he pulled the reins, swinging his whip so it sliced the air. The donkey moved forward, then bolted off through the square. A flicker of light trickled through my mother’s hut.

As the donkey cart drove past the aid centre, Eyob ran into the square and came to stand next to me. He waved with the note Saba had left him. I moved my lips. I love you too, Saba said, taking a final look at me, as I became visible in the glow of the man I loved, as I loved her.

The graduate girl on the British newspaper quivered on Saba’s lap. Saba loosened her grip. Dreams for a woman are no longer inherited but created, she’d said. The paper flew out of her hand. It sailed onto the ground and rested on a thorny shrub. I picked it up.

Saba placed an arm around Zahra and her friend rested her head on my sister’s chest. Saba turned her face towards their destination, the path that would take her back to her country, still at war, across this vast, open land of Sudan, full of generous people.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my mother – Sadiyah: I thank you for taking me out of the refugee camp and saving my life. But the timing couldn’t have been more wrong. It happened just as I was falling in love for the first time! To my grandmother – Mebrat: thank you for bringing me up, for teaching me how to make zigni stew and for allowing me to be quiet when I didn’t want to talk as a child. You saw that silence was my mother tongue.

My friends know now why I also call myself Sulaiman Sadiyah-Mebrat.

Lies Craeynest, I’m so grateful for all your support, for standing by me, and for reading time and again. Amira and Saleh Addonia, sorry I moved away from London, from you, but thank you for always supporting me, you are my inspiration. Minna Salami, whose meditation tips helped when editing this novel: thank you for being there for me.

My son, who raged at me last year that this book was as old as him and still not finished. I didn’t put you in time-out then, because you being an Arsenal fan is punishing enough.