My name is Yusuf. I am 26 years old and I am from Omdurman across the river from Khartoum.

If you do not know where that is, look at the map of Sudan, find the place where the two Niles meet, and that is my home.

Or that was my home. There is not much left of it now. The house my grandfather built, the shop where my father sold car parts for 31 years, the small garden where my mother kept three lemon trees, all of it is gone.

Rubble, dust. I am telling you this from a room in Cairo where I live now with my wife and her sister.

And I am telling you because what happened to me between the 9th of April and the 23rd of April in the year 2023 is not a story I can keep inside my chest any longer.

It will break me if I keep it there. So, I must let it out.

I was raised Muslim, not the lazy kind. My father prayed five times a day every day of his life that I saw him and he told me to do the same.

I memorized the Fatiha before I could tie my own sandals. I fasted Ramadan from the age of nine.

I went to the mosque near our house every Friday and on the holy night I sat with the old men and listened to them recite and I felt proud that I was part of something older than any of us.

I believed, let me say that clearly before I say anything else. I believed in Allah, I believed in the prophet, peace be upon him, and I believed that if I lived a good enough life and if my good deeds were heavier than my bad ones on the scale, I would one day enter paradise.

That was my whole understanding, the scale, the balance, the hope that I was just good enough.

I was working as an electrician, not a great one, a regular one. I could wire a house, I could fix a generator, I could keep a freezer running during the hot months when the power went out three times a day.

I was saving money to marry a girl named Amal. Her father wanted a dowry I could not yet afford, but I was close.

Maybe four more months of saving and I could have gone to him properly. That was my life in the first week of April 2023.

A small life, a hopeful life, a life that fit inside the palm of my hand.

Then on the 15th of April, the war began. I do not need to explain the war to you.

You can find the news report, the two generals, the two armies, the city turned into a shooting range overnight.

What I will tell you is that on the morning of the war I was walking to a customer’s house in Bahri carrying my tools and I heard the first shells fall and I did not understand what I was hearing.

I thought it was thunder. We get dust storms in April sometimes and the sky cracks strange.

I stood in the street like a fool for maybe 20 seconds before a man I did not know grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a doorway and shouted at me that the army had started shooting each other.

I remember his face. He had a small scar through his left eyebrow. I never saw him again.

I hope he lived. For the first week of the war I stayed inside my family’s house with my mother, my father, my younger sister Lubna, and my uncle Salih who had come to stay with us when his own neighborhood became dangerous.

We ate the food we had. We filled every container with water whenever the water came on.

We listened to the radio on my uncle’s old transistor because the internet had already died.

My father prayed more than I had ever seen him pray. He prayed for the whole country.

He prayed for the soldiers on both sides. He prayed for us. I prayed too.

I prayed harder than I had ever prayed in my life because I was afraid and when you are afraid you reach for what you know.

On the 23rd of April at around 4:00 in the afternoon, a shell hit our house.

I do not remember the sound. That is the first strange thing. You would think the sound of a shell landing on your own roof would be the loudest thing a man could ever hear, but for me there was no sound at all.

There was a white flash and a heat that went through me like I had been opened up by a hot knife.

And then there was nothing. No pain, no noise, just a sudden clean silence like someone had pulled a heavy blanket over the whole world.

I died in that moment. I want to be careful how I say that because I know people hear these stories and they roll their eyes and I understand I would have rolled my eyes too before the 23rd of April, but I died.

My heart stopped, my lungs stopped. The Sudanese doctor who later treated me in the clinic in Wad Madani told my wife after I was stable that by every measurement he could take, I should not have been sitting in front of him.

He said my brain had been without oxygen for a long time. He said the shrapnel had gone through the wall of my chest and had come very close to the aorta and he did not understand how I had not bled out on the floor of my father’s kitchen.

But before the clinic, before the doctor, before my wife holding my hand, there was what happened in between.

That is what I want to tell you. The first thing I remember after the white flash is that I was standing up.

I remember thinking this is strange because a moment ago I had been sitting on the floor next to my sister helping her sort lentils and now I was standing.

I looked down and I saw my body. I saw myself on the floor of the kitchen.

The shell had come through the wall and the ceiling and most of the kitchen was no longer a kitchen.

My sister Lubna was on the floor near me and she was not moving. My mother was in the doorway and she was screaming, but I could not hear her scream.

I could see her mouth opening. I could see her face, but the sound was gone.

