Maxim Gorky tells the tale of mother By: Abdulaziz Ali Omer

Tomorrow, the lights will be turned off in protest against raping mother earth .cry my beloved country for perished reef and, fallow land and sons feeding on the crumbs of strange cities. Let us until the 06-minutes black-out , with the colour of purity and morning take off our hats to mothers, write and dream of them as being healthy, vigorous smiling no matter how wrinkled or hunched-back they are. After a long absence, I returned home. All is well as long as mother is a live. I whispered to my self with a sigh of relief as I heard her foot-steps approaching the door. She opened the door to imprint a kiss on my dusty, exhausted and numb hand whose nerves registered her love and longing. She served me squeezed orange juice. While taking the first sips, I asked bout something that adorned the leafy façade of house. She answered “ask the vines throwing back their inner-home shade” in an obvious enjoyment of the lyrical humour of the poet Isaac Halangi. The exuberance of vines and loveliness of morning was tinged with sadness as I read the column of this poet: we learn from days. He related how a Sudanese a broad straggled in catching up with his mother’s funeral inspite of bleeding his strength. Such a story induced many of lost sons to connect through cheerful WhatSAPP and facebook for re-assuring look or chat with mothers.
Remember the Russian novelist Maxim Gorky “mother? He presented in this novel one mother in Kiev in Ukraine as inebriated, mendicant and humiliated by the police. If only Gorky had lived to see mother in Kiev has proved her self dignified, sober and an insurgent.
Now, in the grandeur of friendship hall in Khartoum, two Gorkian characters in sentiment and appearance enter to receive their mother’s award. The first character is Sara El-fadil, the first ever Sudanese schooled over-seas. Caring and dedicated mother. Inspite of her intermittent prison tribulation, she brought up her sons well –educated and traditions-minded. The second character is Bit UM El-Hassan, an epitome of lay studious woman in Sudan. The two women retreat to the back of stage. In the subsequent plaintive, sweaty few minutes, the audience is visited by the ghost of mother. Gorky described as: she didn’t lose the shine of her eyes…she cried with what was left of her voice. It was a song of love, of tambour about mother’s lament and plea of mother to her prodigal to son to return. If you come back, that would leave healed. The mother says. Tambour, the local nostalgic musical instrument connected many Sudanese in flesh and spirit to their mother and to be in their land.
The reverable Zain Telecom Company celebrated mother’s day . In this emotional and popular feast, we saw sons planting kisses not from kindness, however in recognition of their sacrifices. What has struck me is an unassuming artist, Rashid Deyab. He has brandished the portrait of his mother. He enlivened her through transfusion of colours and shared emotions. Well, he did by using art in facing the bitter truth of maternal parting or mid-life crisis. The truth as Elizabeth Feralley, a journalist friend sweetly call it is the lemon-juice of art. It is flavorsome juice served as an accolade to un-sung mothers in remote Sudanese suburbia.
I asked a bespectacled chap near me:say you heard howls of help from wife, dog and son threatened with drowning in sea , who would you save? I don’t need to tell you “mother ‘he replied, but I need to re-tell from school days an identical story of man in such position. He pondered the same question. Wife and dog? No, he argued that he could have another bed-fellow and dog. Sons? He didn’t seem to care either. He would have other off-spring in his tow again. My mother? Yes, he replied with an enthusiasm. He leaped into water to save his mother. Mother is the first love. Her love makes us harsh. The son, dog and wife are affectionate and loyal creatures in Gorky “mother” . He described Mikhail Vlassov as a merciless and feared factory worker. Of him, Gorky said: He died to be buried by wife, son and dog. That is a very sad scene showing the gloating of others but in the meantime the astounding gentleness of peacenik mother. As high secondary school students in a visit to a class-mate, we were fascinated by jeweled and tattooed face in a portrait conspicuously pinned on the wall. We were reminded of who she was as our class-mate returned with cold water. “That is my mother. Isn’t a nice image? He asked. Definitely, we answered. The cold water seeped into veins as kind as the milk of mother. Whenever a mother realizes that her son is approaching some thing awful or harmful, she deter him by shouting: la, la, la, kaka , kaka , kaka. It is an appeal of beauty and peace. Let us heed again to be children and to make gun-failed change possible.
While writing this column, my sister listened to Tambour song of mother to put the finishing touches: I remember you my mother, the sunlight of morning, child’s smile and the aroma of ripened dates.

Arabic Forum