Attending a Sudanese wedding in Khartoum

In my last piece I made mention of how lucky I am with travel, or how else would I have the opportunity of witnessing this extra-ordinary wedding knock on my front door? When I left these shores almost two years ago, April 2014 to be precise, Khartoum was not even in my thoughts, site or […]

In my last piece I made mention of how lucky I am with travel, or how else would I have the opportunity of witnessing this extra-ordinary wedding knock on my front door? When I left these shores almost two years ago, April 2014 to be precise, Khartoum was not even in my thoughts, site or itinerary. 
My final destination was the United Arab Emirate (UAE). This is what happened; I was in Dubai to finish a transaction that was supposed to take not more than a seven to 10 days, when my big brothers, Bashir el Rufai and Abdulkadir Idris, received invitations from a business partner to attend his daughter’s wedding in Khartoum. 
Now, because they had a commitment that wouldn’t allow them attend, we, (I and Abdullahi Attah) who happened to also be in Dubai then – were requested to attend, because the relationship demanded there had to be a representation. 
Tickets and visas were hurriedly arranged within 2 days and by the third day we were at the airport at 7 am headed for Khartoum with Fly Dubai Airline.
It was the first time I was to fly them and must tell you I was impressed with both the terminal we flew out from and the airline itself – but more with the terminal because of the contrast with Dubai’s other big and busier ones. It is much quieter. 
The difference between the terminals can be likened to that of the suburbs and downtown of any major city outside our shores.
Here, apply the reverse, if you know what I mean.  This trip wasn’t my first to Sudan though, so, I crave your indulgence to please allow me take you back to 1999 when I first set foot in Khartoum.
We were going to Saudi Arabia then for the lesser hajj with Sudan Airways from Kano along with my wife, two of her sisters and our two children, Fatima and Maryam.
The thought of the stopover had crept, or tiptoed, should I say, through my mind a day or two before we were to leave. 
Not that we knew or had someone to visit in Khartoum, but just to add the country to our list.
Can’t exactly remember now who I shared my thoughts with, or who introduced me to the Sudanese Consul in Kano then, but remember finding myself in his office near Kwari market on a hot, scorching and sweaty afternoon.  
I told him our reason for the stop and he asked if we knew anybody in Khartoum.
 I answered in the negative and can’t remember what I added, or what face I had on, to deserve the gesture of kindness that followed.
 He looked at me and said, ‘O K, I’ll issue the visas and call my nephew to receive you’.  I went back in the evening to collect the visas and a note to Fekhreldine – his nephew.
Now, can anyone be luckier than this? 
Though can’t rule it out completely, but don’t think this gesture of kindness is possible now, all because of what we’ve collectively become.
Other things I clearly remember from that trip are;
1. The pungent smell in the aircraft, courtesy of passengers carrying daddawa- locust beans.
2. The sumptuous dinner at Fekhreldine’s house on the day he picked us from the airport.
3.  A visit to the Nigerian embassy on our second day, courtesy of someone I surprisingly can’t remember now, from where my family went for henna with a somewhat plump but pretty local staff named Taisir. Talking about henna, I remember it was the first time I saw a man decorated with it at the lobby of the hotel we stayed in; name of which I can’t remember now. We were to later find out it’s the tradition for Sudanese men to use henna on the hands and feet when getting married.
4.   An incidence at the airport we almost missed our connecting flight for.
 This is what happened; we had reached the airport almost at the close of counter and were lucky to have been allowed to hurriedly check-in, only to be returned back by immigration because we hadn’t paid airport tax. Now, that sounded strange – and that much I told the immigration officer – because airport tax is usually built in the ticket. I pleaded and told him we were almost late for the flight, and we were, but he wouldn’t listen. I finally gave in and went back to pay at an obscure cubicle he pointed at that didn’t quite spell what it was meant for. I brought out cash to pay and the man inside the kiosk just looked at the currency and pointed at a bureau de change without uttering a word. I got the message. They wouldn’t accept foreign currency! This is quite understandable from a patriotic point of view, but would have been better if we had enough information at the point of entry, or better still, if built into the ticket, I thought to myself as I walked across and passed the dollar bill without uttering a word to the person manning the counter. I kept wondering what would happen were one to have spent all his money on reaching the airport, as I counted the wad of Sudanese pounds handed over to me, but didn’t bother or even had the time to ask.
