The protests have risen. A guy with a black stick pulls me from the street and tells me that I sent false information to outside intelligence. I tried to reason with him but no point. This time in the form of possibly the last communication between us ever. Quickly hands me over to the police. All I got was a bruised thigh from a direct blow by an AK-47 handle. He was brought in the night before and was brutally beaten. He was my main partner for the rest of the prison stay, he was reciting beautiful poetry. One of them recognized one of his abusers as his neighbor. One of them was a 12 year old kid. One of the NISS agents later said to us: “We cannot go within these protests and get hurt, so we catch anyone near so our superiors know that we are working.” He knew only one person in Omdurman, I memorized the number while I was leaving prison but it wasn’t in service when I later called it. It was killed before it was even born. For now I’m trying to enjoy my freedom, a desire that is always blocked by the thought of my brothers that I left behind…

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Original poems 19 in a cell and Bitter Apologies by Mamado Ortega

Digital poem by: Israa Abbas