My Father's House
'The Love of Land'
Why do I fret so much whenever the subject of 'my father's house' is brought up.
Our house was built of clay when all the surroundings were built of hey.
Our father was very fond of the piece of land he inherited from his father after financial settlements with other heirs.
His beautiful voice filled the house, reading Surat Yaseen from the Qur'an.
First brick house in the neighborhood, neon lights and a shower in the small room called bathroom!
My father, transferred a lot, finally settled in Khartoum.
We lived in various government or rented houses; but NONE was like OUR house.
Wherever we went, my father used to lie down with both hands under his bold head and sighs: I wish I can transport my house here!
And I felt saddened for him. I wish I know what was in his mind….love of the land, memories of his father, love of his effort, homesickness, or what?
He died away from our hometown, but his friends honored him by flying the coffin home and giving him a farewell visit to the house he loved.
Years passed, a family gathering decides to sell the house as they need the money to buy houses in Khartoum.
What about the man who bought and built the house?
Yes, he can't take it with him…but do we forget him?
No, sorry, you have to wait until I die and only then you can sell this piece of land!
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