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In town the market is as empty as it will ever be - the aisles are littered with cellophane, paper and cardboard packaging (like any London market at the end of the day) - but surprisingly there are a few stalls selling those last minute essentials like bananas and toothpaste. Well you never know. I'm still a few houses away when one of Salah's children recognises me - though to be fair I'm probably the only khawaja in town making house calls.
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| Obied Salah's family at Eid |
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Everyone's pleased to see me. I hope they've not been waiting to eat. It's past 4pm. A lovely sunny afternoon; I'm fudulled into a heavily curtained room, TV and naked electric light ablaze, few personal possessions. Salah is relaxed, pleasant and (unusually) dressed in jalabaya and taiga. He looks very smart - "Sunday best" I guess. We're joined by his brother and eldest son. I'm offered more homemade shortbread and individually wrapped sweets. Salah gets a phone call. He takes the mobile out into the yard. It is a relative in Wad Medani just calling to wish us "Happy Eid". And before mobile phones? I ask. They would have sent a letter with one of the buses but it would always arrive early or late, never on the day itself. Before the post we concluded that families didn't stray so far apart - or if they did they simply lost touch. Things are better now.Another large round metal serving tray; another urgent hand wash. This time there's a knuckle of lamb - a real treat that must be devoured first. At wedding feasts this can take 10 men less than 60 seconds. We summon the help of Salah's boys. Still, it takes a little longer. All is enjoyed and appreciated. Afterwards we're served with customary sweet tea - and especially for my benefit - a pot of coffee served in small china cups. When it's time to go I get a glimpse of the women behind the scenes - they're delighted to meet me - some are smarter than others, I cannot tell which is Salah's wife and who are visitors. The children are lovely so I take a quick snap or two.
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