by A. L. Knorr
When the crowd passed, he was gone. Trying to convince myself I was being paranoid, no doubt a product of my wretched ride, I checked the gate number and arrival time one more time and then headed out.
---
The man staring at me from the crowd hadn’t helped my mental state, and looking nervous while moving through airport security was never a good thing, but either the blokes at their stations were really bad at their jobs or just very trusting. Maybe both.
“Everything alright, miss?” a portly security officer asked as he checked my ID as my bag went through x-ray.
My mouth remained sealed shut. When I didn’t immediately answer, he raised his gaze to watch me through square-framed glasses. I knew I just needed to say “yes”, but for a handful of terrible seconds, I couldn’t force the words out. The longer the pause went on, the worse it looked, but my mouth was not cooperating.
“Yeez,” I managed to eke out, in a kind of mangling of my parents’ Sudanese accent. I don’t know why I was speaking this way, but I couldn’t very well stop once I’d started. That could only make things worse.
“Joost exzited to see my, a’am, eh, my uncle.”
What little scrutiny had crept into his spectacled stare vanished, and a smile brightened his round, pasty face.
“Lovely,” he chortled handing me back my ID and waving me toward the body scan station. “Always a treat to see family.”
I swallowed quietly and returned his smile.
“Yeez.”
I silently whispered a prayerful apology to my parents and every other Sudanese-Brit as I stood in the body scan and then collected my bag.
I managed to hold it together and was soon standing near the gate.
I’d made it with only two minutes to spare before passengers began to appear, which was just as well because much longer and I might have had a full nervous breakdown. I tugged at my clothes, checked the paperwork, looked around, and generally acted like I had spiders in my knickers. If I gave myself too much time to think, I would be in tears by the time I saw Uncle Iry. He deserved better than that, and if nothing else, I would greet him with a smile, spiders or no.
The first few passengers shuffled off, first classers in business suits, most of them looking sour. Following them were young families, at least two with squalling infants, which might have explained the sour looks. After that, it was a hodgepodge, and I strained to keep an eye on the doorway as they milled about. I was scared that I’d somehow missed him, but then a gaggle of women in hijabs scuttled free of the portal, and Uncle Iry came striding out.
In the time it took me to recognize that it was indeed my uncle, Irshad Bashir, he’d spied me with our family’s bronze-coloured eyes. He broke into a smile that was like dawn breaking and came bounding toward me.
I found myself running toward him as well. In the back of my head, a stupid, repetitive voice reminded me to smile, smile and don’t cry, smile and don’t cry … but it was no use.
By the time we threw our arms around each other, my vision had blurred with tears. He drew me to his chest, so thin but still so strong, and a sob tore from my throat. I held him tight, pressing my face into his shoulder, partly to muffle further sobs but also because it felt so very good to be held by him. His arms around me, I was safe and welcome, more at home there in the airport than I’d been in my own flat since my parents died. His grip tightened, and I could feel him taking great, hitching breaths.
I forced myself to look up into his face, even with my tears, and smiled as I saw moisture glittering on his dark cheeks.
“Welcome home, a’am,” I managed around the lump in my throat.
He bent his head to rest on mine.
“Ibukin, ya binti,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “Ya habibti.”
As the words rolled over me, I broke into fresh sobs. There was an aching relief at that moment. The last time I’d felt such arms around me and heard such things spoken was the last time I saw my father alive.
---
“I still can’t believe I’m here,” Uncle Iry muttered as we stood in line at customs and immigration.
After the tearful reunion, we’d joined the line-up, our arms still around each other. I think both of us subconsciously feared if we let go some new tragedy would sweep us apart again. Whatever came next, we would face it together, a family made whole again.
“Neither can I.” I leaned against him, savouring how much he was like my father. My heart was still raw, but each time he gave my shoulder a paternal squeeze, the wound became a little smaller.
“I hope you plan to have food,” Iry said after his stomach gave an audible rumble. “If not, I might need to go foraging.”
He made a snuffling sound like he was sniffing for food, and I laughed, but a bit of the warm fuzzies gave way to the sad realities in front of me. For all the ways he reminded me of my father, I could never confuse the two, if nothing else because of how thin my uncle was. He was tall and broad-shouldered in frame, but there was no spare flesh on him. With my arm around him I could easily pick out each rib through his thin shirt. His emaciated body indicated that he’d been eating only the barest minimum of food to ensure he had enough money to emigrate.
The depths of his sacrifice were written in his body, and my fragile heart threatened to break all over again. I had to remind myself that he was here now and would never have to live like that again. This was the start of a new life.
“Oh, I might’ve put a few things together,” I teased, then continued when he gave me a sideways look, eyebrow raising. “But I’m not sure if my kisra will be as good as Mum’s.”
“Kisra,” Iry purred with relish. “I’m sure it will be delicious. Even if it isn’t, I’m hungry enough that it won’t matter.”
We laughed as we shuffled forward for our turn before the desk.
I pulled the papers from my purse, smiling from ear to ear. I’d been so terrified, so convinced that something horrible was going to happen. A year’s worth of waiting for the worst to happen hadn’t helped, but I was beginning to realize that maybe there was something to hope for after all.
