In the cool corridor of the hostel he held the receiver and leaned his head against the wall, hiding his face in the crook of his arm. Majdy’s throat tightened when he heard her voice. ‘Didn’t I just tell you I don’t want your stuff?’ on the third day she got through, wedged herself into a cubicle but did not close the glass door behind her. ‘Get away from my face,’ she snapped at the girl who had edged by her side and was almost leaning onto her lap. to call him on the phone, his mother made several trips to the Central Post Office in Khartoum, sat for hours on the low wooden bench, fanning her face with the edge of her tobe in the stifling heat, shooing away the barefooted children who passed by with loaded trays trying to sell her chewing gum, hairpins and matches. In his first term at college in London, Majdy wrote letters home announcing that he would not make it, threatening that he would give up and return.
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