I looked at my body and I thought that is me, but that is not me.

It was a very calm thought. I was not afraid. I was not sad. I just looked at the shape of myself on the floor and I understood in a way I cannot explain that the thing on the floor was a shirt I had been wearing for 26 years and now the shirt had a hole in it.

And I was standing next to it looking at the hole. That was all. I felt lighter than I had ever felt.

I felt like I had just put down a very heavy sack of flour after carrying it up a long flight of stair.

Then I started going up. I want to be careful with my words here because I know English is not my first language and I know some of these things I am describing do not have the right words even in Arabic.

I did not fly. I did not have wings. I was not pulled by a string.

It was more like the air itself was moving and I was moving with the air and the direction the air was moving was up and also somehow sideways through something, through a kind of skin, through a curtain that was not really a curtain, but was more like the line between a dream and waking except I was going the wrong way across that line.

I was going from the waking side into the dream side, but the dream side felt more solid than the waking side had ever felt.

And then I saw the war. Not the war in Sudan, another war, a war above the war.

I am telling you what I saw and I know how it sounds. There were shapes in the air and the shapes were fighting each other and the shapes were not men.

Some of them were bright and some of them were dark. And the dark ones were wrapped around the city like smoke around a lamp and they were feeding.

That is the word I must use. They were feeding on something, on the fighting below, on the hatred, on the fear of my mother screaming in the doorway, on the boys with guns who had been my neighbors last month and were killing each other this month.

I understood without being told that these dark shapes had been there the whole time.

And the war in my country was not only a war of men, it was a war that had been poured down into my country from above.

And the men with the guns were drinking it like water and they did not even know they were drinking.

I saw this for what felt like a long time, but may have been only a moment because time did not work the same way.

And then, I went up further through that layer and into somewhere else. The first thing I will say about where I went is that it was not what I had been told to expect.

I had been told all my life about the gardens under which river flow. I had been told about the houris and the fruits and the cool shade.

I had imagined paradise as a kind of perfect oasis, a better version of the gardens outside Khartoum in the winter when everything is green.

What I saw was not that, or it was that and a million other things at the same time, but the gardens and the river were not the point.

The point was a person. There was a person there, and when I say person, I do not mean a man.

I mean something that contained a man and also contained the whole sky. I saw him at a great distance at first, the way you see a mountain from a hundred miles away on a clear day, and even at that distance, I could not keep my eyes on him because he was too much.

He was too bright. He was too alive. Everything around him was singing. I know how that sound.

But, the trees were singing. The water was singing. The light itself was singing, and what they were singing was a name, and the name was his name.

And I did not yet know the name, but my chest knew it. My chest started singing the name before my mouth could form it.

I was pulled toward him. I did not want to resist. I did not want anything except to be closer to him.

As I got closer, I realized something that I must try very hard to explain because it is the most important part.

I realized he had been waiting for me. Not in a general way. Not like a teacher waiting for a student to finish an exam.

He had been waiting for me, Yusuf, son of Ibrahim from Omdurman for my whole life.

He had been waiting for me since before my mother held me. He had been waiting for me since before there was a Sudan.

He had been waiting for me since before there was a world. How did I know this?

I knew it because when I came close enough to see his face, he looked at me, and he said my name.

He said, “Yusuf.” Just that. He said my name the way my father had said it when I was a small boy and I had come home crying with a cut on my knee.

He said it like he already knew everything about me. Every bad thing and every good thing, and he still wanted to say my name out loud because he was glad to see me.

I cannot describe to you what it is like to be seen by a person who has been waiting for you your whole life and who is glad you have come.

Every other love I have ever felt is a small candle next to a sun.

And then, I saw who he was. He showed me his hands. There were wounds in his hand.

Round wounds, clean through the kind of wound a large nail would make. He showed me his side.

There was a wound there, too. A long wound, the kind a spear would make.

He showed me his head, and there were small cuts across his forehead, the kind thorns would make if thorns had been pressed down hard onto a man’s head.

I knew immediately who this was. Every Muslim knows. We know Isa. We know the prophet Isa, peace be upon him.

We are taught that he was a great prophet, that he was born of a virgin, that he performed miracles, that he was taken up to heaven.

But, we are also taught that he was not crucified. We are taught that someone who looked like him was crucified in his place, and he himself was lifted up without pain, without wounds, without death.

