"Gabadhaada Saaxiibkeeda waa Midgaan": War illeyn balaayo badanaa

Adigu ma aragtay rag maseyraya sida dumarka? Haddaad maya kujawaabtay, war baa kaa maqan. Sideedaba bani'aadmigu wax iskuma ogola; mid walba midka kale ayuu eeganaya; uma ogola wax horumar ah; oo waa waardiye aan mushaharo lagu siin waardiyenimadiisa.

Dhowr qof oo ay ubadanyihiin dhallinyaro Soomaaliyeed ayaa meel kawada shaqeynjiray. Goobta ganacsi oo warshad ahayd ayaa waxaa iska lahaa nin caddaan ah. Wiilahashii Soomaali wiil kamid ah ayey is caashaqeen gabadh uu dhalay milkilaha warshadda. Raggii kale ee Soomaaliyeed ayaa kacarooday caashaqa wiilka iyo gabadha maalqabeenka. Waxay kutashadeen inay usheegaan aabbaha gabadha bal in uu wax kaqabto arrinkan argagaxa badan.

Maalin maalmaha kamid ah ayey usheegeen aabbihii gabadha inuu wax kaqabto arrinkan murugsan. Waxay usheegeen in wiilka gabadhiisa caashaqay yahay midgaan Soomaalida dhexdeedana kayahay mid takooran. Odeygii ayaa wuxuu weydiiyay dhallintii ama raggii iney dhammaan yihiin Soomaali iyo in kale. Waxay yiraahdeen, 'haa Soomaali beynu nahay laakiin wiilka iyo wixii ay ehel wadaagaanba isma guursano, isma dhex degno, islamana cunno ama wadaagno xitaa cuntada'; kaaso kayaabiyey gabadhi aabbaheeda.

Wuxuu kuyiri 'waa hagaage, bal berrito isku kaayakeena'. Halkii ayuu sheekada ugu xiray. Maaliintii xigtay ayuu raggii Soomaaliyeed kulmiyey. Qaddar kadib, wuxuu guddoonsiiyay waraaqo lagaga eryaya shaqada. Waxaa loo sheegay inay yihiin kuwo kudhaqma midab kalasooc oo cadaawad daran ay lafaha kagashay. Sidii ayey kushaqo seegeen. Gabadhii iyo wiilkiina way aqal galeen.

Kafiirso Intaadan Falin

Culusow Soomaalida kale ee looyaqaan 'faradheerta' waa uu kayara duwanaa; wuxuu ahaa nin qunyar socod ah oo innaba hayaraatee aan degdegin walow hal maalin sidii labaatan jir ah uu kabooday geed-geedkaasoo ah talo xumo uusan sifiican uga baaraandegin. Sidiisaba wuxuu ahaa nin firfircoono shaqo badan oon marnaba ogolaan inuu gacan dadeed wax kasugo. Yaraantiisi ayuu bartay farsamada baaburta; waa waagii Soomaaliya ahayd dawlad laga wada aqoonsanaa daafaha dunida oo dhan. Waxaa Ilaahey kumaneystay itaaldheeri iyo labolafoodnimo; wuxuu ahaa nin heybad iyo maamuus udhashay; weligiis geed maxagan; abidkiis cudur maqaar kumadhicin; gabadhaan aqoon summadiisana, waxay weligeed kunoolaan jirtay murugo iyo ciil aysan abidkeed kabogsoon. Laakiin, wuxuu kadhashay qoys sabool ah, taasaana usaamixi weyday inuu dugsiyada waxbarashada arday kanoqdo. Guurna haba sheegin waayo wuxuu ahaa 'doob qalanjadiis gabay'. Wax balwad ah malaheyn sidaasuuna uga magangalay cudurada jirka dhalinteena jilciyay ayagoon xoogsan.

Dabcan, dad badano dan yar iska ahaa, ayaa kheyr badan kala kulmay burburkii kudhacay dawladii Soomaaliyeed ee Maxamed Siyaad Barre uu katalin jiray. Culusow iyo qoyskii uu kadhashay waxayba heleen daryeel gaar ahaaneed maadaama markan ay soo galeen wadanka Kiiniya ood moodo xoogaa in ay qadarineysay sinnaanta iyo caddaaladda siiba xeryaha qaxootiga oo ay maamuleysay laanta qaxootiga ee Qaramada Middobay. Nimaan waxba aqoon xeryaha qaxootiga waa ay kusaxariir waayo waxa wax laga sugaa waa raashiinka yar ee ay qeybiso UNCHCR. Culusow, intuu waalidkiisa iyo walaalihiisaba dejiyay guri carshaan ah oo uu gacantiisa kudhisay, ayuu shaqo tegey. Maadaama uu ahaa farsamo yaqaan, waxaa markiiba shaqo geliyay hay'ad samafal ah oo uu usameyn jiray baabuurta kahalaaba ama ciladeysan. Noloshiisi waxaa kudhacay isbedel weyn maadaama uu qaadan jiray lacag badan bil walba. Muddo yar kadib, wuxuu waalidkiisi iyo walaalahiisaba ufuray dukaan kaaso soo gelin jiray hanti farabadan.

Wax yar kadib, waxaa lasoo ogeysiiyay in dhammaan loo qaadayo cariga Mareykanka. Waxba kama soo wareegin markuu keligiisa maray baaritaankii iyo caafimaadkii lagu yaqiin laanta socdaalka. Wax dhib ah lama uusan kulmin bil kadibna waxaa lagu wargeliyay in howshiisi tahay gebagebo. Farxad iyo reynreyn ayuu lajoogi waayey Culusow. Wuxuu markasta oran jiray 'nimba boogta kutaal asagey bilbishaa'. Damiirkiisa ayaa usaamixi waayey in uu kusii dhexnoolaado hal qowmiyado isku af ah, isku diin ah, oo isku dhaqan ah. Wuxuu islahaa 'bal mar un aad qaboojisid laabta bilbileysa'.

Wax latiriyey taag malehee, Culusow waxaa looso qaaday Mareykanka waxaana ladejiyay magaalo aad iyo aad uweyn. Maalmihii xigey ayaa lashaqo geeyay. Wuxuu kaloo bilaabay waxbarasho uusan hore uhelin. Wuxuu kaloo bilaabay jirdhis iyo jimicsi iyo inuu cuno cunto nafaqo badan iyo weliba qudaarta oo aysan Soomaalida isku fiicneyn. Nafaqo daradii haysay way kahaaday wuxuuna jirkiisa ku arkay isbedel weyn. Shaqada makaanignimada oo lagu yaqaan hawl badnaan ayaa usii dheerayd. Dhibkii iyo rafaadkii badnaa ayuu kareystay.

Laqabshada dhaqanka reer galbeedka waxba kuma aysan qaadan. Waxay isbarteen gabadh Soomaaliyeedo quruxley ah. In muddo ah ayey is shukaansanayeen. Gabadhu ayadana waxay ahayd mid aan yareysan xaga quruxda. Culusow inbadan ayuu kabaaraandegay lasocodkeeda. Wuxuu kuqasbay ineysan meel fagaare ah ugu immaan oo ay kubalamaan meel kaloo Soomaalida laga aqoon siiba magaalooyinka yaryare kayara fog tan ay kunoolaayeen. Wuxuu iska ilaalin jiray maqaayadaha Soomaalida iyo meelaha kale ee ay kucaweysimaan 'farodheerta'. Waxaa bartilmaameed unoqday maqaayadaha cuntooyinka macaan siiba kuwa dadka Shiinaha, Bakistaaniyiinta, iyo Hindida.

