Abid.. The Tire

By Babiker Ismail

Abid was born in the mid-1990s. His father, Al-Fateh, and his mother, Suad, graduated from the Faculty of Economics at the University of Khartoum in the mid-1980s.
Al-Fateh worked at the Ministry of Finance, and Suad worked at Bank of Khartoum.
Like many of his generation, Abid attended private schools and graduated in 2016 with a diploma in Computer Science from Bahri University.
Until the December Revolution, Abid had not landed any stable job.

He was passionate about the revolution, emotionally invested in it, and participated in the sit-in at army headquarters. However, he wasn’t present on the night of the massacre. His parents had traveled for their annual Ramadan pilgrimage (‘Umrah), and it was his responsibility to fill the water tank and turn on the house lights each night. It was also the eve of Eid al-Fitr, and his mother had assigned him some house chores in preparation for the holiday. After completing those tasks, Abid felt exhausted and decided not to return to his tent at the sit-in that night.

Abid became one of the earliest to show up in the million-man marches and one of the most fearless front-liners, gaining fame for his courage and daring.
He singlehandedly lit at least fifty tires on fire, earning him the nickname “Abid al-Lastik” (Abid the Tire).

He would ignite a tire and watch the thick smoke rise steeply upward—mesmerized by the swirling black plumes as they spiraled toward the sky.
He followed the smoke’s dance with reverence until it disappeared. Then, he would fix his gaze on the tongues of flame melting the rubber, revealing the tire’s internal steel mesh, gradually emerging like bones stripped of flesh.

The firelight cast shimmering reflections across Abid’s face, and a quiet, devout gleam shone in his eyes as he murmured softly:
“Glory to the tire…
And to everyone who lit a tire and burned with it…
Aha hiyya… Aha hiya…”

As the months passed, daily protests waned, and the spark of the revolution began to fade. The once-massive marches became feeble. But Abid’s love for the tire had only deepened—it consumed his entire soul.

One night, Abid decided to claim a tire his neighbor, Awad Al-Zein, had wedged at the street corner to prevent buses and rickshaws from splashing muddy water against his house during the rainy season.

At 2 a.m., Abid climbed over their own home’s wall, dropped quietly to the street, and pressed his back and arms against the wall as he crept along. Step by cautious step, he reached Awad’s three-paneled gate, crouched before it, and leaned just far enough not to rattle the door’s locks.

Raising his hips quietly, he crawled closer to the tire—his beloved—until he was seated in its hollow center, one-third of it sunk in the ground. He tucked his head and arched his back, curling his body to fit entirely inside the tire.

He reached out to hug it, kissed it, inhaled its scent longingly, then extended his torso halfway out while whispering with panting passion:
“Glory to the tire…
Glory to the tire…”

He rocked his body up and down in devotion until exhaustion overcame him.
He collapsed in prostration, surrendering, tears soaking the dirt beneath his face.

Then he stood, grunted the tire free from the ground, and climbed back over the wall into his home—cradling his sacred tire.
“Aha hiya… Aha hiya…”

He quietly slid the tire under his bed, careful not to wake his younger brother, Mu’min, who lay in deep sleep after a night of Xbox gaming.

Each night, after Mu’min slept, Abid would perform his rituals:
He placed the tire before him and, prostrating, whispered:

“Glory to the tire” — three times.
Then again:
“Glory to the tire…
Glory to the tire…”

He saluted the barricades to his right, and to his left all who ever lit a tire and burned with it.
This was his nightly prayer.

Then the calamity struck:
The Committee for Dismantling the Former Regime dismissed his parents from their jobs after their return from the following Ramadan pilgrimage.
It was a devastating blow. Abid spent his nights weeping before his tire, sobbing uncontrollably, occasionally pausing to murmur:

“Glory to the tire and to those who lit it and burned with it…
Aha hiyya…
Aha hiyya…”

Suad heard that some neighborhood youths had migrated to Europe through Libya. She and Al-Fateh decided to sell her gold so that Abid could travel and start anew in Europe.

Within a week, Abid had made up his mind.
Suad packed his travel bag along with another filled with cakes, dates, and tahini—his favorite snack.

He didn’t forget to take a small piece of inner tire rubber, about the size of a handkerchief. He wrapped it carefully and placed it in a small pouch along with his documents and money.

What brought him the most joy, though, was that the Mediterranean crossing was aboard a giant rubber dinghy—resembling the rear tire of a tractor.

Whenever waves surged or winds howled, Abid would clutch his tire remnant and chant with frantic desperation:
“Glory to the tire…
Glory to the tire…”

The sea would calm.
The winds would die down.
And Abid would smile, joyfully repeating:
“Aha hiyya… Aha hiyya…”

The sea remained calm the entire journey, and they arrived safely on European shores.

At last, Abid the Tire reached Britain, his final destination.
After completing his asylum process, he bought a small tire from the first repair shop he saw and took it with his belongings to London.

Upon arrival, he went straight to the spacious green square facing Parliament at Westminster.
He pulled out a lighter and a plastic bottle of half a liter of gasoline.
He doused the tire, set it alight, and watched the flames rise—dancing before the halls of power.

Overwhelmed, Abid cried out:

“Glory to the tire…
Glory to the tire…
Glory to the barricades…
And to all who lit the tire and burned with it…”

Armed Scotland Yard officers rushed toward him as he continued his chants.
Seeing them, he shouted:

“Glory to Britain!
Glory to King Charles… the tire!
Madaniyaoo! Madaniyaoo!”
(A revolutionary chant for civilian rule.)

Five burly officers tackled him, pinned him to the ground, and handcuffed him as he roared:

“Madaniyaoo!
Kandaka’s here!
Police ran!
No to military rule!
The regime’s enforcers are bastards!
Glory to Aha Hiyya…
Wi… Wi… Wi…”

A fire truck arrived and extinguished the burning tire.
Smoke dwindled.
A few strands of steel cords poked from the charred rubber—like the teeth of a grinning child—gazing down at Abid, now shackled by British police.

Abid was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in London after his trial and interrogation.
He is now continuing his computer science studies at a prestigious London university.

He has since returned to the faith of his parents, Al-Fateh and Suad,
after his tire-induced mania.
He now looks to the future with renewed hope.