We were about the last to board, which was alright, because we had a little less time to contend with that pungent odour.
This trip wasn’t my second to Sudan.
I had reasons to transit in the city again for the second time with my PWC friend Rashid Rahji a few years back.
By that time the country had split into two.        North/South Sudan.
The population before this artificial separation was a little over 40 million.
The North now is about 30 million in number, of which almost six million live in Khartoum. 
Sudan was, before the split, one of, if not, the largest countries in Africa.   It is a country full of history and like its northern neighbour Egypt, houses pyramids marking ancient kingdoms in the northern Nile valley.
But, because of the many conflicts afflicting the country and claiming lives, people hardly go that deep in the country.
This, coupled with the unbearable heat, especially at the height of summer, makes it difficult for people to venture out of Khartoum. 
I cannot forget the heat and sandstorm that engulfed us as we landed on my second visit. We had to practically run into the terminal building to escape it. But, even with the doors and windows sealed – and I mean sealed, not closed – we still swallowed in some of the dust. 
Other than these, the people are extremely simple, hospitable and their cuisine is one of the finest in Africa.  On this third visit we had arrived Khartoum airport around 9.00am. 
The first thing I noticed was the airport hadn’t changed.
We were cleared by an immigration officer whom I couldn’t help noticing was not only as old as the airport itself, but looked exactly like it.
Outside, we were received by Sadisu Jibrin, a former staff of Intercellular, who had moved to Sudatel, a partly government owned telecommunications company, not long after the acquisition of the former by the latter.
 He dropped us at a colonial style hotel by the banks of the Nile appropriately named ‘grand holiday villa’. 
I could tell it was really grand in those days and was informed it used to be the best in Khartoum.
Not long after check-in, our host arrived.
 Pleasantries done with, he said, ‘I will come back for you after Zuhr prayer as the wedding proceedings would start by 2 pm.’ We arrived the venue 3.00 pm.
Don’t think we were late, we were not. In fact, by Sudanese standards, we were early.
The Sudanese are generally laid back, don’t care much about time and never take to rushing things. 
Someone I was chatting with at the lobby of the Rotana Hotel in Khartoum, not a Sudanese, once said to me, ‘You will be lucky to see one person with a wristwatch in a group of 10 Sudanese men’ just to buttress the point that time is of no essence to them. 
This attitude so infuriated an American lady, I was also told, that she wrote a book appropriately titled, ‘Ma’aleish, Bukra, insha Allah’.
The title essentially summarizes the book in this way: When you make an appointment with a Sudanese man, he will first of all not show up on time, and when he or she-to balance the accusation-eventually does, will say to you casually: Ma’aleish – sorry or don’t worry in Arabic, and suggest that you do what you’re supposed to do that day the following day—Bukra in Arabic, and add insha Allah – God willing, to it.
Now, adding the words insha Allah or God willing to many, if not all, in this part of the globe has become part of us and can easily be understood, but, I assume the American lady didn’t quite understand it ab initio, and would have probably taken that postponement to the bank.
 It must have been when that happened again and again that she became so infuriated and decided to put pen to paper.
The lesson from the book is that we should be more careful or conscious when invoking the Almighty’s name, and to always mean it when we say so.
This probably explains why I am also writing this now – after my third trip, for when you visit Sudan not once, not twice, but thrice, you are most likely to catch the bug of going at your own pace – apologies to my former lecturer at ABU Zaria, Mr Mosaku, who had the words: ‘I go at my own pace’ pasted at the entrance of his office.
Now, this wedding was like no other I had attended anywhere within the continent. Not in terms of the display of wealth – at least in the men’s section we sat, but in terms of the food dished out.