Istarliin waxay ogaatay inaysan kukhasaarin diidmadii faraha badnaa ee rag badano ilmo adeeradeeda ahaa ay kugacanseydhay. Calaf waa nasiibe, waxay go'aansadeen inay sida ugu dhakhsaha badan uqalgalaan sifa ay ubad kheyr qaba ukala helaan. Culusow oon lagu aqoon lexjeclo iyo wixii lahalmaala ayaa wuxuu kutalaabsaday inuu isku keeno wixii guri looga baahnaa. Wuxuu dalbaday daahyada Suuriya oo laga keenay magaalada Dimishiq; wuxuu kuwargeliyay nin gancsade ah oo Yemeni ah inuu udalbo kuraas carbeed noocii ugu dambeeyay; wuxuu Istarliin ugaday gaari nooca afarta lugood roga ee looyaqaan 'Cadillac' ahna nooca ugu wanaagsan ee Mareykanka kufaano; hadal iyo dhammaantii wixii yaryaraa ee guriga kadhinaana wuu soo dhammeystiray. Wuxuu gabadhiisii udalbay dahab nooc aan hore loo arag. Wuxuu Istarliin usoo ijaaray dharka arooska ee udhaqanka ah Reer Galbeedka. Sidoo kale wuxuu soo gatay dhar qiimo badan ee ah nooca 'three piece suit'.

Istarliin waxaa loo diray meelaha hablaha isku qurxiyaan waxaana xinnaha umariyay gabadh Hindiyad ah. Waxay labadooduba kuheshiiyeen in aysan arooskooda kadhigin meelaha Soomaalida kubadantahay sifa buuqa iyo sawaxanka unoqdo mid lagu raaxeysto. Istarliin waxay martigelisey dhowr rag iyo dumar ah asagana sidoo kale wuxuu uyeeray saaxiibadiisa oo isugu jiray Soomaali iyo ajaanib. Habeenkii arooska waxaa lawada dareemay damaashaad xasiloon iyo iskudhafnaan miisaaman. Saddex saacadood kadib, arooska iyo aroosadda waa la aqalgeeyay ayadoon wax xiisad ah dhicin.

Istarliin guurkeedii Culusow way kunasatay waayo culeys badano saarnaa ayaa kafuqay. Culusow ayaa kala wareegay lacagihii ay waalidkeeda udiri jirtay. Dhammaan eheladeeda ayuu lacag kudaadshey kana qaaday diiftii badneyd ee ay la ildaraayeen. Istarliin waxay noqotay hooyo guri joog ah oo aan marna kawelwelin duruufo adag oo soo wajaha waalidkeeda iyo walaalaheeda kuharay Soomaaliya. Culusow wxuu kaloo biili jiray waalidiintiisa iyo walaalahiisa oo uu uga soo hayaamay xeryihii qaxootiga ee kuyiil Kiiniya.

Bil kadib Istarliin waxay qaaday uur; toddobo bilood kadibna dhakhaatiirta dhalmada ayaa usheegay inay caloosha kusido wiil. Labadooduba waxaa kuso kordhay raxmad iyo farxad hor leh. Waxay sugaanba waa wiil iyo caano. Bishii sideedaad ayaa qoys guurkooda kaqeyb galay arooskoodii aaday Soomaaliya siiba magaaladii Culusow kudhashay. Waxay dhalashada wiilkooda sugaanba; waxaa maalin maalmaha kamid ah soo dhacay telefoon laga soo diray dal shisheeye. Illeyn waa saaxiibteed Istaahiil oo ay isku magaalo ahaayeen Culusow. Inteysan telefoonka soo dirin, ayey Istaahil booqatay
qoyskii Culusow kadhashay. Telefoonkan ayey ugu warami doonta saaxiibteed Istarliin wixii ay kalakulantay siyaaradani.

"Hello, waa tuma", ayey Istarliin weydiisay qofka soo wacaya.
"Abbaayo, waa aniga Istaahil, ee seetahay", ayey saaxiibteed ugu jawaabtay.
"Abbaayo, waan fiicanahay" ayaa kaso yeeray Istarliin.
"Naa heedhe, waxaan tegey xaafadii ninkaaga Culusow, waxaana soo ogaaday in ninkani yahay midgaan".
"Ala hoogayey, maxaad tiri, naa makaa dhab baa"?, ayey tiri Istarliin oo hal mar jirkeeda wadadhididay.
"Awalba been iguma aadan ogeynee, ee xajiso hadalkeyga. Waxaan gurigooda kuso arkay eeyo farabadan, waxayna deganyihiin xaafadii dadkii takoornaa, ee bal lahal ninkeyga aad rumeysatide", intay tiri ayey telefoonka kuwareejisay odeygii.
"War heedhe, maad iga deysaan dheesha"?, ayey Istarliin kutiri Istaahil ninkeeda.
"Waa wareey, hadal waa laguu dhammeeyay baan filaya", ayuu laso booday Istaahil ninkeeda.

Meeshii waxaa kabilowday fowdo iyo dagaal. Istarliin wey xanuunsatay waxaana lageeyay isbitaalka dhalmada dumarka halkaaso ay kujirtay ilaa ay kadhasho. Mar alaale markii isbitaalka laga fasaxay, ayey wiilkii dhalaanka ahaa faraha kasaartay Culusow kuna tiri, "qabso, waa midgaane kulabeyso". Halkii ayey kaga dhaqaajisay.

Culusow waxaa soo foodsaaray culeys uu xamili waayey. Wuxuu wargeliyey xafiiska qaabilsan danaha caruurta waxaana loo sheegay inuu soo raadsado qof haweeney ah oo uhaya canuga oo loo qoro mushahar. Dumar badano shaqo la'aan ahaa ayaa saf usoo galay ugu dambeyntiina waxaa hantiyey xanaaneyntiisa duq Karaay Kuuleey oo aan sidaa udhib badneyn.

Culuusow sidaasi kuma uusan samrine, wuxuu lashowray immaamka masjidka oo ka balan qaaday inuu laxiriiri doono hooyadii dhashey canuga. Istarliin oo markaasi soo reysatay ayuu imaamkii lakulmay unasheegay iney mudantahay ciqaab daran Ilaahey hortiisa haddii ay canugeeda soo ceshanweydo. Welina waa laga warsugaya. Culusow, magablamin wuxuu sugaaba waa wiilkiisii nasabka ahaa ee ay udhashay hooyadii 'farodheerta' aheyd oo ukora.

CHASTE AS IT WAS

Whoever was occupying the solitary toilet, I thought, must be dead or obnoxiously insensitive. For how else could I explain a man sitting in a desolate toilet for over fifteen minutes now? As if he was reading my mind, a man way back in the slowly forming queue grumbled, ‘Is this cursed creature inside, mistaking this stinking toilet for a sauna room adorned with gold moldings, silk drapes and crystal chandeliers?’ the impatient man rubbed his stubble for a moment, and wagged his finger, admonishingly, at the mysterious occupant of the small pit latrine. ‘He must come out in the next thirty seconds or else, I am going to throw him out!’ he yelled. Giggles were traded.

For over ten minutes, I stood in front of the toilet in that dusty airport, waiting for my turn to come. The pain in my bladder was excruciating. But I kept reminding myself of the virtues of patience and empathy. Empathy to the man inside, who I had no idea what he was going through? I knew it was at such testing moments that temper is never allowed to reign.

‘Seriously, this man is (miraculously) giving birth to twins and is not relieving himself’, said a cheeky man, munching green leafs of Qat as he aimlessly strode past me. Subconsciously gazing at the handwritten sign that read ‘Toilet, no use of stones permitted’, I saw my old school in it. Twenty two years ago, we were the graduating class.

Tales abounded, in the school, why Haybe was getting so many love missives lately, all of a sudden. For three years, he was the man every one of us pulled his leg. We knew he was at his wits end when it comes to finding a caring lover. As we dash to the post office to collect love letters from our ‘fiancés’, he was the lone member of the contingent who had naught to attend to. And God, what a hard time we gave him! He was the man all of us recited our valor to, and who listened to it patiently as Quresh, Ruqiya, Asli, Dulmar’s and many more girl’s secrets spurted to the floor.

