MEMORIES OF SHARIF 

Sharif’s Visit
 

‘I was in the car in… where was it?… you see, in Scotland. A-ll the car covered in snow! A-ll the car! Hehe… Where was it?’

 

Sharif scrolls on his phone for a few moments.

 

‘Inverness. I was going to Inverness. Here, you see?’

 

Sharif is a big presence - big body, big voice - with the confidence of someone who’s taken every life experience as an opportunity to learn something useful.

 

He shows me the map on his phone. It’s mostly empty space, with one long meandering road snaking through it.

 

‘Was it for that security job? I remember, you told me it was minus 20 degrees!’

 

‘Yeah the security job. Exactly. Minus twenty... You see. I was stuck in the car.’

 

‘You couldn’t move? How did you keep warm?’

 

‘Keep the engine on. That what they always say in Scotland to keep the engine on. If not, you will be dead from cold… Anyway, hehe I stay there and I fall asleep in the car. Then suddenly a policeman come to the car and wake me up - just like that.’

 

Sharif opens his eyes wide and raises his hands, as if in shock.

 

‘I get out the car and… they scared! They step away from me and look like…’ - he gives a puzzled expression – ‘and say to me ‘what you doing here?’… And so I tell them I’m going for security job in… what you call it… Inverness. But really they scared of me, two young police officer, and I tell them it’s ok don’t be scared.’

 

It’s a typical Sharif story – the collision between his Masalit heritage in Darfur and his European surroundings. His amused, patient acceptance at being perceived a threatening outsider.

 

I enjoy conjuring this encounter in a bleak snowy Scottish wilderness in my mind. It’s too late for me to experience such adventures first hand now that my MS is progressing. The simplest of journeys these days is stressful and requires a great deal of planning. Spontaneity and risk-taking are no longer possible. But even if I dared find a means to go to such a cut off place in the middle of winter, those police officers would certainly rescue me rather than fear me.

 

I keep what I call ‘Sharif’s filing system’ - various sundry documents, randomly ordered, stuffed inside a concertina filing box - inside my own filing cabinet. He’s leaving for Australia on Monday, and today he’s come to take some documents. Touchingly, he feels that if his documents are with me, they will be in safekeeping. I find it a sweet example of our unlikely friendship.

 

We’ve had lunch. He’s washed up, carried out the rubbish and the recycling. Now we’re chatting, sitting in my living room on the huge, boat-like sofa, bright sunlight pouring into the room.

 

‘When’s your flight Sharif?’

 

‘Monday. Monday morning 9.30am.’

 

‘From Heathrow?’

 

‘Yeah Heathrow. I got the ticket’ He scrolls on his phone again. ‘You see.’

 

‘First, I’ll do onion picking because it’s the season for the onion picking. Then after that they have the season for pears, and then apples, and then… what they called them… they use for the wine..’

 

‘Grapes.’

 

‘Yeah grapes. But the onion. You know. That one it’s reeeaally hard job.’ His waving arm emphasising the point. ‘Really hard. Last year they say they waiting for me to stop. First day, second day. After three days they can see I’m not stopping. But the others…’

 

‘Do they take bets on how long you will last?’

 

‘Yeah exactly. Take bets. Some of them they young students and you can see they only last a day. The work is too hard for them. But me I love it. For me it’s perfect. Simple life. You have the farm, the outside, your living space, your work. No hassle. Just start early in the morning and work, work, work, until maybe 5 o’clock and stop. Then sometimes you even too tired to eat your dinner. Simple life.’

 

Back seven months ago in February, I got a call from Sharif. Often we go for months without seeing each other, but it’s always a pleasure to catch up. I’d been a little concerned at the extended silence. The last I’d seen him he was really down, working like a dog seven nights a week, delivering newspaper bundles from the back of his van around Croydon. London and the city life don’t sit well with him. But this time he was really upbeat. He’d just got back from three months in Australia and wanted to come round.

 

I’d never seen him looking so well, so fulsome. Australia reminded him of how Darfur used to be, he said. Hot, and the nature just beautiful. He had a clear plan to go back. Work a few months and escape the northern hemisphere winter.

 

So now the time has come and he’s heading out there again. I’m happy for him, but a little voice inside me hopes this won’t be the last meeting between us. I’m going to miss my intrepid friend.

 

…

 

Monday morning the phone goes. It’s Sharif.

 

‘I’m in Brisbane. I landed just few hours ago and I said I wanted to call you to say I’m here.’

 

‘Where are you Sharif?’

 

‘I’m in my friend’s house now. Just now he went to buy some food and I said okay, I’m going to call Lucy.’

 

‘You must be jet-lagged. When do you start work?’

 

‘Now we have the Eid for this week, so first I’m going to rest and eat a lot of food. And then after that I’m going to start the onion picking. I’m going to call you again maybe every week to tell you. And please say hello to your mum.’

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