 Sudanese men dress simple, no expensive brocades, shoes or wrist watches.
In and outside the tent, I stood out and felt a bit out of place as the only one in black -, apologies to Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones -, amongst  a sea of white gowns and turbans. Even Attah, with whom I attended the wedding, was dressed in white.
It’s when you see the display of gold, decorative henna, colourful dira’s and other ornaments on the women – a sight to behold – that you’ll come to understand how or where the men’s money vanishes, as it rightly should.
The wedding was attended by many dignitaries, Sheikhs and Politicians, including the governor of Khartoum.
Men and women were seated in different canopies.
 We had two people with deep roots in northern Nigeria but who couldn’t understand or utter a single word of my language at our table. 
In fact, even their looks have completely changed. 
It was the famous Sheikh cum politician who recently passed away at age 84 – Hassan Al-Turabi that officiated at the proceedings, and we were lucky enough to have witnessed his arrival heralded by that equally famous wave of the stick by many. 
I had never seen so much food dished out at a wedding before. 
First of all, the canopy we sat in was so big that some inside the tent were only able to watch the proceedings on television sets mounted at strategic locations. 
The food came in very big circular plates that could only be carried by two or more people called ‘Siniya’, which literally and appropriately means ‘round about’ in Arabic.
On the Siniya are a variety of dishes, to satisfy even the pickiest of eaters no matter what their preference. 
I kept wondering at how many tables were at the women’s section, considering their penchant for weddings compared to us, and at how many people were fed.  I even wondered at how many animals were slaughtered – can you imagine – as I looked at the whole leg of a lamb on our Siniya and on the endless tables across.  I was to get a mind boggling answer to these thoughts the following day. Let me share it with you;
Our host had picked us the following day in the morning for a drive around the city that took us to places as diverse as Khartoum University, residence of the president of the Sudanese youth council to condole him over the lost of a sister, to his in-law’s, the confluence of the blue and white Nile, right up to Ondurman across the rivers.    It was in between these that we passed by the office of the man saddled with the responsibility of feeding at the wedding for tea break.  It was there we learnt the following number of animals was slaughtered, 7 cows, Upwards of 20 rams, and, wait for this-4000 chickens!
Where else can this be done?
It was there I learnt there were about 700 tables in our canopy.
With 8 people per table, you do the math to find out how many guests were served, in just our canopy alone.
The secret to this lavish feast is in their tight knit communal living, as I got to find out the father of the bride wasn’t even allowed to participate in all these arrangements. 
It was his relatives that arranged everything.
This alone, is reason enough, to live peacefully with all your relatives, friends and neighbouring my judgment.  
 We eventually had lunch at a mandi-my regular readers should by now know what mandi is—-restaurant, and went for homemade dinner at Sadisu’s, who was kind enough to take us for a drive after. 
Driving round at night presented a very nice and different picture of the city.  The streets were well lit, with what seemed like a large chunk of the population indulging in their favourite past time-making and drinking tea in the open.
There were plenty of those tea joints around the city, my favorite of which were those by the Nile, and I surprisingly never stopped over in all my visits.
 This is unpardonable.
Khartoum, like many other cities has a character of its own that’s distinctly different.
On what was supposed to be our last day in the city I woke up late for breakfast, and as if to add insult to injury, Abdurrahman came with news that Attah’s visa back to Dubai was ready and that mine was on queue. 
Attah prepared and left for the airport only to call later and complain about that airport tax which I thought had been done away with. 
I learnt from the hotel the tax can be paid beforehand, and they could arrange it for me if I wanted. 
Of course, I had it arranged that day! No price for guessing. Take this as a free tip.
The lunch I had in the hotel turned out to be exceptionally good and enough compensation for that missed breakfast. 
‘Everything happens for a reason’, I said to myself as I sip away at my tea after lunch.
My visa eventually arrived that night and I jetted out of Khartoum effortlessly without being turned back to pay airport tax by the immigration the following day. It’s now to Juba, in the south, I look forward to, when eventually the fighting stops.