They Left & We Arrived

The men left and we had no choice but to follow
1930: a tiny version of Jiddo walks down Soug Berber with his Haboba
follows the sound of young chanting
asks in the curious voice of childhood if he can join
His Haboba pulling him back to Alsirat Almustageem
The next day, ready to escape, tiny Jiddo runs away
sits down in the khalwa, making it his
That was the first leaving,
And he continued after that,
each time adding more diplomas to his list of reasons for abandoning;
Wadi Sayidna
Khartoum
London dragging my Haboba
now leaving behind her sisters, brothers and mother
Edinburgh, this time Mama’s infant feet scurrying to catch up

We never stopped leaving since
Leaving behind shamis al3asor gently filling the 7osh with tea
for gossip with grey rooms in grey buildings under grey skies
Leaving behind long conversations while picking out the good cumin seeds
for monthly phone calls as short as the money would reach
Leaving behind the tails of silk toubs lavishly signalling celebration
for updates on Filana’s wedding mumbled quickly between tearful exhales
Haboba leaving behind slowly waking to yasmin scented mornings in Atbara
for agitated crowds in grimy red bus rush hour
And here I am generations later
still not finished leaving
A daughter of people always alone
listening out for heartbeats across bodies of water
Trying to forget a home I never found

*

And now, we’ve arrived, their leaving sacrifices in full bloom
A generation of tears scattered across time zones and free voice call apps
A generation scrambling to prove the first leaving right
A generation of fluidity in languages undefined
Of spare change for expensive flights back
Looking for home in moments that pass us by
never giving us enough time to move in;
a natural haired woman, eyes smiling at my twist-out
a tall guy queuing, impatient to see Black Panther
a mother dragging a toddler down the road, fuchsia satin ribbons collecting her curls
songs with lyrics we can’t translate, but understand
the drums of the diaspora’s melody map
the smell of food floating onto the pavement from the Ethiopian restaurant
a passer-by saying ya zola? into her phone
Desperately gathering bites of our intersections
plastering them together into collages to make up four walls
under a ceiling of grandmothers’ prayers covering us from tears
And that                                                                        is now home

________

OLA ELHASSAN is a poet and electrical engineer. Her work centres community, womanhood, music and Sudanese culture. She has performed at The Ace Hotel and The Roundhouse in London, where she resides. Ola has been published in the debut Sawti Zine.