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But I have not come here to think about Mustafa Sa’eed, for here, craning their necks in front of us, are the closely-packed village houses, made of mud and green bricks, while our donkeys press forward as their nostrils breathe in the scent of  clover, fodder, and water.

(Tayeb Salih, Season of Migration to the North, tr. D. Johnson-Davies)