Blue Nile

 In the Sudan, where the Blue Nile meets the White Nile, is a town built by the British, called Khartoum.  Even though it is dusty, dry and hot, there is a certain romance to it.  That's where a century or so ago the mad Ma'adi annihilated Col. Gordon and his British troops.

And that's where I met the young black Azande beauty.  I was then at forty years, and she but barely twenty.  I loved her, black and lusty as the night, and thought even to marry her.  But there was a time that she was angry with me (I can't imagine for what) and she didn't talk to me for several days. 

So one warm tropic evening, just as the chill night winds began blowing out of the desert, I am leaving the Marine House - the only night spot in this Moslem dominated town that serves alcoholic beverages (Actually, the only night spot).  A white acquaintance's black girl friend (who wanted me to be her next boyfriend) ask me to drive her married friend home, so she would be home before her husband.  So being the pleasant, accommodating chap that I am, I obliged her. (All the men in this story are white, and the women are black.)

The next day, after washing the dust of the day from my body after a hard day's work, and settling in for an evening of meditation and prayer, a knock sounded on my door.  It was the married girl, with another girl friend come to visit me.  Being the gentleman that I am, I shan't reveal their names for they are Moslems, and to be identified might mean their death - this being a Moslem country, unmarried sex is punishable by death, and even for a man and a woman not married to each other to be alone together is forbidden.  So know you all that the element of danger lies heavy in every such encounter.

After an hour of pleasantries and idle chat, the friend of the married girl said she had to leave to go to work, so, like the gentleman that I am, I took her to her work, and returned to my abode, ready to meditate.

But there in my living room was she who delayed her departure, the married girl - lingering about taunting me with the curves of her young body, sitting so close, and breathing so hard.  One nuzzle led to another, and a nuzzle led to a caress, and a caress - well you can guess the rest.

(I pause briefly to allow you time to wipe the sweat from your brow, and slow the racing of your heart.)

But back to the story.  A day passed, or maybe two.  And a friend of mine, another black girl, came by and asked about how my Azande girl and I were getting along.  I sadly replied that she was angry with me (for what-I don't know), and I hadn't seen her for awhile, though I did miss her. 

And so this kind and lovely friend arranged to invite me for dinner, and there also was my young, dark-skinned Azande beauty.  And so we talked, and held hands, like timid lovers often do, sitting on an old couch under a tin roof.  And I was happy to be reunited with this young beauty.  And we talked of how we might be together, as lovers are wont to do.

Now I digress a small time here to paint a picture of the romance enthralling me in this far-off land where starvation hunts about for the weak, and storks strut about like undertakers. 

Out at the edge of the city, is a mud-walled corral with an iron gate.  In the center of the corral is a small mud hut where my Azande Beauty slept - on a bed with no mattress.  On the first night I knocked on the gate and was led into the center of the corral.  About a small card table resting on the uneven ground sat three black girls on rickety chairs.  On the table was candle burning for light, and on one side of the candle was a white paper to reflect the light towards me. As I sat about talking of nothing, as timid courtiers often do, I realized that the tiny light of the candle reflecting off that small white paper blinded me enough that I could not see the girls sitting on the other side, except for flash of white teeth or the white of an eyeball rolling from time to time.

And so I courted this Azande beauty, from time to time at her place, and from time to time at mine.  There was the picnic up the Blue Nile, where the tall Zeinab from the south took off her clothes and swam in the water, and the young men said girls must not do that here in Moslem country.

And there was the time that I knocked on the iron gate and a beautiful girl in native costume opened the gate, and with a smile so engaging I almost lost my senses, said in a lilting voice - "your friend is not here."  So lovely was she I wondered to myself "dare I pursue her, would my Azande beauty find me out?" But before I could decide, that lovely girl laughed and smiled and I slowly came to realize that it was she - my own lovely Azande girl, and I loved her even more -- and thankful I was too confused too betray myself to her.

Then into this rapture, this infatuation, this love so foreign and so sweet, rang a bell of doom.

It was a phone call, it was -- the married girl -- she longed for me, she had to be with me, she wanted to leave her husband -- run away with me.  She said she needed me.

Good God above, what have I done.  I don't love this girl, nor do I even particularly like her.  Certainly I did not respect her.  How to extract myself gracefully without offending her.  This girl’s husband had bought villas in Spain for her, for God’s sake, something that I would never do for her (she proudly told me of the men she “entertained” in Spain while her husband was away.).

And so by this I lost the beautiful and lovely Azande girl, when a year later she said to me “so and so has a baby boy – looks a lot like you.”  And fool that I am, instead of saying, “couldn’t be me” I blurted out in stupidity “Could be.” 

And so now you know the story, but neither you nor I know of the child, whose it may be.  And there it best to leave it. 

Lord, I still miss that Azande girl, even after ten years past.

- Simon Revere Mouer III