Old Ibren

Ibren Issak, an elderly resident of El-Adawa, sat at a table at Hassanow’s - a cheap restaurant on the main road that relies on travellers for its business. Since the tribal war had broken out, there were very few travellers, and the management expected no customers for at least three hours. The sun was nearly sinking and sent its usual yellow rays across the whole town. A waiter sprinkled water outside by the door. The old man placed his walking stick across his lap and stared ahead in meditation. His lips were dry and tight against each other. He wore a white, short sleeved shirt and a stripped sarong.

“Yusuf!” he called the cashier, “come here with a pen and a paper.”

The cashier, a young man of about twenty was counting money at his desk. He pushed in the cash drawer, locked it and obeyed the old man’s request. He recognised Ibren as his grandfather’s second cousin.

“Of what use are you to your people? So foolish are those who took you to school, come, put your schooling to use and write a letter for me to my son, Rashid?” The old man laughed. Yusuf took his position opposite old Ibren and unfolded a white blank paper.

“Write what I say, the way I say it, you understand?”

“Okay,” said Yusuf.

The old man began:
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