The Last Gift by Abdulrazak Gurnah Read Free Book Online Page A

wandering and travel and endurance. That was why they loved it when he threw himself into the stories and acted up. It was so funny when you knew what he was like at other times.
    When they were little, up until about the time when Jamal was ten or eleven, they went on a lot of outings. Their Ba loved that. He found events in the local paper and said: Children, how about an outing to see whatever this Sunday? When Sunday morning came, they cleaned up and got dressed as if they were going somewhere far away, packing a spare blanket to sit on for their picnic, a towel to mop up any spills, and raincoats in case of rain. They never went far, but the previous evening Ba would have studied the road map as if they were headed for an expedition and he was the leader. They visited ornamental gardens, animal parks, old churches, market shows, even caravan exhibitions. Ma never contradicted his choice. Outings were his thing. She just packed some snacks, tomato sandwiches, which Ba loved but everyone else hated, cheese sandwiches and grilled meatballs and yoghurts and crisps and lemonade, and a thermos of milky sweet tea for Ba. They always had the same picnic, and Jamal knew that for the rest of his life he would always remember those outings whenever he ate a meatball. When all was ready, they got in the car and off they went. Sometimes they had to turn back after a few minutes because Ba asked one of his questions: Did you lock the back door? Is the heating switched off? Have you got my wallet? Once on their way, Ma always drove while Ba looked around him like a tourist, drawing the children’s attention to the most ordinary sights: sheep in a field, a windmill, a line of pylons marching across the countryside. Even if his choices of outings were sometimes strange, Hanna and Jamal made faces at each other and had fun anyway. There were always treats during an outing, sooner or later. Ma sometimes led them in raucous songs and Ba did his best not to mind the noise.
    Hanna used to say to Jamal that they were a strange family, an odd family. Their mother was an abandoned baby who had no idea of her real parents, and their father never spoke about his. Jamal did not really think they were strange or odd, although he agreed with Hanna when she said that. She made them sound odd. He couldn’t remember when he first heard his mother’s story, and whether he heard it first from Ma or from Hanna. Hanna was always telling him things when they were small. He seemed to have known that story all his life though, and as time passed the meaning of it seemed to grow, as did the oddness of his father’s silence. He didn’t know if they were told not to speak about their mother’s story to other people, but he didn’t. He never told anyone about it. Over the years, their Ma spoke about it now and then, and sometimes he learned a new detail he had not known before. It was not told as one of those stories their parents returned to and recounted to each other as part of their shared history, laughing at memorable set pieces that may not have been accompanied by laughter when they happened, tales of their courtship and love, of fortitude and absurdities and near disasters. The stories of their Ma’s childhood came out in bits and pieces, an episode recalled or a feeling recollected in the middle of telling another story or driving home a scolding, or an incident she drifted into as her mind wandered. And Jamal too had his own way of listening, not one he learned or practised, but one which came to him without thought. He listened in silence. He did not ask for any details and he did not interrupt. He wondered now if that is how children listen to stories, or if he was just a docile and solitary little boy, and what his Ma was telling him was curious enough and did not require further questions. His mother sketched a moment and he pictured it, and found a place for the image among the others he already possessed.
    He was not sure if at first he