And here he was standing in front of me, and his wounds were real. His wounds were the most real thing in that place.

The wounds were more solid than the mountains. The wounds were more solid than my own hand when I held it up.

The wounds were the truest thing I had ever seen with any eye of mine, physical or otherwise.

I fell down. I did not decide to fall down. I fell down the way a building falls down when the foundation gives way.

I was on my face in front of him, and I was weeping because I understood in that one moment that everything I had been told about him being spared the cross was wrong.

He had not been spared. He had gone to the cross, and he had gone to the cross for a reason I could not yet fully understand, but part of me already understood it because part of me was already weeping for every sin I had ever committed against this person I had not known was the one I had been sinning against.

He knelt down. I want to say that again because it is so strange to me even now.

He knelt down. The king of everything I had ever seen. The one the mountains were singing to.

The one the light itself was afraid of in a good way. He knelt down in front of me on the ground where I was lying, and he put his hand under my chin, and he lifted my face up to look at him.

And he said to me in Arabic, in the cleanest Arabic I have ever heard, he said, “Yusuf, why are you crying for something I have already paid?”

I could not answer him. I tried. My mouth would not work. He said, “Every sin you are ashamed of, I carried it.

Every prayer you could not finish, I finished it for you. Every night you lay on your mat and felt that you were not enough, I was enough for you.

Look at my hands. These are the proof. You have been trying to balance a scale that I already broke in your favor.”

I want you to understand what he was telling me. In my religion, as I had been taught it, the whole of my life was a weighing.

Every action on a scale. Every prayer on one side. Every mistake on the other.

And at the end of my life, the balance would be measured, and I would be told if I had done enough.

And I had lived every single day of my 26 years under the weight of that scale.

I had never told anyone, not even my father, not even Amal, how much the scale frightened me because deep in my chest, I knew I would not be enough.

I knew my prayers were not pure enough. I knew my fasts were not perfect.

I knew that when I was honest with myself, there were dark corners in me that no amount of good deeds would clean out.

And this person in front of me with the wound in his hands was telling me that he had broken the scale.

That he had taken the side that held my bad deeds, and he had lifted it up himself, and he had placed my bad deeds onto his own back, and he had carried them to a hill outside Jerusalem, and he had let them be nailed into wood with his body.

And when the wood had fallen, and the blood had dried, the scale had stayed broken forever, and there was no more weighing.

I cannot describe to you the freedom of that moment. I had been carrying the scale my whole life without knowing I was carrying it.

And he took it off my back in front of me, and I suddenly felt light in a way I did not know a person could feel.

I felt like I was made of air. I felt like I could have laughed for a thousand years without stopping.

He stood me up. He actually put his hands on my shoulders and lifted me to my feet.

And then, he showed me things. He took me by the hand like a man takes a small child by the hand to show him something in the market.

And he walked me through places I cannot fully describe. He showed me a room full of books.

All the books had my name on them. I asked him, “Are these the record of my sins?”

He smiled, and he said, “No, Yusuf. Those books are gone. These books are the record of every kindness I ever did through you and every kindness I ever showed to you.”

He opened one of them at random, and he showed me a page, and on the page was written the day when I was 12 years old, and I had given my lunch to a bigger boy outside the souk, Libya, because the boy had a face like my younger brother, and I had felt a pull in my chest.

I had forgotten about that day entirely. I had not thought about it in 14 years.

But, he had kept the page. He had written it down. He had kept it like a treasure.

He showed me another page, and on the page was the day 3 years ago when my cousin had insulted me in front of my uncle and I had wanted to answer him with something cruel.

But I had kept my mouth shut and walked away. I had thought at the time that I had only kept my mouth shut because I was tired.

But he told me no, Yusuf. I was in that moment. I held your tongue.

That was me. He showed me page after page, small things. Things I did not even remember, things no one on earth had ever seen and he had seen every one of them.

He had kept every one of them. I had walked through my whole life thinking I was mostly alone and he had been there the whole time writing down every small kindness, every quiet choice, every moment when something in me had reached toward the light without my even knowing why.

I wept again. I wept and I said to him, “Why did you never tell me?

Why did I not know?” He said, “I told you many times. You did not recognize my voice because no one had taught you the sound of it.

But I was speaking. I was always speaking.” Then he showed me something that I still think about every night before I sleep.

He showed me the prayers of my mother. My mother is a Muslim woman. She has prayed five times a day since she was 8 years old.