Nevertheless, that final year of our study, started off with many surprises. Of which, the deluge of Haybe’s serene life with letters was the most astonishing. Not only was he receiving a notice of a newly arrived letter (week in week out), but the names and locations on the ‘from’ side of the envelopes -plaid with red and blue on the corners- were equally startling. Unlike the old and boring names which we used to brag about, his were newer and fancier. And not all from the rural homes we came from. Ibtisam from Liboye (Kenya), Hani from Mogdisho, Taslim from Hargeisa, Ugbaad from Galcayo etc, etc. ‘Where the hell did you meet all these girls? And how do you rate them?’ we implored him for explanation, green with envy. For it was always more appetizing to be in touch with Hani than Quresh, we thought.

They were not in short supply. Yes, tales were coming in multitude. Some said, he has been going around all these places during the school vacation; while others insisted many of these girls are pen-pals whom he never met. In fact, the girl from Liboye refuge camp was said to be his niece who fled the war in Somalia with her family. But that must be the chatter of disgruntled peers amongst us. I saw one letter from her, and I think it contained ‘macaane Haykal’. Now, we all knew there was no way Haybe would render his correct name to the girls. It sounded so frightening, and symbolized charcoal. So Haykal is the ‘nom de amour’ we understood.

What was most infuriating for us was the content of the letters. Contrary to the ‘how is your health? Here I and everybody else is fine, and wishes you good health’ cliché-filled white papers from Dulmar’s and Canbaro’s (as if they were our family-doctor’s painstakingly checking on our sugar levels); his were embellished with pictures of hearts and scents of rose, with mellow and sublime ‘side tahay, qalbiga? Waxa aan xassuustaa…’ type uplifting passages.

It was by accident that one of us found out that Haybe himself actually drafts the letters purported to have been sent by the girls and then sends to his address from another post office. He caught him red-handed while doing it. It was painful to learn the extent our reckless scoff impacted on his self-esteem. He finally confessed, tearfully. ‘I was sick and tired of being the deuteragonist all these years’ he sobbed. That closed the curtain on his luscious sources of self-worth. We vowed never to dishearten him again.

Still standing at the Airport, the man next on the line patted me at the back and asked where I was going to. I was awakened by his hand from thought of the olden days. I told him. Then, he started his story. He said he was watching the RTD (Radio-Television Djibouti) last night on the Arabsat, when he suddenly found out that his wife was making the headlines. ‘I jumped up. For what is she there? When did she go to Djibouti?’ I said. Apparently, his wife, who recently graduated from an embroidery school, thinks she is an erudite and modern woman. I should have known, he murmured, what Professor Saleeye told me. I had no idea who the professor he is referring to was.

‘Professor Saleeye enlightened me, how our women are learning the wrong way,’ he said. ‘The professor said, if you see women Doctors, Engineers, or Pilots from India, China or Japan, they are all dressed up in their national costumes, speak their languages with pride, and are not necessarily averse to ‘traditional’ home-values and division of labour. Indeed, in the east, educated women strive to open-up education and employment opportunities for the other unlucky girls and women, uphold progressive cultural and societal capitals, and encourage the integration of useful western values into their native mores and norms that have served them well for centuries.’

‘So why do you feel ours are not doing the same?’ I asked.
‘Because I know from my own experience. Ours are blighted with confusion and vengeance against men. For them, civilization 101 starts with vituperative rhetoric of ’men and women are equal! Down with the male, and to hell with headscarves! They spend their energy on trivialities.’
‘Are you sure you are not bitter because they are demanding long-denied rights?’ I asked.
‘I am not crying for lost privileges, my friend. The thing is, of all the issues that await them, why do myopically focus on upsetting family cohesions, and initiation of unwarranted scuffles. Why do they give too much weight to ‘the man should cook for me, and wash the dishes’ slogans? Even, in situations (unlike in the West) where there are no pressing conditions for that to be done.
‘I think there is no harm in us doing those works. But I agree with you, that if respect is mutual in the family, then sharing house chores could be agreed upon cordially without any bitterness. And I concur with you that the element of coercion is the spoiler here. In addition, the prejudice that the ‘whites’ are culturally more superior to us is what we have to repel.’

He shook his head and finally told me what happened last night. According to his story, he expected his wife to be in her family’s home - attending to her sick mother. At least, that is what she told him before she left the house, two days ago. But he says, he was dumbfounded when the news reader of the TV broadcasted pictures of Yusra, his wife, donning a cap, and with big dark sunglasses. ‘A delegation of young women has arrived today from Diredawa to pay a week-long visit, aimed at fostering the sisterly relations between the youth of the two cities. Marwo Yusra, the head of the delegation told journalists that this year’s event is organized under the slogan ‘Free movement for women bolsters family cohesion’ the TV man said, the stranger-friend told me. He held his mouth with his hands, and quizzed me, ‘mind you, with no notice. With no permission. Do you think this will bolster our unity? No way. She will see!’ he vowed.

Suddenly, the door of the toilet opened, and a skinny short man walked out, throwing his hands. He was furious. ‘Now, do you call yourselves human beings? I have epilepsy and fell down inside the toilet, and no one comes to my rescue? Thankfully, it was before I started and I am not messed up’ he walked away - dejected.

The man who told me his wife’s story was the next after me, but on account of his age, I allowed him to take my turn. Some at the back of the line murmured. Disrespect? The humiliation the man was dealt by his wife triggered reflections of parallels I knew about. My mind quickly raced back to that final year in my school. And to Haybe.

Despite our earlier undertaking not to disappoint Haybe again, when in the same year – the graduation year, we saw his pick of partner from the Eve’s descendants; we couldn’t let him ruin himself. Not before our own eyes!

‘Naagtan faraha ka qaad! She is not for you. She is worthless’, all of us thundered on the daunted Haybe; who in his confusion cocked his head to his left, eyes fixed on the sand flooring, as if to say enough, enough, I hear it, but would you please end it. The torment was unbearable, I felt.

‘What is with her? And why are you so much concerned?’ he said, after he somewhat recovered from the initial agony.
Mahdi never minces his words. ‘Everything is wrong with her. In fact, it would have been easier to answer, had you asked what is right with her. Don’t you see the way she dresses, the way she talks and most of all the unfaithfulness? By the way, even if she is the most righteous girl in the city, would it matter, as long as everybody in town sees her entirely differently? And that is what they do.’
‘You haven’t said anything.’ Haybe got heart from the lack of evidence of the supposed culpability of his love.
‘I have said everything, if you have ears. Must I say she is the toast of men of all ages? Or ought I to tell you, what her epithet these days is: ‘the river of the country’. Do you see the jab here? Or you are God’s sheep as I suspected? War meesha waa laga wada cabbaa!’

Nobody disdains Haybe as a squeamish soul, but with what is just being said against Hibo, he had a fill of insult. His neck prickled with ire. Testicles are patted, and there was no way he will let this go with impunity. He charged forward, tooth clenched, eyes red-shot, and got the chin of the last talker- who, frankly, he doesn’t recall who he was anymore- with a head butt. Blood gushed out and smeared shirts. The frenzy and the swapping of blows didn’t let us distinguish who was bleeding and who wasn’t. If we hadn’t intervened in time, I bet grave-diggers would have had at least one more body to rest, that day.

The next morning, all of my friends handed the weight of convincing Haybe to ditch that crazy girl down to me. We knew he was head over heals for her, but we also knew she will land him in unfathomable mess. I, the self-proclaimed most liberal of all the guys, wondered what is so special of the girl, that blinded the serene friend of us, from the glaring reality. For it was true, that Hibo was seen entwined with so many men, that nowadays, it has become easier to recall the date and place she was sighted, than to describe the man with whom she was last seen. It was rumored she goes out with men on an hourly basis.

