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Authors: Leila Aboulela
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law.’
‘What law? Are the English going to tell us what to do with this!’ She pointed down to her lap. Batool snickered.
Mahmoud began to regret this turn in the conversation. ‘What do the girl’s parents have to say about this?’
‘Nassir and Fatma are like everyone else. They want to do the right thing by their daughter. You are the only one protesting and I don’t know why. Maybe your Egyptian woman has been putting ideas in your head. Is she not intending to circumcise her daughter, Ferial?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Shame on her. No man will want to marry her when she grows up.’
Dragging Nabilah and Ferial into the conversation was more than he could bear.
‘I will speak to Nassir and Fatma about this,’ he said, and rose to leave.
Idris was the other backward element in his life. When Idris returned from a business trip from Sennar, they had their morning tea together before setting out to meet the new manager of Barclays Bank. Mahmoud looked down and saw that his brother was wearing slippers.
‘On a day like this! Slippers, in front of Mr Harrison?’ Idris smiled broadly.
He slid his right foot out of his markoob and wiggled his toes.
‘Is he going to listen to me or look at my feet?’
Mahmoud sighed. ‘We have to make a good impression.’
‘You think he hasn’t heard about us? Our reputation will have preceded us.’ Idris sucked his tea. He did this with too much noise, the kind of noise the English would not appreciate.
‘We haven’t done business with him yet and I don’t know what he is like.’
But Mahmoud was an optimist. This was a result of his consistent good luck. However, he liked to play safe and be on more or less familiar ground. He was not happy that the previous bank manager had been replaced. Now he would have to start from scratch and win Nigel Harrison’s trust. He would have to persuade him that the Abuzeid brothers were not only honest and with a good credit history, but that this new business ventureof cotton ginning was going to bring in profits enough to repay any bank loan.
‘You could have at least worn sandals,’ he murmured. placing his empty glass on the table and standing up to leave.
Unlike Idris, who was in a jellabiya, he was wearing his best suit, purchased from Bond Street, and his Bally shoes. They pinched, and he was slightly hot, but personal comfort must be put aside. This meeting had been first postponed because Mr Harrison had not yet taken up his post, then again because of Mahmoud’s illness and Idris’s trip. Now Mahmoud was eager for it. He had hardly slept the night before, excited and going over the proposed figures in his head. He felt young and vigorous, eager for this new scheme.
In the car, he saw trees being planted in Kitchener Avenue. They would look beautiful, one day, overlooking the Nile. Two Englishmen and an English woman were on horseback, wearing broad-rimmed hats. The sight reminded him of his childhood when all the English rode horses. Now, most of them had cars, yet an eccentric few still preferred their horses. He turned his Daimler into Victoria Street and parked underneath the sign that said
Barclays Bank (Dominions, Colonies and Overseas)
. He switched the ignition off and they got out of the car.
‘Maybe this will be the last English manager we will have to plead in front of. Imagine coming to meet a Sudanese like ourselves!’
Idris only grunted in reply. He was negative about Sudanisation and self-government, whereas Mahmoud kept an open mind and a determination to go with the flow. Because of the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium, Sudan was not technically part of the British Empire. The Foreign Office, rather than the Colonial Office, ruled it, which resulted in a more graceful colonial experience and the British officials Mahmoud came into contact with were refined and educated, well-travelled and diplomatic. He knew that when the day came, he would not help but feel sorry to see them leave.
*
Mr
‘What law? Are the English going to tell us what to do with this!’ She pointed down to her lap. Batool snickered.
Mahmoud began to regret this turn in the conversation. ‘What do the girl’s parents have to say about this?’
‘Nassir and Fatma are like everyone else. They want to do the right thing by their daughter. You are the only one protesting and I don’t know why. Maybe your Egyptian woman has been putting ideas in your head. Is she not intending to circumcise her daughter, Ferial?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Shame on her. No man will want to marry her when she grows up.’
Dragging Nabilah and Ferial into the conversation was more than he could bear.
‘I will speak to Nassir and Fatma about this,’ he said, and rose to leave.
Idris was the other backward element in his life. When Idris returned from a business trip from Sennar, they had their morning tea together before setting out to meet the new manager of Barclays Bank. Mahmoud looked down and saw that his brother was wearing slippers.
‘On a day like this! Slippers, in front of Mr Harrison?’ Idris smiled broadly.
He slid his right foot out of his markoob and wiggled his toes.
‘Is he going to listen to me or look at my feet?’
Mahmoud sighed. ‘We have to make a good impression.’
‘You think he hasn’t heard about us? Our reputation will have preceded us.’ Idris sucked his tea. He did this with too much noise, the kind of noise the English would not appreciate.
‘We haven’t done business with him yet and I don’t know what he is like.’
But Mahmoud was an optimist. This was a result of his consistent good luck. However, he liked to play safe and be on more or less familiar ground. He was not happy that the previous bank manager had been replaced. Now he would have to start from scratch and win Nigel Harrison’s trust. He would have to persuade him that the Abuzeid brothers were not only honest and with a good credit history, but that this new business ventureof cotton ginning was going to bring in profits enough to repay any bank loan.
‘You could have at least worn sandals,’ he murmured. placing his empty glass on the table and standing up to leave.
Unlike Idris, who was in a jellabiya, he was wearing his best suit, purchased from Bond Street, and his Bally shoes. They pinched, and he was slightly hot, but personal comfort must be put aside. This meeting had been first postponed because Mr Harrison had not yet taken up his post, then again because of Mahmoud’s illness and Idris’s trip. Now Mahmoud was eager for it. He had hardly slept the night before, excited and going over the proposed figures in his head. He felt young and vigorous, eager for this new scheme.
In the car, he saw trees being planted in Kitchener Avenue. They would look beautiful, one day, overlooking the Nile. Two Englishmen and an English woman were on horseback, wearing broad-rimmed hats. The sight reminded him of his childhood when all the English rode horses. Now, most of them had cars, yet an eccentric few still preferred their horses. He turned his Daimler into Victoria Street and parked underneath the sign that said
Barclays Bank (Dominions, Colonies and Overseas)
. He switched the ignition off and they got out of the car.
‘Maybe this will be the last English manager we will have to plead in front of. Imagine coming to meet a Sudanese like ourselves!’
Idris only grunted in reply. He was negative about Sudanisation and self-government, whereas Mahmoud kept an open mind and a determination to go with the flow. Because of the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium, Sudan was not technically part of the British Empire. The Foreign Office, rather than the Colonial Office, ruled it, which resulted in a more graceful colonial experience and the British officials Mahmoud came into contact with were refined and educated, well-travelled and diplomatic. He knew that when the day came, he would not help but feel sorry to see them leave.
*
Mr
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