Eight

ur first weeks in London were OK. We didn't even notice that we were falling. Once we got over the shock of suddenly having to fly out the day after Baba was arrested, Omar and I could not help but enjoy London. We had never been there before in April and the first thing we did was go to Oxford Street and buy clothes. It was fun to do all the things we never did back home; grocery shopping, pushing the Hoover around, cooking frozen food. It was fun to do all the things we usually did in the summer. Omar went to the cinema in Leicester Square and I don't know how many tapes he bought from HMV. I went through Selfridges trying the perfumes and getting my face made up at the Elizabeth Arden counter.

But Mama was not herself at all; she was in a daze, sometimes crying for no reason, muttering to herself in the middle of the night, immune to the excitement of London. She refused to go out shopping and constantly followed the news of the coup; surrounding herself with all the Arab papers as well as The Times and the Guardian, phoning round and leaving the TV on all the time. Our flat in Lancaster Gate was constantly filled with other Sudanese: businessmen passing through London, anxious Embassy staff who were awaiting the inevitable changes that would come about with the new government. They all reassured Mama about Baba. `They'll soon let him go and he'll join you here,' they said. `It will all die down,' they said, be patient, they'll flex their muscles at the beginning and then they'll slacken.' She listened to them quietly and I helped her serve coffee and tea. Her face was harsh without makeup, her hair out of the way in a bun because she no longer went to the hairdresser; the jumpers she wore under her tobe were in sombre colours.

Randa called me from her college in Wales. `I can't believe it, you're really here!' she shrieked.

'I can't believe it either - I was just saving bye to you a while back ...'

What are you going to do now?'

'We're waiting for Baba to join us - we're worried about him.' I swallowed and there was a burning in my forehead.

`And then what, how long will you stay here, what about your university?'

'I don't know Randa. I brought all my notes and books with me ...'

But this new government seems like it's here to stay, the coup was a success. I suppose you'll just stay here on political asylum . . .'

They might allow us to go hack. I don't know.' I had not thought things out.

You can come here you know.'

'Here where?'

Here in Atlantic College with me.'

The idea for some reason horrified me. 'Omar would love that - but Randa tell me about VOL]. Tell me what's it like for you. Do you like it in Wales? Is the work hard? Have you done the mountain climbing?'

`I'll tell you all about it in a letter. I can't stay on the phone for long.'

'OK. Give the letter to Samir, he's coming down to see us at the weekend.'

`Yeah, OK I will. I do bump into him frequently.'

`Randa I forgot to tell you - Sundari's pregnant ...'

`Whaaat!' she hissed.

`It's a big scandal; even the American Embassy is involved. This is not why marines are posted to Sudan.' I tried to laugh at my own joke but the sound that came out was more like a lumpy cough.

Samir came at the weekend, wearing faded jeans and a leather jacket. He had on a new pair of glasses. He hugged Omar hard and I felt again that burning in my forehead that had started to come to me from time to time. He kissed Mama and she started to cry, embarrassing us all.

`Any news?' Samir sat down in one of the armchairs, Omar in the other. I sat on the sofa with Mama. The TV was on, as we sometimes had it these days, pictures without sounds.

`They are going to try him,' Omar said. Mama dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her mouth stretched open.

`Insha' Allah it will all he OK.' Samir shifted in his armchair. He looked smothered by the deep, soft cushions.

But what if it didn't turn out to be OK, I wanted to say. What if they found him guilty, what if he was guilty, what then? As if I understood what they were trying him for ... Corruption. What did that mean? How could that word have anything to do with my father? We shouldn't have left him, we should have stayed with him. What were we doing here? It was Uncle Saleh who decided that we should come here. He had sorted everything out, all in a few hours, getting us on the last plane out before they closed the airport. But maybe he was wrong, maybe we should have stayed, maybe us running away would make Baha be found guilty. Weren't we acting as if he were guilty? But I didn't say anything; I stared at ITV - ads for chocolate biscuits, coffee, a new drama serial. Whenever I watched television, I forgot all about Baha, the had food he must he getting in that `special' house he was held in, the coming trial. The President was now in the US. He had called last night and spoken to Mama. `It's all his fault,' she said afterwards, `it's all his fault.' But on the phone she had been all nice, respectful in the same way she had always been with His Excellency.

`Samir, will you drink tea or something cold?' I smiled at him, happy to see a familiar face.

He said, `I've got a letter for you from Randa.' I took it from him and went to read it in the kitchen.

`Where's that tea?' Mama called out. I stopped in the middle of a description of Randa milking a cow (how absurd that that was part of her course!) and switched the kettle on.

Pizza Hut was warm and they played all the latest songs, songs we were just getting to know. The three of us shared a large seafood pizza and Samir ordered something I had never had before - garlic bread with cheese. It was very nice. Outside in the cold, Leicester Square was full of lights and so lively that I forgot it was night. People were coming out of the theatres heading towards the restaurants and the tube station, bouncers stood in front of nightclubs wearing check waistcoats. In one of the smaller cinemas Saturday Night Fever was still playing. We stood in front of a disco. We could hear the heat of Michael Jackson's `Billie jean' and the glimmer of red and flashing lights.

`Are you mad? How can we go to a disco?' I glared at Omar.

`Why not?' He did his imitation of a moonwalk. It was good but I was not in the mood to praise him.

`Tell him why not.' I looked at Samir but he shrugged and moved away from us. He seemed guarded, stiff with a new formality.

`We can't go to a disco because of Baba,' I said to Omar. `What do you want people to say? The man's on trial for his life and his children are dancing in London.'

`What people? Who do you think is going to know us in there? Don't be silly.' He turned to Samir to get support but he was busy examining a shop window.

`There just might he someone in there who knows us. It might just happen. Why take the risk?'

`You're obsessed with what people think of you!'

`I'm not obsessed. I am just sure that if we were in Khartoum, we wouldn't be at a disco.'

`We are not in Khartoum. Look, just go home.'

`Right, I will go home.'

Omar turned and started to walk towards the disco. 'Sarnir, come on,' he called out.

`Look, I'll take you home first,' Samir said. He didn't want to take me home. It struck me that he was bored with us. As if something had happened to make us less than him. As if he was all grown up and we were still little.

`No,' I said, `stay with Omar. I'm OK by myself.'

Our flat was only a few stops away by underground. The floor of the train was littered with cigarette butts and empty cans. The passengers were sleepy and tense, I felt as if we were moving in stale, unfulfilled time. Baba was going to be found guilty. Why else would they try him? That would he the justice the papers were crying out for. The new regime was supported by the Democratic Front. It was a populist regime, a regime of the people: no more old feudal ways, no more accumulation of wealth and power in the hands of an elite. Members of the Front were now offered places in the new government. My communist lecturer who had taught us about Rostow's take-off was now the Minister of Finance. I read all that in the papers, after Mama discarded them. I read an article about Baba's trial written by a student - because the students were the vanguards of the revolution. The article said that justice would be met and nothing was a fairer punishment for corruption than sequestration and the noose. The article was written by a student I knew well. The article was written by Anwar.

There are all kinds of pain, degrees of falling. In our first weeks in London we sensed the ground tremble beneath us. When Baba was found guilty we broke down, the flat filling with people, Manna crying, Omar banging the door, staying out all night. When Baba was hanged, the earth we were standing on split open and we tumbled down and that tumbling had no end, it seemed to have no end, as if we would fall and fall for eternity without ever landing. As if this was our punishment, a bottomless pit, the roar of each other's screams. We became unfamiliar to each other simply because we had not seen each other fall before.