When we were compiling evidence on her infidelity, we were astounded by what we saw and heard. Yusuf would come with the story of ‘she was with a young boy-half her age, jeego-xiir ah, and they held hand-in-hand,’ with a wrath that leaves one wondering whether he is just imparting information, or bemoaning a harsh rout in a love contest. Xaashi said, he saw her with a very old man, balding and white-haired (driving a Toyota Pick-up). He added that on top of the Pick-up car was flour-mill, and that he suspects the man might be an owner of a bakery in the town.

‘Waxba maydaan arkin idinku’, Shakuur bellowed. ‘Last night, when I was coming back from the library, I saw two men and a girl walking side by side on the first street. The girl was in between and was holding the hand of one man, while she was in passionate cuddle with the other one.’ He heaved a sigh of disgust, and went on. ‘Where on earth is such a game being played? It was Hibo.’

And he heard. Haybe was listening to all of these. But when I finally took him to a secluded pastry, and started to give a useful counsel why it is for the good of him, I and other friends are concerned, he only spoke one sentence: ‘why don’t you leave me alone?’ Later, while in our study (and sleeping) room-we were all students- he played Hanuniye’s ‘dadbaa jira waalanoo haday wax is rabba arkaan ukala wariya xumaan…Jacaylkeena ka weyn’, over and over as if the tiny National Panasonic tape that we bought collectively belongs to him alone.

Then it slowly crossed my mind. Why can’t I meet the young lady and make out all I need to know. I knew their home; but again, why go into all that intricacy. Is she not going to pass by the front of the cafeteria ‘leopards’ loiter for their pray, ‘I think I love my wife cafeteria’. Mostly, married men assemble there; men they call the ‘undeterred elderly’, who would not hesitate to nib the bud of any wayward virgin. Hibo was restless and wayward. She wasn’t a filly, though. Not anymore. She was in her early thirties. Yet, she still conducted herself as if she was in the eve of the days when she was in her fullness of adolescence; just coming to bloom. The impertinent fellows who roost there say Hibo passes by, at least, twice a day. If she doesn’t, then she didn’t need to. She has her man already.

I didn’t need to look for her for long. There she was, by the side of Xabiibi’s shop. I shook hands with her and started telling her the purpose of my meeting with her. Barely did I finish the first sentence, when she cut me short.

‘Are you talking about your friend Haybe? Or you are here for, let us say to try your luck?’ she said, and then let out a mock chortle. It was a rather wry humour to me.
‘Of course, I am here to talk to you about why you are not treating my friend well. You know he is ready to marry you. Why can’t you de-crowd yourself?’ I was getting disconcerted.
‘First of all, I am a woman. I talk to a thousand and marry one. Don’t you know that?’ she said derisively, and strode back and forth, with as much panache as she could muster.
‘But you are abusing that antiquated aphorism. It is practiced by you in that face, literally. How many are you talking to right now! Three hundred, five hundred, two thousand? No body knows. And to be honest with you, that is not the issue. It is not about talking to men. It is about…’ I almost said what wasn’t a secret to anyone in town; but decided against it in the nick of time.
‘What are they saying? She is a provider? I know and I don’t care. Anything else?’ had I said the talk is about how well you dress, she couldn’t have been more indifferent. And she gave vent to her indecency with a loud guffaw and wiggle of her waist.

I didn’t reckon that respectful one bit, but even before I went far with the probe of what she thinks about Haybe, a young boy came running from the street, and stood right beside the wall she was leaning on. ‘Hibo, Jaamac says I am not in that house tonight; come to the other one. Near the airport.’ The boy scratched his head as if he expected something, but she motioned with her hand for him to go. And then the telephone rang. Not her mobile; there were no mobile phones those days. The telephone in the shop, next door. A tall man stretched his neck out of the window, pointing a hand towards her, and gestured ‘you have a call here’. She swiveled the first finger twice, to hint ‘let him ring later’ note.

On a hectic evening, he finally caught her. She was dining in ‘the hungry Hippos’ restaurant with a man who is a cashier in local remittance agent (xawaalad). We were with him, and he froze for a good ten minutes. It was time to go back to our tiny room and confer on the issue.

‘You see what we were telling you! Now, it is not you who is in charge. It is us. You have shamed us enough. We have become the objects of ridicule for everybody. Listen now.’ We all said one after another. And then issued commands to him. You will not to talk to her again, you will not pass by the route she passes, you will not utter her name, and most of all you will not talk to any of her woman friends. And a lot more of don’t do’s.

I remember his request. ‘I fully agree’, he said, ‘but allow me to see her one more time just to take my anger off my chest. I will tell her that she is not what I thought she is, that if she thinks I am not enough for her, she has made a big mistake and that she will end up in the hand of one of these losers.’ Permission not granted. Then he begged, ‘what about if I call her and say she should never come around me, please let me say that to her’. Again, a resounding no, was the consensus from us.

After a silence of maybe half-an- hour, Haybe made another request, this time more cogently. ‘Hey, friends, is it not weird that I just stop a relationship and the other player doesn’t know about it? No, no, I think I must let her know that it is over’.

Xashi’s patience waned. ‘You man. You look you are not yet over it. Why do you insist on seeing her again? It is over. Over. We said so, and don’t expect us to acquiesce to the whims of an infatuated man.’ Haybe looked at me with beseeching eyes. ‘Why don’t you say something, Caabi?’ his voice stuttered like a radio with a dead battery. Like the proverbial Hyena that run to the side of whoever showed mercy, among the hunting men; he likes to slope towards me when he is in an unpleasant condition. But he must have known, of all days today, I wasn’t going to come to his rescue. I was up to my neck in distaste for the young lady.

I told him to listen to his friends and heed their advice. It was clear he was making a valiant effort to contain his disappointment with our intrusion. Gradually, Haybe walked out of the room with melancholy. We later learned he actually confronted her with the allegations, but thankfully, Hibo assured him that it was all an ugly fib. Truth be told, the first acquaintance of a celestial visitor would have been Hibo, in that town. Was it Percy Sledge, who said Loving eyes can never see? Right, he was.

After a week, we were invited to their wedding rite. She insisted Axmaaro friends of her, must sing for the occasion. And the unambiguous wedding melody (of the Axmaaro) flowed, to the disapproval of many of us, who saw it as uncalled for and iconoclastic.

‘O! (You) Bride, O! (You) groom
To you comes, our heartily wishes
May your matrimony bloom
Like that of Abraham and Sara
Like Methuselah, May it live
For a long time, for eternity’

Three months later, it was time for divorce. Disregarding the blessings, they obviously lampooned Abraham and Sara. ‘What happened?’ We asked, recalling that in those early days of nuptial festivities, we were small with shame, and Haybe made sure we feel the pain of our crimes (by playing different songs that hailed the inevitability of the triumph of love over jealously and pernicious gossips) whenever we paid the newly-wed family an obligatory visit.

‘War bad baan galay’, he said, holding his head.’ I now know I wasn’t living in this town. ‘Rag aana magaaladda waligay ku arag baanu isbaranay’ these days. The bottom-line is my house became ‘Acapulco bay’ where the obscure love and lust chase of a Mexican series is played out. Sometimes, I think I am a receptionist in a massage parlour. ‘Where is Hibo?’ is the most used word of my days, and to my surprise, when visitors come, and when I face her with who they are, it is always ‘either her ina-abti or waa caadi’.

‘Kaalay, is the United Nations your reer-abti? I asked her once.’ He asked us, not soliciting any particular answer,’ how can folks of all nations and races surround my house and she tells me they are her ina-abti?’ He made us laugh when he defined ‘caadi’, not as a word, but as anything from ‘a bearded-stranger at your doorsteps asking for your wife, to a young lady who knocks at your door after midnight and whispers things in your wife’s ears’.

