In the yard of a brick church tucked away in downtown Khartoum, behind tall metal gates and under mulid tents, there is an oasis that springs up every Ramadan. While the rest of the city falls under the lethargic lull of summer fasting, this place can’t move fast enough. Tea ladies serve up shai bi nana, karkady, and jabana. Food stalls dish out fuul, thaamia, kisra, bamia, perhaps even aseeda bilmoolah if you’re lucky enough to find it in the winding, expansive maze of chefs.
In a tender description by one of Khartoum’s infamous underground poets: “This is the place of criminals, writers, artists, poets. Everyone who matters.”