The Gay Icon Classics of the World Read Free Page A

would prop myself up on one arm and watch him from the bed. I studied his beauty. His brown skin that had a sort of reddish hue. Lips so big and black you’d swear they were painted. The contrast was striking on him. His hair in thick black curls. Like me, he was a mix of African colours, cultures, and influences. I want to say that he also looked like me but that would be a lie.
    When he was done praying, he went back to the bathroom and washed himself again. He returned to bed. We had sex. As we were resting, Mohammad reached underneath the bed and presented me with a brown scroll; on it were 25 poems written by Tarafah ibn al-'Abd. It was tied with a single red ribbon, with a flower lodged in the knot of thebow. Mohammad read me poem #6 and poem #10 as I lay there in amazement. It was poem #10 that made me smile. It made us laugh together. The poem was beautiful in some ways, even though it made light fun of desert people. This scroll was a gift. He had never given me anything before - nothing to acknowledge my existence as anything other than a friend. He said that it was for my journey, but I knew it meant more. I was astonished at my realization that for the last six months Mohammad and I made love not just sex. These last 6 months, Mohammad viewed this as his home and me as his partner. I knew that, most of all, this gift meant he would miss me.
    I remembered that last night with Mohammad well as I lay in my flea-infested tent wanting the journey to end. I was at my third campsite. That night seemed so long ago. Mohammad’s voice was soft and sweet as he read me the poems in Arabic. There were 25 poems written out side by side on the leather scroll. It must have cost him what little he had. I fell asleep each night with the scrolls in my arms.
    Mohammad’s voice was but a distant memory as the hot sun beat upon the scarfcovered heads of passengers in an overcrowded cart that followed the dirt road which ran along the Nile. Farm animals trailed alongside their owners, who languished in the cart while the hot rays of the sun beat down upon us.
    When we reached Nimoli (now southern Sudan), I rode with a herder who had an extra camel that would take me to the Kasrashu Clan campsite.
    The Kasrashu Clan was a nomadic tribe that wandered during the Monsoon seasons in search of food and grazing land. These were my mother’s people. They were simple people. Tribal. When I arrived at their campsite, I noticed their resemblance to me was strong. There were 76 clansmen, woman, and children. There were also 42 camels and 22 goats amongst them. For clothing, they wore layers of cloth cloaked in various ways.
    They were friendly until I addressed them in Arabic. I told them that I was the son of Basamat; grandson of Majdi. No one answered. After several awkward seconds, a lone voice introduced himself in Arabic as Mansour. He was the brother to my grandfather. I asked him how it was that he knew Arabic. He replied that one couldn’t barter with the traders in any other language. The Kasrashu Clan spoke only Dinka.
    That night, there was a clan gathering and welcoming meal in my honour. The Kasrashu Clan showed their love for me. They treated me as a distant relative who had found his way home. Gifts, song, food, and drink were presented to me by the elder women of the Clan. I found their loving embraces, visions and smells much like my mother’s. I missed her but felt her presence among them. I felt more at ease during the meal.
    During the festivities, I caught the attention of a young man whose eyes were like black pearls. The young man boldly approached me and told me that he was my cousin Kadaru. I saw a strange resemblance to Mohammad in Kadaru - or was it an illusion?
    His smile and interest revealed much as he led me away for the night, and it was in his tent that I slept. It was customary that the day’s clothing became your evening blankets. Nomadic tribes were always efficient that way. Kadaru