Her version was different. ‘Wuu bacoobay’, she said. ‘I don’t know why he is behaving so strangely? Before we married, he never protested against ‘people I socialize with’. He knows I am an avid lover of social discourse and interactions’.

As my patience paid off and I finally walked into the smelly toilet, it passed my mind, whether Haybe will think of us, with hindsight, as an insufferable hordes, or genuine friends with a legitimate cause for concern (who were on a scared mission of saving him a damned life)’. Considering that we disapproved of his second marriage as well, which since then proved a success; it isn’t so clear, I thought. Is it? And then Haybe’s words the last time I saw him, three years ago, reverberated in my mind. ‘Chaste as your friendship was, it was rude and abysmal’ he said. ‘The hurt, nonetheless, was adequately expiated by ever the healer - time’.

But, what intrigued me most was the pace of human mind, which in the span of seconds re-winded enormous recollections that had nothing to do with the purpose of my travel that day (I was going to Mecca for the Hajj). And, of all places, why would a toilet evoke memories that are held like dear treasures in my heart? It made no sense.

I asked myself, was the man right? “Are our women learning the wrong way?” I know I have some lingering misgivings about some ‘scholar’ women, but can I be so conclusive? I don’t know. Then, I heard the sound, ‘Passengers, passengers, you are reminded to please get ready to board’ and I hurried out of the toilet.

Dagaalkii Boqolka Kun ee Doolar

Qaxooti badanoo laga keena wadamadada saddexaad laguna soo daadgureeyo wadamada hodanka ah ee reer galgeedka ayaan aqoon fiican ulahayn sida looga kafa'ideysan karo kheyraad badanoo ay ka indho daboolan yihiin. Taasina waxaa daliil u ah marka aad eegto sida ay qaar u najaxeen qaarna uduloobeen. Waxaa jira kuwo soo galay ayagoon waxba haysan haddana maalqabeeno ah kuwaaso ay ufuranyihiin goobo ganacsi siiba dukaamada cuntada, dharka, iyo qudaarta; haddaad dhan kale jaleecdana waxaad arki kuwo tiro badano isugu jira waayeelo iyo dhalinyaro wax bartay ama dhiganaya ama kadhigaya jaamacadaha; yeynan iloobine waxaa jira kuwo kusaaqiday nolosha oo daba orda nolosha adduunka ee qaloocan kuwaaso isku mashquuliyay dhileysiga ama sinada; daroogada sida qaadka, khamriga, xashiishada iyo maandooriyeyaal cuseyb ku ah ummadda Soomaaliyeed.

Haddaba, waxaa jira qoys iskutaxluujiyay sidii ay uga samatabixi lahaayeen gaajada iyo wixii lahalmaala. Waa labo islafahmay sida loo dheelo shaxda musuqmaasuq aan hore loo arag. Daadirow iyo Duniyo waxay Soomaaliya ku ahaayeen danyar muruqmaal ah oo si ba'an ula dagaali jiray gaajada. Hadaba, haddii ay heleen fursad qaali ah taaso ah deganaansho wadan rer Galbeed, waxay niyoodeen inay si dhakhsa ah ulacageystaan kadibna kunoqdaan wadankoodii hooyo goortii nabadi dhacdo.

Kadib markey isla falanqeeyeen sida ay wax ufarsameyn lahaayeen, ayey isla arkeen in dheesha ay kafududahay siday moodayeen. Ajendihii ay hindiseen ayaa wuxuu lanoqday wax sahal ah. Horaa loo yiri lacagi lacag bey dhashaa. Haddii ay si fiican ushaqeystaan, dee Soomaaliya waxaa looga aqoonsan tijaariin ama maalqabeen. Mid waliba habeenkii wanaag buu kuriyoodaa. Waxay riyada tustaa ayagoo dalxiisaya jasiirada Seysheles; mararka qaar waxay kuriyoodaan ayagoo kunool guryo waaweyn; marna waxay arkaan ayagoon waxba qabaneyn oo loo shaqeynaayo.

Haddaba, sifa ayan udabaalan riyo beenaad, ayey bilaabeen in ay kadhabeeyaan wax qabadkooda. Waxay go'aansadeen inay kala noqdaan 'separate' ama labo isqaboo kala tagay. Duniyo waxay wargelisay xafiiska arrimaha bulshada in ninkeedii ay isfureen. Mar haddiiba ay falkaasi kudhaqaaqday, Daadirow waa kamamnuuc inuu soo istaago guriga ay Duniyo iyo wiilkeeda laba jirka ah ay kunoolyihiin.

Duniyo waxaa loo ogolaaday lacag caddaan ah iyo raashiin beytimaal ah oo ciida kabadan. Kiradii guriga ee ay bixin jirtayna waa laga joojiyay. Waxaa kaloo laga dhaafay korontadii, gaaskii, iyo waxyaabo kaloo badano lacagta ka xayuubin jiray. Neefta ayaa kaso booday. Waxay mashruuc qarsoodi ah lagashay haween Soomaaliyeed sifa ay caruurtooda ugu keensadaan oo ay ugu hayso gurigeeda. Mar haddiiba dhaqaalaha loo kordhiyay Duniyo waxay goosatay inay sii kordhisato ama kororsato. Ogow, wax badso waxay leedahay wax beel. Waxay furatay xaruun dahsoono ilamaha lagu xanaaneeyo kaaso loo yaqaan 'day care'.

Muddo kadib Duniyo waxay is aragtay ayadoo haysata ilaa iyo toban canug oo midkiiba lagu siiyo $750 bishiiba. Duniyo way najaxdee, tolow duni maxaa xigi doona. Ilamahani dhalaanka ah mas'uuliyad kama saara cuntadooda, dawadooda, iyo dharkooda intuba. Waa arrin utaal waalidiintooda. Caruurta waxaa loogu keena raxanraxan subax iyo galab ba.Wiilkeedi yaraa ee cidlada ahaan jiray wuxuu helay ilmo uu lacayaaro wuxuuna noqday bulshaawi.

Aw Daadirow wuxuu koray tagsi wuxuuna sameyn jiray lacag fooqalcaqli ah. Hurdo habar korin weyday horaa loo yiri. Maseexdo inta badan saacado yar mooyee; madamaashaado oo kuma cayaaro lacagtiisa; wuxuu soo shaqeeyana Duniyo ayuu farta kasaaraa oo ugu haysaa guriga. Magaalada ay deganaayeen, waxaa lagu qiyaasay inay kunoolaayeen ilaa iyo todobo malyuun oo qof. Inkastoo ay kala yihiin 'separate', haddana guriga kama uusan tegin oo habeen habeen ayuu soo jiif tagaa.

Muddo labo sanadood markey wax dhigayeen, ayey bilaabeen xisaabtan. Waxay ogaadeen lacagta ay keydsadeen in ay kor udhaaftay &100,000 oo Mareykan ah. Maadaama Soomaaliya wax xal kaso socon, waxay kutashadeen inay sii badiyaan dadaalkooda. Sideedaba, bani'aadmigu khilaaf kama dhamaado oo waatan labada isqaba habeen iyo dharaar iscunaan. Waxaa soo kala dhexgalay kala shaki iyo is aamin la'aan. Maalin maalmaha kamid ah ayey fooda isdareen. Daadirow ayaa ugacanqaaday naagtii hantida uhaysay.

Duniyo waxay wacday Booliska oo isla markiiba ooda soo dhigtay baabuur faro badan. Daadirow wuu argagaxay markuu maqlay guuxa baaburta booliska. Wuxuuu fahmay inuu gacangalay. Qadar yar kadib booliskii ayaa soo galay gurigii. Duniyo waxay jabsatay baroorasho. Booliskii ayaa amray Daadirow inuu debedda usoo baxo sifa loo katiinadeeyo. Wuxuu codsaday in loo ogolaado bal inuu soo qaato boorso dhar ugu jiray. Waa laga aqbalay. Gudaha ayuu ugalay qolkii jiifka wuxuuna lasoo baxay boorso yar. Duniyo ayaa kula dhegtay boorsadii. Way isjiidjiideen oo kudagaalameen. Booliskii ayaa soo kala dhexgalay kana qaaday boorsadii. Waa ay fureen; mise waxaaba kabuuxa lacag ay layaabeen.

