We have reached our destination for this story to take place.
Physically that is.
Not very many voices from Sudan are known to us. The prevailing picture that has formed our notion of this country is about war, famine, corruption, brutality, child soldiers and slavery. Sudan is a country that has woken up to the sound of the Kalashnikovs for a period of over thirty years. The people are tired. The future; nebulous.
Though, in the sprawling capital of Khartoum, people seem to go about their daily businesses quit unaffected by the war-torn country that surrounds it. In this urban jungle, a young man named Abu Bakr – nicknamed Bakri - is soon graduating from the university with a bachelor in the French language. His unexpected love for French can at first site seem a bit odd to the observer.
“It’s the melody…can you hear the rhythm?” he says to us, uttering a sentence in French with thick guttural r:s and a genuine passion one wouldn’t anticipate from a nineteen-ish year old boy from the Sahara desert.
In his notebooks, Bakri writes long texts about his life coming from an orphanage without family and any kind of guaranteed support. He objects when we call him poet and interposes: “I am not a poet…I just write stories about my life”.
His texts are personal, and frequently embellished with metaphors and they are - not to be forgotten - in French. To us they seem undoubtedly poetic.
“I am Bakri” is the unpretentious story about a boy who fought poverty and hunger with the love of words. This is the first teaser to tell the story.