Mahjoub Sharif ...Good-bye to the people‘s poet

Mahjoub Sharif

By: Abdul-Aziz Ali Omer
On Thursday, a head to writing this column, I received a wake-up call from my sister from an adjoining room with turned-on T.V. “There was a funeral of an official” she said. She couldn’t figure out who was deceased. We looked at a congregation of mourners on the screen with eyes a vid to knowing what the pale picture would tell us. Instantly, the News bulletin announced that life left the limbs of Mahjoub Sharif, the Sudanese revolutionary poet. It had saddened me in that terrible evening to learn that one of our patriotism and moral paragons had gone. Mahjoub Sharif is a definition of a Rudyard Kipling man in if poet:” If you can, force your heart, nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone”. In 2012, the mill of rumor turned: Mahjoub Sharif whispered the last breath from his lung. That didn’t pass with out whimpers from fans and cell-mates. Latter on the mill of rumor broke down. Every one was happier than Hemingway’s elder man in the sea to find out that Mahjoub sharif was still alive rising above the bloody reality with his creative contemplative calm towering over the street chants. The elegant Mr. Mahjoub clearly delighted to see an indication of un-dying and reciprocated love in which he was held. Papa Mahjoub Sharif described the Sudanese people as his passion and artery. He smiled in his exile. There was silence. Then he recited a poem that presaged his real imminent passing. “I dread the momentary death of my conscience” he proclaimed. That is the best epitaph I have ever read and I recommend to be written over whatever gravestone, vase of ashes or memorial plaque. Let us keep intact our conscience in whatever remains of our lives. Conscience is the immortal soul. Papa Mahjoub Sharif was a soft-spoken figure dressed a scarf around his head and in a crisp white Jalabeya. He embraced his fait accompli with a saintly –dignity and spiritual contentment. Under a gentle sky night, he enjoyed the stars. That scene is tastier and better than a banquet while the peasants are starved. As I reflect on his wife who helped him in the fight for life and good name, I remember couples depicted by Thomas Hardy, in the :the return of native: They were like those double stars which revolve round and round each other ,and from a distance appear as one.
The worst life is better than an endless oblivion of death, however, death is a relief from an incessant flesh pains and give away to some one an opportunity for a last signature.
Just days before he lay dying, from Mahjoub’s throat and tongue floated on to the Arabic press some words in he lamented himself. What did he say?
Without intimidation and deception, I say that I don’t fear where, how and when I shall be dying. Whether that is a sudden death or dying at summer night while on me inflicted the pleasure of gazing at the heaven’s stars. I don’t fear where, how and when I shall be dying. Be it a death from a bullet onto the heart or a stab from a sword. Be it in the darkness or crowd or a route of a coast. I shall be dying honored and well-groomed. I shall be dying with my wife, two daughters. Friends, my pet cat, my straw shelter, water- pot, all surround me in a procession to my final resting place”. May God have mercy on Mahjoub Sharif, the voice of oppressed. He delivered the milk of human kindness to their doors. He gave all a hand not a fist to shake.