Ali Rock
We knew Uncle Ali pretty much all our lives. He was a friend of my father, who he met when they went to middle school together at the presitgious Khor Taggat school in Kordofan. There, Uncle Ali was known as Ali "Rock" , since he was the best at "rock and roll dancing". My dad, still a young bumpkin then, was no doubt impressed at his friend's modern abilities. He was also the first Sudanese my father had ever met who had personal space, a rather excessive amount of it. He told me about an early prank where hre was speaking to Uncle Ali, all the while moving incrementaly closer. Unconsciously he moved back, until my Dad had him cornered.
From this odd friendship, their family and ours were intertwined starting then. They both went to college, and afterwards, entered public service; my father entered the ministry of foreign affairs and Uncle Ali joined the Arab League.
Their careers followed similar paths, leading both young men and their young wives to London, where both I and Uncle Ali's son, Mohamed, were born. New York, Tunisia, Cairo. Everywhere we went, they followed, or vice versa. Mohamed is like another part of me, more rambunctious and adventurous to contrast my cautious nature. Anywhere I went there was a family waiting, or a family on the way.
Uncle Ali had a heart attack on Friday and passed on, in Cairo. My dad spoke to him last week and he was fine. Mohamed and his sisters flew there today. At the same time I find myself going to a friend's wedding, when all I want to do is something useful for them or for my own dad. How do these things happen? Where do they come from? Why is it always too late to say good-bye, and why do we always say good-bye anway into the space that's left when someone goes away?
Good bye Ali Rock.