Isla markiiba su'aalo ayaa laweydiiyay oo ay kamid ahaayeen halkii ay kakeeneen lacagahaasi faraha badan. Waxaa loo sheegay inay khalad tahay inay iska haystaan lacag aan lacanshuurin. Duniyo meysan fakan; ayadana waa lakatiinadeeyay. Daadirow iyo Duniyo waxaa loodhaadhiciyay xabsiga. Maalintii xigtay ayaa Duniyo iyo Daadirow midba gooni loo baaray. Waxaa loo sheegay inay yihiin khaa'imiin dawladda ugeystay boob iyo dhac maadaama intaaso sannadood lasiinahayey deeq ayagoo haystay dhaqaale kufilan.

Lacagtii dawladda ayaa lawareegtay. Duniyo iyo Daadirowna waxaa loo dhaadhiciyay maxkammad. Muddo bil kadibna waxaa midkiiba lagu xukumay min labo sano oo xarig ah. Wiilkoodii yaraana waxaa loo dhiibay qoys Soomaaliyeed oo sii haaynaya ilaa ay xabsiga kadhameysanayaan. Maadaama aysan haysan dhalashada waddanka, waxaa dhici kartaa in laga musaafuriyo waddanka gebi ahaanba. Wax badso waxay leedahay wax beel.

In Defense of a Wronged Legend: Mohamud Abdullahi Isse (Singub)

When a young man from a village near Aware town, ambushed and murdered Mohamed Moge Liban, he just avenged the death of one of his clansmen; by slaying a prominent member of ‘the rival clan’. It all amounted to that, for him. He had no idea of the colossal loss he had inflicted on all of us - the Somali nation; by cutting short the life of one of the most illustrious singers of the nation. A tragic loss to Somali art and entertainment! Not to mention, the visionary zeal of revolution in the deceased’s heart, that is buried with him. A vision, nowadays twisted to other trivialities, by few who care less about the true beliefs of the hero; and more about a new found ‘chants of convenience’.

Equally, when a group of secessionists hatched an insidious plot to defile the name of Mohamud Abdullahi Cisse (Singub), it was all about settling an old score with a partisan ‘FAQASH’ of the rival clan. They had no idea they were sculpting a gigantic sarcophagus for an untimely burial of Somali art and poetry. For the man they zoomed in, in their vindictive pursuit of clan vendetta is irreplaceable; and an instantiation of Somali culture and folklore. A genius, some analysts compared to Shakespeare, in terms of the influence both men had in their respective languages.

‘A prophet is not revered at home’, they say. And it is true Singub is not a prophet. But he isn’t an ordinary man either. He is a man of intellect, a possessor of wisdom and a literary genius. A gifted actor, poet, and philosopher! Heaven knows how from a monotonous life of the Hawd, a shining star of a nation came. By all measures, Mohamud has already overachieved! And has no more to prove.

From Xoriyo to Qabyo, from Qabrigii Jacaylka to Waa Maadays Aduunyadu, who among us had not twinkled with awe and appreciation when Mohamud let out the barrage of allegories and metaphors: giving us stories, guiding us to moral principles, warning us of vice and most of all refreshing our minds. And who hasn’t put palm to palm and cheered in standing ovations to his stupendous performances in those unfittingly small theater houses of the defunct country. Unfitting, because for a man of such stature and intuition, - a man in the pedigree of Mozart and Bach, the opera edifices of Vienna and Sydney would have been fortunate to host!

If, however, Somali language is still a language of few millions of nomadic people in East Africa, and hence, the works of the man has no global appeal at that, it is not his mistake. He is just an ill-fated man.

And as if his fame among this tiny people is menacing, sick minds have unearthed all the stones they could dig, to sully the reputation and regal standing of Singub. Because, allegedly, at the start of the Somali civil war, he has taken sides. I am in no mood to delve into whether he had or not, or whether he should have or not; but the fact remains, Mohamud Abdullahi Isse’s patriotism and nationalism are categorical. All his works bear out that assertion.

If he had affronted some groups with his political aligning of the yesteryears, it is a choice he made based on either pragmatic grounds; or at worst an error of judgment. That is why if he had supported the falling regime, as alleged by the secessionists, it looks he was prophetic enough to foresee what is to transpire, and had chosen to throw his lot with the lesser of the evil. A bad Republic would still have been better than the carnage that ensued after the demise of Siyad Barre, and a united Somalia is far more sacred than a constellation of tiny banana republics.

Looking at what has come of Somalia, and the unsavory intent of few who are hell-bent in curving out miniature ‘forts of loot’ from the ribs of a giant nation - driven by sheer ignorance, avarice and/ or hate; who would bet against the unassailability of the judgment of citizens who stood up to confront those who were wrecking the boat?

In total disregard for Somali societal decorum, and with mirthful exploitation of loopholes in western laws, they rushed to quench an insatiable craving for his blood. And god knows pain they inflicted! But for a man who has swam in the tumultuous waters of the unpredictable life of Hawd and who single-handedly made himself, tenacity and patience are hardly an asset he longs for. He has it, and in time, the pain will be gone. The mind-numbing pain goes to the Somali nation, though. When will we finally lay down the bottles filled with clan venom, strapped around our waists, and treat national figures as public treasures well beyond and above the fray of messy clan feuds?

The Pre-eminence of Singub’s works has withstood time and the competition of many other great Somali artists, and it is apparent it will survive the avalanche of lies and distortions of the marauding secessionists. If history is not ‘a fable agreed upon’ as Napoleon would like us believe, the day of deliverance is beckoning!

And the day will come when grateful men and women of our nation will assemble and pay tribute anew to the mastermind and do honour to the toasts for him. In my mind, I see people lining up in bookstores and libraries, in theaters and exhibition halls to get a glimpse of the art and wisdom the man conferred to us. One day, some day. Meet you there!

"Hooyo, marka hore waxbarashadaada dhammeyso"

Malyuun waa haweeney Soomaaliyeedo quruxdeeda lala yaabay. Yaraanteedii ayaa lagu ogaa qoor dheer sida garanuuga; waxay lahayd timo kufidsan dhabarkeeda kana qurxoon kuwa hablaha Hindida iyo Carabta oo laysku daray; waxay kusii darsatay dheerar dabiici ah, sanqaroor, midab maariin ah, ilko caddaan badan, iyo nadaafad joogta ah. Waxay ahayd qof nasiib badan oo dabeecad wanaagsan, una naxariista dad oo dhan masakiin iyo maal qabeenba. Ragoo dhan ayaa waxay oran jireen, 'haddaan qabi lahaa taasi oo kale'. Haddaba naagi rag badan hal mar mawada guursatee, waxaa nasiib uyeeshay ina adeerkeed Xaange oo ahaa nin bulshaawi ahi oo kaftan badan. Magaalada Xamar oo ahayd caasimadii dalka, ayey ku aqal galeen.

Labada lamaane waxay kadhasheen qoys cudud kulahaa xukuumadii markaasi katalineysay Soomaaliya. Wax daryeel la'aan ah weliyood meysan arag. Waxay ku noolaayeen nolol barwaaqo ah. Guri weyno 'Villa' ah ayaa hoy u ahaa. Qaabka loo dhisay gurigooda wuxuu soo jiidan jiray ilkastoo milicsata. Gudaha gurigani waxaa kubeernaa ubax noocyo badan.