And he showed me that her prayers, every one of them, even the ones she had prayed in Arabic to Allah had come before him because she was reaching, because her heart in the very moment of her prayers had been reaching toward the one true God with everything she had.

And he had heard her. He had heard every single one. He showed me a great basket like the baskets women carry on their heads in the markets.

And the basket was full of light. And he told me the basket was my mother’s prayers and none of them had been lost.

Not one. I asked him, “Will my mother come here? Will my father come here?”

He looked at me with a look I can only describe as sad and hopeful at the same time.

And he said, “That is partly why I am sending you back.” That was the first time I understood I was going back.

I had not thought about going back. I did not want to go back. Why would I go back?

My sister was lying dead on the kitchen floor of a bombed house in a city at war with itself.

Why would I go back to that? But he said, “Yusuf, I need you to go back.

I need you to tell them, not just your mother and your father, all of them.

The ones who pray in the mosques and the ones who pray in the churches and the ones who do not pray at all, I need you to tell them that I am real and my wounds are real and the scale is broken.

Tell them there is no more weighing. Tell them I have been waiting for them the way I was waiting for you.”

I said to him, “They will not listen to me. I am nobody. I am a boy from Omdurman.

I fix generators.” He smiled again. It was a smile like the sun coming up.

He said, “Yusuf, I chose a boy who fixed fishing nets. I chose a boy who collected taxes.

I chose a man who persecuted my people and I knocked him off his horse and made him my voice.

I choose the small ones. The small ones are my favorite. The small ones do not steal my glory.

Go back and tell them and I will put the words in your mouth when the time comes.”

I want to say something now about what he looked like because I know people will ask.

He did not look the way he looks in the pictures I have seen since.

He did not have long golden hair and blue eyes. That is not the man I saw.

The man I saw had skin the color of dates. He had dark hair, darker than mine, and it was shorter than I expected.

His eyes were brown, but they had something inside them that was not brown, a kind of fire that lived behind the brown.

And when you looked at him, it was like looking into a very deep well that had a light at the bottom of it.

His beard was not long. It was trimmed. He looked like he could have been one of my cousins from the eastern villages.

He looked like a man of the region where he had lived. He looked like a man who had worked with wood for many years before he had started walking from town to town.

But he also looked like none of those things because the longer I looked at him, the more I saw things that a human face should not be able to hold.

I saw him as a young man and I saw him as an old man at the same time.

I saw him as someone my age and I saw him as older than the stars.

I saw him laughing and I saw him weeping and I saw him sitting in perfect stillness and all of these were happening at once and none of them canceled out the other.

He took me to a place that I can only describe as a library. But it was a library the size of a country.

And he showed me that there were book for every person who had ever lived, every person, not just the ones who had known his name.

Every person. And he told me, “Yusuf, every person has a story that I have been writing in their own life.

And some of them finish the story with me and some of them throw the book away before the last chapter.

And that is the saddest thing I can show you because every book was meant to end with them here, with me.”

I asked him about the people I had lost. I asked him about my sister Lubna.

I did not know yet if she had died in the kitchen with me, but I had seen her not moving and I was afraid.

He said, “Yusuf, your sister is not here. She is still breathing. She is under the kitchen table and there is dust on her face and she is breathing shallow, but she is breathing.

When you go back, she will be there. Your mother will be there. Your father will be there.

Your uncle Saleh will not be there because he has already come to me. I took him first.

But the others you will see again. I did not have time to grieve my uncle because he kept speaking.

He told me things about the end of days that I am not going to repeat in full because I do not want to get them wrong.

And I do not want to be one of these people who stands on a street corner and shouts about the end of the world as if I know the hour.

I do not know the hour. He did not tell me the hour. But he told me the hour is closer than people think.

And the door is still open. And the door has been open for a very long time.

And people have been walking past it for a very long time. And there will come a day when the door closes and on that day there will be a great weeping from many who thought they had more time.”

He told me about Sudan. He told me things about my country that made me weep again.

He told me that he loved the people of my country, that he had not forgotten us, that every child who had died in this war had been caught in his hands before they had even hit the ground.

He told me that the war was not the end of Sudan. He told me that there would be a harvest in my country such as had not been seen in its history and that the seeds of that harvest were being planted right now in the rubble by the tears of mothers who did not yet know his name.