Chapter Three
“I smell more than just kisra.” Uncle Iry’s stomach rumbled at the scent of seasoned meat emanating from behind the flat door. “I hope you and Jackie didn’t go to too much trouble on my account.”
“No trouble at all,” I said as I slid the key home. “Besides, Jackie hardly needs an excuse to make shaiyah. If I didn’t do most of the cooking, she’d have us eating like lions. Nothing but meat, meat, and more meat.”
We stepped into the flat as Jackie came out of the kitchen with three glasses on a platter. “Welcome home, Uncle Irshad,” she crowed as she hurried to offer us the drinks.
I could tell from Jackie’s face that she was excited, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell what she’d put in the glasses. The liquid looked a little darker than cranberry juice, yet I knew Jackie wouldn’t be offering wine to my uncle.
I took a glass, trying to catch Jackie’s eye, but her gaze became locked on Uncle Iry. He leaned in to smell the liquid, saving me from having to ask an awkward question. A fresh smile spread across his face, and he met Jackie’s hopeful eyes with an approving nod.
“Kerkede,” he declared before taking another sniff. “Most gracious of you, Jackie.”
Jackie’s expression became one of child-like joy as she took the last glass. “Let’s toast now before you realize how badly I’ve bungled it.”
Both turned to look expectantly me as I was sniffing at my glass – it smelled like sweet hibiscus.
“What? Me give the toast?” I gaped and saw their patient expressions telling, most certainly yes, me. With a soft shake of my head and a bemused smile, I raised my glass.
“These past few years I would’ve been alone and lost without the two of you,” I said, taking time to look at both Iry and Jackie. “Family is part of what lets you know you aren’t alone, that there is something more important tha
n yourself. Family is what calls on you to be strong, and is strong for you when you can’t be. You have been that for me, and I hope I’ve been that for you.”
A few hot tears raced down my face as I looked from Uncle Iry to Jackie. Jackie’s cheeks were as wet as mine, and Iry’s bronze eyes glistened.
“To family,” I breathed, the words soft and sincere.
“To family,” they echoed, and we drank.
The taste was tart, yet sweet, with a rich floral aroma that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. After an initial sip, Uncle Iry took a long swallow, leaving only pink stained ice cubes. Jackie’s expression from the sip was all pursed lips, and I wasn’t surprised. She didn’t much care for cranberry juice or other sour drinks.
“So what is this, really?” I asked, raising my half-empty glass.
“Herbal tea made from hibiscus flower,” Jackie explained. “It’s popular in Sudan. Your family recipes are so good, and I wanted to make my own contribution to the meal. I hope it’s okay.”
“Very good.” Uncle Iry made a show of examining the ice cubes in his glass. “But my glass seems to be empty, how sad.”
Jackie laughed and took his glass. “I’ll fill this up, and then let’s eat. I’ve been smelling this food forever; I’m dying to taste it.”
We didn’t have a formal dining room, just a small square between the kitchen and living room. We’d bought a second-hand table, but we often used it as an impromptu desk and ate in the living room. Today we had cleared the clutter and moved the table away from the corner to allow three chairs. The pot with the bamia tabiq sat next to the sheaves of kisra, while the shaiyah was in a glass-covered skillet to the side.
“Dis is wonderful,” Uncle Iry declared as we sat. “You girls shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, but my stomach thanks you, many times.”
“It’s not every day my uncle comes to start his new life with us.” I settled in and fought the urge to start tearing into the kisra. “But don’t expect this every day. It’s pretty much take what you can get around here.”
“I’m familiar with that system.” Uncle Iry winked.
I flushed with embarrassment as I noted how sharply his cheekbones stood out in the light, how slack the skin was around his throat. It was a stupid thing to say to a man who had been close to starving for the last few decades.
I wondered what changes Uncle Iry would bring to our schedule, especially when he started working in a mechanic’s shop out of Whitechapel. Securing that job had been pivotal for getting Iry a long-term residence visa, and none of it would have been possible without help from a bloke in Jackie’s Thursday Krav Maga class. He was a supervisor at the garage, and though I was pretty sure he’d only done it to impress Jackie, he was a solid enough chap to stand by his word. Pretty soon, we’d be juggling three schedules, but for now, my family, such as it was, was pieced back together, and I was happy.
“Uncle Iry,” I began before some dreadful thought swept in and stole the moment from me. “How come I’ve never heard of kerkede? Mum always wanted me to know what I could about Sudan, especially the food. If it’s so popular, why didn’t she ever make it?”
Irshad nodded as Jackie returned from the kitchen, a fresh glass of the hibiscus tea in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“I wondered that too.” Jackie set the tea by Uncle Iry’s plate and took her seat. “What I found on the internet about it suggested it’s pretty common.”
“Your mother never drank it,” Iry explained as he picked up the glass. “Your mother was allergic to hibiscus. Made her eyes water and her nose run. If she touched it, she developed a terrible rash.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Iry chuckled. “Your father found out the hard way. When he was trying to woo your mother, he learned from a co-worker that your mother’s favourite colour was red. So he went and put together a crown of flowers, made almost entirely of hibiscus, in different shades of red and dark pink.”