Dhib ugama soo horeyn dagaalkii ahliga ahaa ee lagu hoobtay markii dawladdii militari la afgembiyay. Nasiib daro, Xaange, oo markaasi ay uhaysay saddex caruur, ayaa lagu dilay qalalaasihii bilowgiisi. Malyuun waxay kamid noqotay malaayiintii Soomaali ee wadanka debedda uga baxay. Waxay soo gashay Kiiniya oo ay kamid noqotay qaxootigii ladejiyay xeryaha Xagardheer. Nolosha xeryaha ayaa kunoqday waxaan loo dulqaadan karin. Cuduro badan ayaa kadilaacay; siiba cudurada laaya caruurta iyo waayeelada.

Muddo labo sannadood markay kasoo wareegtay burburkii Soomaaliya ayey usoo wareegtay dhanka caasimmadda Kiiniya ee Neyroobi. Waxay iska diiwaangelisay xafiiska qaabilsan arrimaha qaxootiga ee UNHR kaaso udalbay deganaansho dalka Mareykanka. Waxay sugeysay hal sano intii lamaareynaayey dhoofkeeda.

Malyuun iyo caruurteeda oo kala ahaa hal wiil iyo labo gabdhood, ayaa waxaa looso qaaday waddankii ay weligeed niyadda kuhaysey-waa waddanka sinaanta iyo cadaalada-United States of America. Imaatinkeedi waxay lakulantay caqabad badan sida luuqadda iyo dhaqanka dadka oo kaduwan. Waxaa kudhacay jahwareer. Waxay isu haysatay inay kunoolaan doonto noloshii ay soomartay nolol kasii fiican. Waxay moodi jirtay in cimilada Mareykanka leedahay midabka huruudka; in lacagta ay dhoobantahay waddooyinka oo aaban innaba hayaaraatee lashaqeyn. Wixii ay qalbiga kuhaysay oo dhan waxay noqdeen waxaan waxba kajirin. Waxaa ladijeyey guryo loo yaqaan 'apartments' oo dabaqyo ah. Socodkii ayaa dhib kunoqday maadaama ayan weli baran sida gaariga loo wado walow ay goor dambe laqabsan doonto nolosha wadada.

Rag badan oo Soomaali ubadan ayaa usoo guur doontay, dhamaantoodna way diiday. Malyuun hareedleey waxay ballan kuqaaday inaysan nin guursan inta carruurta agoomaha ay kawada baxayaan jaammacadda. Carruurtii oo dhan bey geysay dugsiyada waxbarashada siiba meelaha ay dadka cadaanka ahi degaan sifa waxbarashadooda ugaadho heer sare. Dawladda ayaa kaalmo lacageed iyo mid cuntaba ugu deeqday. Dumar badanoo Soomaaliyeed ayaa kula taliyey inay iska guursato dhammaana way kugacan seyrtay. Waxay kutiri dumarkii, "anigu dooni maayo in ubadkeyga ugacan galaan nin Soomaaliyeedoo hadhowto isku roga halaq oo caruurta iga laaya anigana ijirdila".

Malyuun hareedleey waxay nolosha laxarbisaba, ilmihii ayaa ukoray oo noqday qaayngaadh. Gabadhii ugu weyneyd ee Nasra waxay kaqalinjebisay jaammacad qadiimi ah ayadoo baratay dhakhtirnimo; tii kuxigtayna oo ahayd Saruuro waxay dhiganeysay 'kalkaaliye caafimmaad'; wiilkana wuxuu dhemmeynaayey dugisga sare. Malyuun noloshey keydsaneysay ayaa usoo bidhaamay. Waxay istiri, "wallee goor dhowr waan raaxeysan markey ilmahan iga wada tagaan ayagoo wax bartay." Malyuun hadafkeeda ayaa wuxuu ahaa inay iska degto Imaaraadka Carabta oo halkaasi ka bidhaansato arrimaha Soomaaliya.

Nasra waxay isbarteen Caydaruus oo hooyadiis Bishaaro ay ka kari weyday gabadh udhalatay waddanka Mexico. Bishaaro waxay taagneyd heer ay isla hadasho maadaama wiilkeeda uu kadhacay meel xun. Maalin maalmaha kamid ah ayaa Caydaruus ku yiri hooyadiisa, "hooyo waxaan jeclahay inan Soomaaliyeedoo aan isbaranay goor dhow." Bishaaro aad ayey ugu riyaaqday hadalka wiilkeeda kaso yeeray. Waxay ubalanqaaday wiilkeeda haddii uu keeno gabadha uu jecelyahay, in ay uguurin doonto wax kasto haku qaadatee. Habartii waxay niyeysatay in wiilkeeda kabixi doono saagsaagnimada.

Waxba kuma aysan qaadan Caydaruus keenista Nasra maadaama ay awal horeba kuwada xiriiri jireen telefoonka gacanta. Gabadhii ayuu ballamiyay. Nasra iyo walaasheed Saruuro midna magudneen taasaana lagu sifeeyay degdega ay kudegdegtay Nasra wiilka aan lagareyn camalkiisa iyo summadiisaba. Maalmo kadib, waxaa yimid Nasra oo diyaar loo ahaa. Hooyadii wiilka dhashay oo ah Bishaaro waxay diyaarisay qado macaan badan oo cajabisay Nasra. Waxaa kaloo Nasra lasiiyay haddiyad isugu jira dahab iyo dhar qurux badan. Halkii ayey Caydaruus iyo Nasra go'aan kugaareen inay is guursadaan. Isla maalintaasi ayaa odey kitaab gaab ah umeheriyay.

Nasra markay gurigoodii kulaabatay ammin habeen ah ayey usheegtay hooyadeed inay soo arkootay wiil Soomaaliyeedoo cajabiyey. Malyuun wey qarracantay. "Nasrooy, hooyo maad sugtid intaad shaqo kabilaabi ood unoqon walaalahaa maciin", ayey Malyuun kutiri gabadheedii weyneyd Nasra oon dheg jalaq usiin waanadeeda. "Hooyo, maxaad la guur seegatay? maxaad u seegtay nolosha adduunyo? Ma waxaad dooneysaa inaan guur seego sidaada oo kale"?, ayey weydiisay hooyadeeda. Malyuun waxaa kudhacay qalbi jab iyo niyad xumo.

Iblitilada halkaasi kuma ekaan. Maalintii xigtay Nasra waxay casuntay ninkeeda cusub. In yar markuu kursi carbeed kufadhiyay ayaa Nasra walaalkeed ugacan qaaday Caydaruus kana dilaaciyay shaar qurux badano uu xdhnaa isla markaana gaadhsiiyay dhaawac fudud. Meeshii waxaa kadhashay buuq sidii ayuu Nasra ninkeedii cusbaa uga hayaamay gurigooda.

Salaadii subax kahor intay Nasra kacday ayey alaabteeda oo dhan kuguratay boorso ayadoo go'aansatay inaysan dib dambe ugu soo noqon guriga hooyadeeda. Walaasheeda Saruuro ayaa kusoo kacday sanqadha Nasra. Isla markiiba hooyadeed ayey wargelisay. Malyuun oo habenkaaso dhan seexan weyday ayaa hal mar kaso booday sariirta. "Hooyo, maxaa kuugu dhacay"?, ayey weydiisay. "Ma walaalahaaga agoonta ah ayaad kadhaqaajin, Nasrooy"? ayey su'ashay inanteedii fallaagowday. "Haa oo dib dambe ii arki meysid", ayey Nasra hooyadeed ugu jawaabtay. Isla markiiba Nasra waxay kudhacday Taxi debedda utaagnaa.

Malyuun dhulka ayey kudhacday weyna miyirbeeshay. Waxaa soo wajahay xanuun xagga maskaxda ah. Isla maalintaasi ayaa loo keenya wadaad diin saara. Subaxii xigeyna wey soomiyirsatay. Waxay wacday dad badano ay xidhiidh lahaayeen waxayna usheegtay in talo faraheeda kabaxday. Qabiilkeedi baa shiray waxaana la go'aamiyay in loo gurmada hooyada gabadha laga dhacay.