He told me that the hidden Muslims who were quietly beginning to follow him in the homes of Khartoum and Port Sudan and El Fasher were more in number than anyone knew and that the war had been a fire.

And fire does many things and one of the things fire does is clear a field for planting.

He told me that I would be one of the planters.” I tried to argue with him.

I said, “I cannot plant anything. I am a boy with tools. I do not know the Bible.

I have never read the Bible. I have only ever read the Quran.” He said, “You will read.

And what you will find in the book of the Christians is not a different God from the one your mother was reaching for.

It is the same God but with his face finally shown. You have been loving his shadow your whole life.

Now come and love his face.” Those words he said to me in Arabic in that voice have been written on the inside of my chest ever since.

And I do not think I will ever be able to scrape them off and I do not want to.

He walked me to the edge of that place. I did not want to walk with him to the edge.

I tried to hold on to his robe like a child who does not want to leave his father at the door of a school.

I tried to say, “Please, just one more minute. Let me stay one more minute.

He said, “Yusuf, every moment you are on the earth is a moment I am still with you.

I am not leaving you. You are leaving this place, but you are not leaving me.

I will be there when you open your eyes. I will be there when you speak.

I will be there in your wife’s hand when she hold yours. I will be there in the bread your mother bakes.

You are not going away from me. I am going with you.” Then he leaned down and he kissed my forehead.

And I want to tell you that when his mouth touched my forehead, every wound in my body that I did not yet know I had was sealed up in that moment.

My broken skull, my torn chest, my burnt left hand, all of it. I felt heat go through me like I had swallowed the sun.

I felt every bone in my body come back into its right place, even though I was not in my body yet.

He was healing me before I returned. The way a mother folds a clean shirt before her son puts it on.

And then, I was falling. Falling is the wrong word. I was being sent. The air that had carried me up and now carried me down.

And I went back through the layer and back through the sky where the dark shapes were still feeding.

And I could see them still. And I wanted to shout at them, “I have seen him now.

I have seen the one you are afraid of.” And they moved out of my way as I fell because there was something on me now that had not been on me before.

And they did not like it. They could not touch me. They turned their faces from me as I passed.

I fell back into Omdurman. I fell back into my father’s house. I fell back into the kitchen where the shell had come through the wall.

I fell back into my own body. And the instant I was back inside it, the pain came.

All of it. The pain he had held off while I was with him, it came all at once and I thought I was going to die a second time.

The next 14 days I do not fully remember. I was told them later. I was carried out of the rubble by my father, who had not been as badly hit as the rest of us because he had been in the other room.

I was put on the back of a truck that was taking wounded people out of Omdurman toward Wad Madani, which at that time was still safe.

I was unconscious the whole journey. My mother held my head in her lap and prayed over me for 9 hours without stopping.

My sister, Lubna, who I had seen not moving in the kitchen, had only been knocked out by the blast.

She was beside me in the truck with a broken arm. My uncle Saleh was not.

He had been killed standing in the doorway. He had been the one my mother had been screaming for when I saw her mouth moving.

He had died instantly. At the clinic in Wad Madani, they told my family I was not going to live.

They told them my skull was fractured in two places. They told them the shrapnel was close to my heart.

They told them to prepare for the worst and to make peace with the will of God.

My mother did not accept this. My mother sat beside me for 14 days and nights and she did not sleep more than 2 hours at a time.

And she prayed over me every prayer she knew. And some she invented. On the 14th day, I opened my eyes.

The first thing I said in a voice that did not sound like my own was, “He is real.”

My mother thought I was talking about Allah. She began to weep and to praise God.

My father stood up from his chair and began to weep also. I said again, “He is real.

I saw him. I saw Isa.” My mother stopped weeping. My father’s face changed. I did not have the strength to explain then.

I did not have the strength to say what I needed to say for many days.

I closed my eyes again and I slept for another 2 days. When I woke up properly, my father was sitting beside the bed alone.

He asked me what I had meant. I told him everything. I told him for 6 hours.

I did not stop. I could not stop. It came out of me like water out of a broken pipe.

I told him about the hand, the wounds, the library, the kiss, the world about him and my mother and Sudan.

My father is a quiet man. He did not interrupt me once. When I was finished, he sat for a long time and he looked at his own hand.

Then he said to me, “Yusuf, I do not know what to do with what you have told me.

I need time.” I told him, “Father, take all the time you need. He is not leaving.”