“Oh no,” I gasped.
Uncle Iry’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, yes. He waited outside the hospital for her shift to end. When she came out, he told her he had a present for her. When she asked what it was, he drew the crown from behind his back, and before she could say anything, popped it on top of her head.”
Jackie and I half-groaned, half-laughed.
“Yes, poor woman. She nearly had to go back into the hospital as a patient instead of nurse.”
“They never told me that story,” I said.
“It wasn’t your father’s finest moment.” Iry took another sip of kerkede. “But he learned from it, and when he explained the thought behind his gift, your mother was flattered that he’d at least tried to give her something she would like. Something personal.”
“He loved her very much,” I said softly.
Uncle Iry nodded and reached out to take my hand. His hands were big and weathered, with skin that seemed too thin and papery.
“They loved each other very much.” His eyes shone. “And together, they loved you even more.”
A poignant silence lasted heartbeats until Iry shrugged off the weight that had settled over all of us.
“But, in loving you, they wouldn’t want you to let all this food get cold. Let’s eat!”
---
“No, he did not!” Uncle Iry cried in disbelief.
“Oh, you know he did,” Jackie growled, hands splayed over the table as she recounted her tale of woe. “Not only that but when he left with her, he decided I was such a ‘strong, independent woman’ I didn’t need the money ‘we’d’ pulled together for the trip.”
Jackie’s tone was dramatic. Being stranded in Ashtead had been a dreadful experience, but now it was a comical, if embarrassing, typification of Jackie and my relationship before the Rings.
“So there I was in bloody Surrey, with a backpack full of hiking paraphernalia, no money, no phone, and only one number that I could remember off the top of my head. So, I called Ibby. By sunset, this girl had not only rescued me from the dire grip of Ashtead, but she’d also rallied the police in the hunt for that thieving, philandering cad. Before the week was out, I had most of my money back, and maybe just a little bit of his. I call it compensation for emotional distress.”
Uncle Iry laughed softly and clapped his hands a few times. Jackie gave a delicate bow in reply. I would have clapped too, but the weight of the meal and the warmth of the company was making me drowsy. The soup, flatbread, and meat were gone – only small dessert plates remained with crumbs to testify to the basbousa they’d contained. The food had turned it out well, except perhaps the basbousa, which I felt needed more cinnamon and less clove. But both Jackie and Iry had large, second slices.
Uncle Iry leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over the bulge of his full stomach, a contented smile on his face. He looked happier than I’d ever seen him, and that was saying something for a man who never failed to greet me with a smile when we video-chatted.
“I couldn’t have asked for a better welcome,” he said beaming. “I’m glad that my time in the oil fields helped make things happen sooner.”
My smile faltered.
Greater Nile, an oil company, had hired my uncle for the very dangerous job of maintaining the oil wells that were a huge source of income for Sudan. Along with the danger of working in such a heavy industrial job came the perils of doing so in a country torn by unrest, violence, and minimal worker safety standards. I’d been sick with worry most of the year. His work on the oil fields had been a necessary evil though, as the money he earned had been a good chunk of what was allowing us to secure his residency.
“I’m glad you’ll never have to work in a place like that again,” I said. Uncle Iry pursed his lips and gave his head a slow, sleepy shake, but said nothing. I looked over to Jackie, who gave me a “hell-if-I-know-shrug” before she began clearing the table. I moved to follow suit and give my uncle a little more time with his thoughts, but just as I rose, he spoke up, and I sank back down into my s
eat.
“I took the job for Greater Nile, but it was a small crew from Baltic Petrol that led the operation.” Iry’s gaze was distant now. “It was the strangest job I’ve ever done.”
Despite the obvious discomfort of the memory, I couldn’t keep from leaning forward, hoping he’d share more. While he had been working in the oil fields contact had been sparse, and when we did talk, he never mentioned his work. I thought then it was because he knew I hated him working in such a dangerous place, but now I wondered if it was something more.
“I don’t think you’d believe some of the things I saw,” he murmured as whatever he’d witnessed played out inside his head. “Most days, I’m not sure I believe it.”
My own definition of believable had undergone some extreme expansions in the last year.
“It might help to talk about it,” I said softly, leaning into the words a little. I shouldn’t push and risk spoiling such a wonderful night; after all, we had years together now. And yet …
I couldn’t let it go.
We brought Uncle Iry into our home, but we weren’t really letting him into our lives, not all of it: my powers, Jackie’s abduction, my ghostly mentor, and the boxed-up demon I’d left hidden underground in the spectre’s care. But Uncle Iry wasn’t just anyone, he was family, and it felt wrong to keep it from him. Yet, every time I thought about telling him, the story sounded more and more insane.
I hoped he would say something, anything to give me a sign that he wouldn’t think I was crazy when I started talking about the supernatural.
“It was strange,” Uncle Iry mused. His eyelids drooped, and I began to fear that he might fall asleep at the table.
