It’s the night before the start of the 5th Pan African Congress. Ade is working in Mr Kronnen’s cafe. The excitement is catching. Listen to how she tells it.
Ali Ashiq is a legend in Kurdistan. His story is retold both as a celebration and a warning about true love. I heard the tale of his life many times in many different ways and each telling moved me.
As Ali got older the Kurdish Government built him a house outside of Soran close to a waterfall, high above the twists and turns of the roadway below. He was often seen walking the hills going about his business, bothering nobody and in turn not being bothered. He died recently and this is my interpretation of his story.
Ali sat in the shade of the only tree on the lower mountainside. Glancing up at the unbroken blueness of the sky, he marveled at his life. His sheep grazed peacefully on the rich grasses, deep green and lush after the spring rains. This was Ali’s favourite time of year. The mountains were waking up, peeling away the old dried grasses, like dry skin from the bottom of his foot. Winter’s rains and the thin layer of snow that had come and gone had softened them. The new grass pushed the old away and spring rain washed it down to the river to be carried away.
Ali laid down his wax cloth and slowly began the ritual of folding back each corner to reveal his lunch. Since a small boy of ten until now, nine years later, Ali enjoyed this ritual. His sister would prepare his lunch and not tell him what it was. So that he could have a surprise, she said. So that he would know she loved him and thought about him, out there, all alone. Of course, Ai was not alone. He had his sheep and his two dogs. He had grass and rocks, mountains and rivers. The sun was his friend and the rain was his close cousin.
The tin pot was still slightly warm and Ali’s mouth watered. He took his time, savouring the moment. Dolma or Kofta? Maybe Biriani. He unfolded his mother’s bread, thin and delicate, slightly scorched in patches where it had stayed too long on the sér. Just as he liked it. The slight sharpness, the change in texture from pale to dark excited his mouth.
Closing his eyes, Ali lifted the lid and sniffed deeply. The tang of sumac, pepper, tomato. The distinctive and subtle smell of garlic that his sister put in just for him. To keep him warm inside, to protect him. So lost in the poetry of the moment, Ali missed the ripple of breeze that passed through the meadow. Opening his eyes slowly, he relished the dolma before tasting it. Tearing a piece of bread, he plunged it into the pot, his fingers deftly scooping and rolling a perfect formation.
Since childhood, Ali had appreciated the small things in life. Sitting with aunties and sisters, he had enjoyed the sounds of their voices as they chitter-chattered stories he didn’t understand. He was fascinated by the busy-ness of their arms and hands as they scrubbed, kneaded, picked and plucked. All the time their voices rising and falling. He liked the way his sister’s hair caught the sunlight and shimmered so that it looked like far away mirage of grass on a hot summer’s day. His favourite times were sitting with mother while she stirred large pots over open fires. Songs would whisper their way from her lips and drop into whatever she was cooking. Although too young to understand what she sang, he would know instinctively whether they were sad, when she lifted the spoon and blew on it before pressing it to his lips to taste. Sometimes it was bitter and he would screw up his face, other times the sweetness would make him choke.
As he grew older, Ali spent less time with the women in his house and more time with his father. Roaming the mountains, finding the best place for the sheep and goats to graze. Listening to his father’s wistful voice telling him of conquests old and new. Teaching him the ways of the Kurdish man who was fearless in battle. The protector of the land, the gladiator. The man. Ali listened dutifully, but his heart remained with the gentle cadence of his mother’s songs. With the fierce gentleness of his aunts and sisters. Ali knew there was poetry in life. Words that fit together in such a way that only beauty could come from them. So he listened to his father like a good son and dreamed of beauty.
The year Ali turned eighteen was when the two sides of him met. The feminine and the masculine combined and brought about the biggest change in him. She was beautiful. She was more than beautiful. She was Zozg mountain on a clear day, standing out against an azure sky. She was the waterfall pulsing in March. She was almond blossom, dazzling against the craggy mountain. When she smiled at him, her head turned slightly to one side, a small wrinkle in her brow as though trying to remember him, Ali knew that she would be his. For one year he had dreamed of the day they would be married. He planned each detail so carefully that sometimes he thought it was real and would be surprised to look around and see not the walls of their small home but mountains and sheep.
Ali was mopping up the last of the rice, his fingers smooth with red oil, a slight smile of satisfaction on his face. The sheep were still. Like monuments of the past. Waiting. Aware. At first, Ali did not notice anything his mind still focused on the life he would spend with his beloved. As he began to tidy away, he wiped his fingers on the grass and noticed the line of ants next to him for the first time. They scurried with determination, carrying crumbs of bread, grains of stray rice and twigs.
Something caught in Ali’s mind. He wasn’t sure what, but somehow there was a marching through his mind. A carrying of crumbs and fragments that were indecipherable. This time, he felt the breeze that blew through the field. It reached inside him and scattered his peace. The sheep began to bleat and Ali heard whispers. As though somehow the sheep were telling him a secret. In the distance he could hear drums. Faint. Beats missing as the sound bounced off the mountains. There was a whistling and shrilling moving in and out of the air around him.
The sounds of a wedding in the village. Ali knew these sounds. He heard them almost every Friday. Soon, he thought, they will be for me. But he didn’t feel the extra beat in his heart that usually accompanied that thought. Looking down he noticed the ants had begun to walk over his outstretched leg. As though he wasn’t there. As though he was part of the landscape.
