The Pink House on 40th Street

on fridays, I mourn
every eid, I mourn
the trips never made
to 7ai Baris or Omdurman
the tea trays never served
the cousin sleepovers no longer planned
the kaak lasting weeks
the bebsi going flat
& still no ring on the bell

mama digs out makanat albaskweet
more daughters more hands
greased & battered
rolling, cutting, setting
late night baking was our eid
Madrasat El-Mushaghbeen is eid
satisfying our genetic sweet tooth
with ma3moul, is our only eid
eating at the sufraa, that’s eid

baba makes his phone calls
to the two sisters in the Emirates
the two brothers in Saudi Arabia
the mother in between
never passing us the phone.
early eid mornings
he visits his half-brothers & sisters
in Omdurman, even passes by 7ai Baris
never taking us along

I go to jido’s for my uncle’s funeral
the house still introverted
tight passageway, tight staircase & low rooms.
& I watch the nameless kids
in & out this Omdurman hoash, where
a room-sized cage of colourful birds used to sing,
too ashamed to ask whose children they are

& the only colours left
are those of the faded pink walls
next to the purple house
draped with bougainvillea
& the only tree still standing
is the river-old date palm
that fed me as a child
& the only tree still fruiting
is the lime tree, younger than my memory.

at the sit-in, I watch the young boys
chanting Al3abasiya mia almia
I chant along & bury my jealousy
I bury the urge to ask
if they know the Pink House
on 40^th Street
but I’d hate to be asked
by my friends’ parents
or my impressed teachers
ahlik men wein walla into nas mno
I’ll tell them the family names
Almorada or Nimra Talata
then my mind will go blank.
I only mourn the living dead

________

Hadeel Kabosh is a recent Marketing graduate living in Khartoum. She’s always looking to feature and explore Sudanese culture in her work- usually manifesting as a love/hate relationship. Hadeel is interested in crossings between business, the arts, and culture.