My Father's House......

Is this what is called 'The Love of Land'?
Is this why it is 'Mother Earth'?
Or why do I fret so much whenever the subject of 'my father's house' is brought up.
We were never rich, but we had always had enough.
Our house was built of clay when all the surroundings were built of hey.
Our father, a teacher, was very fond of the piece of land he inherited from his father after financial settlements with other heirs.
He filled the house with his beautiful voice, in the middle of the night, reading Surat Yaseen from the Qur'an.
Our house then became the first house in the neighborhood built of bricks with neon lights and even a shower in the middle of the small room with a single tab called bathroom!

My father was transferred to other towns and finally to Khartoum the capital city.
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 bald head and sighs: I wish I can transport my house here!
And whenever I heard this, I felt saddened for him and would repeat his wish silently. I wish I know what was in his mind….love of the land, memories of his father, love of his effort, sheer homesickness, or what?
He died far 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 their own houses in Khartoum.
What about the man who bought and built the house?
Sell his house? What about his grave? Sell that too?
Yes, he can't take the house with him…but do we forget him? And his grave?
No, sorry.
You have to wait until I die and only then you can sell this piece of land!
And forget about the grave!
asha musa

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