The sheep were silent now. All turned towards him. Their sweet faces blank as usual but their eyes dripping tears. Above him the leaves began to rub together, straining on their branches as a fierce wind shook them. She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone.
75 years ago, the 5th Pan African Congress started in Manchester at Chorlton Town Hall. Lasting 5 days it called loud and hard for freedom of colonised nations. It is said it was the most important congress because it was the precursor for independence for colonised countries. In A House With No Angels, Ade was there. She danced with Nkrumah, she served food to Kenyatta, she listened to Amy Garvey. But inside she knew that 1929 was the real agent of change. It was the year she was born and the year of the Aba Women’s Riots in Nigeria. https://www.blackpast.org/global-african-history/aba-womens-riots-november-december-1929/ When the women stood against the colonial regime and said NO to being taxed on their market sales. That’s when change was crystallised.
So there’s a new edition of AHWNA on Kindle. Different cover, slightly different content. The cover is a painting by Richard Rampersad in Trinidad, check out his work at http://www.rampersadart.com/portfolio.html
Yesterday, I changed my profile picture on Facebook to one of me at my book launch. I look happy and proud. And on one level I am. This book is an achievement. The launch was a dream come true. And yet I’ve been unable to write about it until now.
Each time I’ve been asked about my launch and how it went, I immediately start talking about something else that happened that week. Something that was so traumatizing and painful it completely overshadowed my launch and made it feel insignificant. Conversations went like this:
- How was your book launch?
- Yeah, it was ok, but that same week we buried my son’s best friend, Faye and that overshadowed everything. She was only 29. She was killed in Nigeria by a random shooting. It shouldn’t have happened. She shouldn’t have been in that place at that time, but she was and now she’s gone and we buried her that week of my launch.
- Ok, sorry to hear that. Bye.
Faye was an enormous part of our lives, had been since she was a teenager. She was my son’s twin. They did nothing without consulting each other. No matter where each of them was in the world they were together. No matter what they had to do they discussed it and planned it together. When they were younger, at any given time I could arrive home from work and find Faye sitting on the sofa or traipsing up or down stairs. Faye was part of our lives because she was part of Simon’s life.
But I also have my own memories of her. My favourite mug. I bought it when I was with her in London. We were walking through the rain to go and meet Simon and I saw this mug in the window. ‘Hippyshit’. I had to get it and we went in and laughed at all the tasteless tat in the shop. My favourite necklace that I rarely take off, Faye bought for me in Kurdistan for my birthday. Discussing my novel with her in the kitchen in Manchester while I was doing my PhD and her giving sound advice and strong opinions of what women represent and how they should be represented. Faye in the camp for internally displaced people in Soran where she taught English and we played with the younger children.
Faye in a terrible leopard print fur coat, channeling Bet Lynch from Coronation Street at a Thanksgiving dinner in D2, our accommodation in Kurdistan. Faye covered in mud when I went to pick them up from a Global Gathering Festival. Faye sitting on the doorstep smoking a roll up at 6:00 am chatting at a million miles an hour because she was too wired to sleep. Faye telling me a family secret and me getting all excited because it would make a great story, and Faye laughing while Simon was disgusted that I could even consider it because that was Faye’s real life. Faye kneeling down on the floor in our office in Kurdistan marking exam papers. Standing up when I introduced her to a colleague and giving the most disgusted look and ‘ugh’ sound when he refused to shake her hand because of his religion.
Faye Skyping me from Kosovo when she was being made Head of the English department and us laughing at the kitsch little house she was living in that was reminiscent of old ladies and even older cats. Faye in a Kurdish dress made from bright pink material we found in the bazaar. We’re out on a picnic for Newroz, with Sarwa’s family, eating dolma, and dancing. She sits on a rock, regal, while Simon sits lower down and we call them the Kurdish Posh & Becks. The last message on Facebook when Faye said she’d pre-ordered my novel and I answered ‘Love you, Moonfayce.’
Faye was killed on Good Friday, 19 April 2019 and life can never be the same again. Grief is relentless. But what I do know is that in her last five years Faye lived her best life. There is no doubt that there should have been more living, more bests, more memories, more of Faye. We should have had time for her to dissect my book and give me her bluntly honest feedback, for her to come and sit on my patio in Trinidad and drink rum, for her to come and experience carnival and play pretty mas, because she definitely would have done that.
My book launch was amazing and that was the week we buried Faye Mooney.
I’m pleased to have an interview in the 2019 magazine. A chance for me to talk about A House With No Angels and what influenced me. It can be found at:
Tuesday, 15 May, 2019
Today is book launch day for A House With No Angels!
Chuck Gallery, Plymouth Grove, Manchester
6:30 – 10:00 pm
An evening of everything that is good in life – music, food, wine, literature and dance.
I have a short story published in this journal. But don’t just buy it for that! It’s an amazing journal with a mixture of papers and creative output.
Been so busy the last few weeks with work, I’ve been meeting myself coming backwards!
But…I’ve also been writing, though I don’t know when – perhaps in my sleep. Not only writing but completed my thesis too. It feels like forever since I started my PhD, but now it’s all done except for dotting and crossing, etc. Which is great because I have another novel waiting to be written. It’s been very patient, but is now feeling free to prod me whenever I have a spare second.
If you’re a writer you know how it goes. It seems like you might have a free day to play out and just the fact that you’re relaxed means that ideas can start jumping around and demanding attention and before you know it you have the outline for another story or poem. I love it!