In another of one of life’s unpredictably magical twists of fate, my employer sent me to Khartoum, Sudan, for two weeks. It’s the city where my wife was born, spent the first handful of years of her life and about which I’ve heard dozens of mythical stories since we first met almost a decade ago. Not exactly knowing what to expect, I excitedly took the flight from Rome, via Addis, and proceeded to fill in my parts of my life that I didn’t even know previously existed.
After a few days settling into the city, hunting desperately for shade and launching into work, I was able to arrange a lunch date with two of Dalia’s aunts, a couple cousins and another mysterious relative to act as an informal interpreter.
I ran to the lobby of the hotel, still tucking in my hurriedly ironed shirt, to meet my extended family via marriage, at 11am on the first day of the weekend. Fifteen, thirty, forty-five, sixty minutes scurried by. I closed my eyes while holding my chin on my hands. Messages were sent to Rome, to Toronto, back to the family in Khartoum: Peter is waiting in the lobby for an hour and a half!
I was eventually met by aunt Souna and her grand-niece Marleen. We greeted eachother warmly and took a picture together standing next to a plant. They helped me with two bags of vitamins and documents sent to me from Canada, four bags of gifts prepared by my wife and my fanny pack. We exchanged partially translated pleasantries on the way to my wife’s childhood Church, where by happenstance, exiting the gate as we entered, in a wheelchair, was the Coptic priest who baptized her. I was introduced to several other people by the family that I had just been introduced to, and we took pictures with all of them. I watched kids playing soccer in the courtyard, of a similar age to what my wife would have been the last time she was here, and lit a candle for the sheer unlikely awesomeness of what I was experiencing.
We continued in the broiling car to the cemetery where Dalia’s grandparents are buried. I was guided, with one false positive, to the grave of my son’s great grandmother. Auntie Souna broke down for a few seconds while I said hello, in my heart, to the mother of my wife’s father. She died at 93, about eight years ago, 40 or so years after her husband. Under one of the few shade-offering trees in the dusty lot, I brushed off the dried leaves from the tomb of Dalia’s older sister, who passed away in infancy. I took a picture, awkwardly but sincerely, to document the moment, both Friday afternoon ordinary and entirely overwhelming.
23 year old Marleen complained about the heat so we took our leave from the rows of uneven headstones, for the first and probably last time in my life. The final stop before lunch was to pass by Dalia’s childhood home. Souna tried to explain that the street-side facade was not the home, and maybe it was down a locked alleyway adjacent, and my father-in-law’s electronics repair shop, named after his oldest son, and where my wife used to fondly frolic amidst the wires, speakers and screens, was also, in a previous life, right there. I took a video to share with my in-laws back home and Souna took a video of me taking my video.
The 25 second clip sent the family WhatsApp group into a joyous frenzy. Memories, questions and anecdotes started to pour forth from Dalia’s siblings and mom. That wasn’t the front door (X), it used to be here (->). Once, Robert pushed Christina into a small rubbish fire out front vs. Robert saved Christina’s life from a blazing inferno on the front porch. Either way, she surely still has the scar on her foot. I watched the messages fly, relayed questions in real time, and smiled.
Souna stopped to pick up pita bread for lunch and we entered her home’s gate, passed the lush plant life and cages singing birds.
I then sat in the same spot, on a different chair, for the second 90 minute stint of the day. Food was being prepared; I wasn’t allowed to help and was politely asked if I needed to charge my phone. No one particularly asked what exactly I was doing there, which is good because I was mostly trying to figure out the answer to that question myself. We small talked, they talked amongst themselves, people stared at their screens, and we video-called Dalia and Lily, my mother-in-law, where I held the phone silently as they exuberantly recalled long ago threads of common memories and mostly just laughed.
Eventually, aunt Selwa, the family matriarch arrived and within 20 seconds, introduced herself to me, said she was the oldest of the siblings, and then made a frank comment to one of her nieces. I was struck by how much her face and mannerisms mirrored my father-in-law’s, how she projected such a casual gravitas, and how this was just a normal afternoon in in her life, sitting on her sister’s couch in Khartoum.
The lunch feast could have fed 15, even though I learned that only three of the six people present weren’t fasting. I did my best to try every last offering on the table and mostly chewed silently while the family, my family, bantered indecipherably in Sudanese Arabic. I felt completely welcome and also fully in the dark. I heard my father-in-law’s name every few minutes but didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the conversation, ask them to explain decades of nuance in their interactions, all while I slopped heaps of freshly mixed hummus onto delicious home-made falafels.
I ate to capacity. Then had a cream soda, and dessert, and tea, and a watermelon. And sat back down in my previous spot, 30% more deeply than before.
The evening started to creep in and I was cognizant that I would have to return to my hotel before too long. Having no sense of how much time was appropriate to wait after dinner before asking for a ride home, let alone what time even meant anymore on this sublime Sudanese afternoon, I fumbled my way through an indecisively Canadian request to go home.
Four people I hadn’t known five hours earlier packed into a well worn car to drive me through the bumpy, breezy back alleys of Khartoum. I got an invite to Selwa’s for tea in the next few days and then for eggs benedict on any other evening I was free during the week. How could I say no?
This was family after all.
Dad In The World 