Reem Gaafar’s A Mouth Full of Salt, winner of the Island Prize 2023, is a tale of survival, and of choice; women confronting tradition and claiming agency in a Sudan on the edge of transformation. Here is an excerpt.
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Nyamakeem inched slowly up the deserted street towards the sand dunes behind the village, the embers of the bonfire from the night before still emanating heat. The long shadows from the houses flanking either side of the street seemed to shrink away from her as she went. She walked slowly, leaning on a thick stick. The ascent made her legs hurt and her breathing laboured — she really was too old to do all this walking.
At the top of the hill, she slowly turned around to observe the village spread out beneath her, down to the gardens and the river. The river was like a bit of string, following her through time and place, anchoring her here — to a village that she hated with all her heart — but also moving her along. She closed her eyes and the sounds and smells around her swiftly evaporated.
Nyamakeem opened her eyes again and it was dark. She had been told the villagers were early risers and early to bed, and as she moved down the narrow street the houses on either side of her were dark and silent, the only source of light the full moon shining between the grey clouds. The bundle she was carrying in her arms squirmed briefly then settled down, and she held it tightly with one hand while balancing herself with the other hand on the donkey she was riding. Her feet knocked against the animal’s belly and the heavy bags hanging against its sides. It was 1943.
“Not too long now. It’s that house with the black gates up ahead,” the man said. He held the donkey’s reins in one hand and balanced a large carton box under his other arm; black honey and beeswax, brought all the way from the forests and plains of Malakal in the south to the dry dunes of the north. The rocking movement of the animal, the low light and the exhaustion of traveling for several days and nights all made Nyamakeem’s eyelids heavier, and she fought to stay awake. She clutched the bundle tightly as it squirmed again. As they approached the high gates she saw that this house was different from the rest. Its walls were higher and built of slabs of stone, unlike the short mud walls of the other houses on either side of the street. And the gate had three planes, not two. The arch hanging over it was high up.
They stood in front of the gates now and Nyamakeem could see a faint light coming from within.
“My grandfather’s lamp,” Hassan said quietly, happily. He looked at the door for a long time, drinking in the black paint that he had clearly missed. He pushed his hand between two panels near the ground, his fingers searching for the handle to lift the anchor and override the lock. The gates swung open with a clang that rang out into the night air. Hassan stepped inside pulling the donkey with its riders behind him, and pushed the gates shut. Nyamakeem looked around her with apprehension. They were in a vast yard with high walls and a long veranda that ran the length of it. It was hard to make out the details in the dark, but she could see a faint white light flickering from within. She didn’t have time to wonder, because at that minute they heard quick footsteps coming their way.
Who goes there at this time of the night?
“Who goes there at this time of the night?” she heard a man bellow. The light approached them and soon a tall man stood in front of them, his sunken eyes jittering in the flickering light of the small flame.
“The same person who showed you how to open that gate from the outside without waking up Alhaj,” Hassan laughed, and stepped forward with his arms wide open. The man gasped.
“Hassan, my brother!” “Abdal Wahab!”
The brothers embraced, laughing, slapping each other’s shoulders and backs, pulling apart to look at each other’s faces and embracing again. Nyamakeem smiled at their happiness, and the apprehension she felt earlier slipped away. She looked down at the small sleeping face in her arms. Yes, it was like Hassan said. He definitely had their nose and forehead. She pulled her dress up slightly so that she could disembark and glanced up at Abdal Wahab, and her blood froze.
“What is this?” Abdal Wahab asked slowly, lifting the kerosene lamp and shining it into Nyamakeem’s face. He stared at her and then down at the child she was carrying. Nyamakeem tried to smile, but the fierce eyes she was looking into made that difficult. She looked at Hassan hesitantly. He was still smiling, but his eyes were watchful.
“This is Nyamakeem, my wife. And that’s my son.” Abdal Wahab turned to stare at his brother in disbelief. “Are you joking? This is your wife?”
“And my son. I named him Kheir Alseed, after our father.” He looked at his brother purposefully. Abdal Wahab looked back at Nyamakeem, and she felt the hair on her skin stand up. She could barely understand what they were saying; her knowledge of Arabic was very little, and they had such a strange, thick accent.
“You named this Southerner’s son after our father? This infidel?”
“She’s no infidel, she’s —”
An animal worshipping infidel! Your so-called marriage isn’t even valid! This child is a bastard! And you dare name him after our father?
“An animal worshipping infidel! Your so-called marriage isn’t even valid! This child is a bastard! And you dare name him after our father?’’
“What did you say?” Hassan said quietly, his eyes narrowing.
“I said this slave’s son is a walad haram!”
It was like he had slapped Nyamakeem in the face. Slave? Did this man just call her a slave? That was a word she knew very well.
Hassan advanced on him, trembling with anger.
“Who are you calling a slave! That’s my wife! She’s the daughter of a chief!”
“Who or what she is does not concern me!” his brother roared, grabbing the front of Hassan’s jallabiya. “How dare you do such a thing! You’ll make us a laughing stock of the village and all the villages around us! The son of Kheir Alseed Sidahmed, marrying a Southerner and having the gall to bring her to live among us as an equal! All the women in the family and the tribe weren’t good enough for you? How dare you!”
Hassan grabbed Abdal Wahab’s jallabiya and raised his fist to strike, but was stopped by a woman’s voice.
“Hassan! My dear son!” the old woman cried out. She leaned against the wall, shuffling forward with difficulty. Hassan wrenched his brother’s hand from his clothes and hurried over to greet her and kiss her hand. Hassan’s mother kissed his forehead, held his face towards the light to look at him, tears streaming down his face.
“I feared your father and I would die before seeing you again! Look at how much weight you lost! Thanks to Allah you’re finally home among your people!”
“Come and see what your son has brought home with him ya Hajja!”
Nyamakeem quivered in place, holding her son tightly to her chest. She wished she could fold in half and disappear. The darkness around them seemed to close in on her and her alone. Hassan’s mother moved forward and peered at Nyamakeem in dismay.
“Oh, Hassan, my son. What have you done?” DM
A Mouth Full of Salt by Reem Gaafar is published by Saqi Books (2025)