My father is still taking time. He has not yet said the name out loud the way I say it now.

But 3 months ago, he told me that he had started reading a small book that someone had given him.

A book of the Injil in Arabic. And he said he did not understand everything, but he understood some of it.

And he said, “Yusuf, the man in this book sound like the man you described.”

I said, “Father, it is the same man.” My mother is different. My mother, after I told her the whole story, went quiet for 2 days.

On the third day, she came into my room and she held my hand and she said, “Yusuf, when I was pregnant with you, I had a dream.

In the dream, a man I did not know stood at the foot of my bed and he told me that my son would find him one day and that when my son found him, I would also find him.

I never told anyone this dream. I did not understand it. I thought it was a devil trying to lead me away from my faith.

So, I pushed the dream out of my mind. But today, listening to you, I remembered the dream and I think the man at the foot of my bed was the man you met.

My mother prays differently now. She still wear her hijab. She still lives as she has always lived outside the house.

But inside the house at night when she prays, she prays to him now. She calls him by his name.

She says, “Yeshua.” And she says she has never in her life felt so heard.

I am telling you all of this from Cairo, where we came when the war made it impossible to stay.

I am working again fixing things as I have always done. My wife, Amal, yes, I married her.

We married 3 months after I came out of the coma. We did not wait for the dowry.

Her father gave us his blessing because he said a man who has come back from death should not be made to wait for paperwork.

Amal has also come to know him. She came to know him slowly over many months asking me question after question.

She asked me once, “Does he love women the same as men?” Because in some of what she had been taught, she had not always felt equal.

I told her what he told me. He loves every book in the library the same.

He knelt down for every one of them. I want to say something now to the person listening to this because he told me to.

He told me that when I tell the story, I should not only tell the story.

I should turn at the end and speak to the one who is listening. So, let me speak to you.

If you are Muslim and you are listening to this, I am not telling you to throw your faith away.

I am telling you that the God your mother has been reaching for with her five prayers a day is a God who has a face.

And his face is Isa. And he is not angry with you for not knowing.

He has been waiting for you to know. He is not somewhere far. He is close.

He is closer than your own pulse. He hears you when you whisper at night.

He hears you when you cannot sleep. He hears you when you ask questions you are afraid to ask out loud.

He is not afraid of your questions. He made the questions. If you are a Christian and you have been going to church for a long time, but you do not feel him, I want to say to you, he is not in the building.

He is not only in the building. He is in your kitchen and in your car and in the hospital room and in the prison cell.

He is not a rule. He is a person. A person with a face like a carpenter from the Middle East with dark eyes full of fire.

And he knows your name. And he has been waiting for you to speak to him like you would speak to a friend instead of like you would speak to a judge.

If you are someone who does not believe in anything at all and you have listened this far only because my story is strange.

I only want to ask you one question. If what I am saying is true, even a little bit of it, would it change how you are living?

I am not asking you to believe me. I am asking you to ask him.

You do not have to use any special words. You do not have to kneel on any special mat.

You can ask him in your own bedroom tonight. You can say, “If you are real, show yourself.”

That is all. That is the prayer that started it for me. And I did not even know I was praying it.

I was praying it with my whole life. He heard it. He will hear yours.

I want to say one last thing before I finish. Sudan is still bleeding as I record this.

My city is still in pieces. My uncle is still buried in the ground near a mosque that is half destroyed.

I am not telling you everything is better. I am not selling you a story where the hero comes home and everything is fine.

Many things are not fine. I cry most weeks. I miss my country. I miss the smell of my mother’s kitchen before the war.

I miss my uncle’s laugh. I miss the small streets of Omdurman in the evening when the heat breaks and the children come out to play football in the dust.

But I have him. I have him with me in Cairo the way I had him in Omdurman without knowing.

And every morning I wake up and I remember his hands and the wounds in them.

And I remember that the scale is broken. And I am not carrying it anymore.

And I am free in a way I did not know a man could be free.

And I know that one day I will see him again. And this time I will not be sent back.

This time I will stay. That is what I wanted to tell you. My name is Yusuf.

I am from Omdurman. I died on the 23rd of April 2023 and I saw the king and he sent me back with a message and the message is this.

He is coming soon. And until he come, he is here. And he is not waiting for you to be good enough.

He broke the scale a long time ago with his own hand so that you would never have to carry it again.

Come and see him. He is already looking at you.