Malyuun iyo caruurtii uhadhay kama aysan quusan dabagalka Nasra. Malyuun waxay wakiilatay odayaal ay isku heyb yihiin waxaana laso ogaaday halka ay Nasra cirib iyo jaan dhigtay. Habartii wiilka dhashay ayaa loo tegay laguna eedeeyay in ay sameysay wax kabaxsan diinta, dhaqanka, iyo caadada. "Walaalayaal, anigu wiilkani khaatu billaahi ayaan kataagnaa", ayey tiri hooyadii wiilka. "Hadduu wiilka layimid marwo Soomaliyyedo hananeyso, dee waa nasiib aan hore iiso marin, ee maxaa ibtiloo idiin muuqda"?, ayey si indho adeyg ah ku tidhi asxaabtii loo gefay. Gabadhii ayaa intay soo baxday usheegtay dhammaan odayaashii in ayadu tahay qayngaadh wax khasbi karana ayan jirin, haddii kalese waxay waceysa booliska. Odayaashii iyo Malyuun waxaa galay cabsi waxaana go'aan lagu gaadhay in gabadhu lanoolaato wiilka xuquuqdeedana latixgeliyo.

Malyuun ilaa iyo iminka wey isla hadashaa weyna gabowday oo timahedii madowga badnaa ayaa cirro isu rogay. Gabadhii Nasra kuxigtay ee ahayd Saruuro aayaheeda dambe waa lafalanqeyn la'yahay. Tolow ma waxay raaci doontaa dariiqii Nasra? Wiilkana sidee buu noqon doonaa?

‘President’ Abdullahi Yusuf: Wearing betrayal as a badge of distinction

Note to the readers: The issue of personal attacks and character assassination seems to have been misunderstood by many Somali readers, such that a mention of a politician, nowadays, runs the risk of an outcry of ‘it is personal attack’ clamour. To my knowledge, stating historical facts purported to have taken place (which can still be disputed), or bringing up names of political figures (without infringing on their physical, family or ancestral quarter) can, by no means, be categorized under that label. Indeed, it has now become trendy to hide under the sanctuary provided by the confusions that arise out of the mix-up of the very notion of what amounts to slander (libel) and what doesn’t. And, it is quite suffocating!

If Lombroso was alive today, he would have buried himself in the sand in ignominy. Cesare Lombroso, the Italian criminologist, believed in ‘biological determinism’ and argued that ‘criminals have particular physiognomic attributes or deformities’. According to him, criminality was inherited, and hence ‘the born criminal could be distinguished by physical atavistic stigmata’. These physical attributes including, inter alia, large jaws, low sloping foreheads, hawk-like noses or hard shifty eyes.

Well, Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, Somalia’s ‘President’ has none of that; yet he is a wicked criminal. In fact, with avuncular looks, curly hair and ever-present ‘adeer, listen to me’ talk, he is just another elderly Somali father.

The deeper I look into the man’s face, albeit irrationally, the lesser I could find any trace of proof to validate the Italian’s assertions. The very exploration of Lombroso’s supposition, was itself disconcerting, as I realized that such attitude will land me into the club of ‘eugenists’; and that after all, Lombroso’s theory failed to stand to the test of times and are no longer considered as the foundations of contemporary criminology.

To what does Lombroso’s purported theory amount to, then? To nothing! But that is not the end of the story. Luckily, criminals who escape that ‘natural detector’ can still be seized by the more rigorous one of scrutinizing their deeds and that is what I did with Abdullahi yusuf.

Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed’s litany of crimes, rebellion, killings, and tribalism epitomises the ugliness of treason and betrayal of national interest: a treason he wears with gusto, as if it is a medal of honour.

In 1977, at the height of the Ethio-Somali war, a group of Somali Colonels hatched up a plot to subvert the gains made by the gallant Somali army. Somalia’s current president was a key resident in that abode of iniquity. He is, however, lucky because Somali’s are tribal society and treason is pardonable. Or so it looks.

His revolt against the tyrannical dictatorship of the late President - Siyad Barre, is understandable and in many ways commendable, but his later day actions point to a less ‘nationalistic’ motives for the insurrection than he purports it to be. A man, who privately confides with associates and clans-men, that the ‘Qaran-diid’ Hawiya’s deserve to be obliterated from the face of the earth; couldn’t have had the Somali vision in fighting Siyad Barre. Perhaps, it was all about inter-Darod sub-clan antagonism, or psychopathic lust for power that gave him the tenacity to wage a guerrilla war against the republic.

Nothing in the man’s actions of the last decades suggest to an altruistic and nationalistic desire to emancipate the Somali people from the malaise of tribalism, corruption and ill-governance it was deeply engrossed with.

In the 1990s, Abdullahi Yusuf sought the support of the Ethiopian regime to crush Al-Itixaad. Hundreds of Somali youth were ruthlessly butchered by foreign army under the stewardship of Somali traitors. The Ethiopians were also there to his rescue as he fought another clan war with Jama Ali Jama in Puntland.

But the biggest crime was yet in store for the man who takes immense pride in the number of battles he fought and blood he shed. Thousands of Somali youth have fallen at their early ages for his throne, and were used as a ritual sacrifice for his comfort and political ascendancy. Millions of Somali’s hung their heads down in shame and humiliation when he collaborated with arch-enemy Ethiopia in the‘re-colonization’ of Somalia. Thousands have fled their homes and languish in squalor and hunger around the capital. Hundreds of Somali girls are raped by the barbaric invading army.

Most recently, the octogenarian president whose definition of ‘dawlad and shacab’ is pre-historic, to say the least, is busy sabotaging any possibility of a peace deal. Surrounded by a retinue of clan-maniacs and former warlords, he knows a peaceful Somalia will hold him responsible for the unspeakable crimes committed against its people.

Hence, he prefers the last days of his life to end in exile and (in fortress when in Somalia) pretending to be a president – just an ordinary president; who can stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest of world leaders with his head high. What a pity? And an insult to the Somali nation as well!

It is time Somali’s prepare dossiers for the Marshal Petain’s (the French traitor who faked president of the Vichy Republic and collaborated with the Nazi occupiers) of the modern era and manuscript their crimes for posterity. Or at least name and shame them for what they are! Traitors. The worst thing to do is watching when murderers masquerade as leaders; and turn a blind eye.

AW NUUR JAAMAC’S PAIR OF SHOES

His grin broadened. In the drowsiness of the noon, Aw Nuur Jaamac’s heart pounded in thrill as the messenger handed him the gift. From the checkered lines of the sole of the shoes, he saw the ups and downs of his long life. And his son came to mind. The tall, Ahmed-Saafi. He was so tender and sweet in his childhood.

‘Aabo, milk.’ He would say. And the father never disappointed. Thanks to Gabbad- his lone she-camel. ‘I wouldn’t have exchanged Gabbad for ten others’, Aw Nuur once told Qabille, his cousin. ‘So much milk.’

Looking again at the bottom of the shoe, the tartan-like patterns interwoven as a tassel, like a broken mirror of memory, flashed back the scene he still dreads. He saw the flocks of crows circling the sky in the horizon. And imagined the red in the talons of those cruel birds as it sailed over his flesh. His camel. They had just eaten the last pieces of meat off the bones of Gabbad. And Aw Nuur fainted. Twenty years ago. Gabbad succumbed to that ghastly jilaal. So inconsiderate! The jilaal or the she-camel? He was not sure, which one is to blame.

‘May Allah bless him with plenty of boys and milk! He made me happy. Gone are the days when I have to pick prickles out of my toes,’ Aw Nuur couldn’t thank enough. The pair of shoes his son sent from ‘outside’ was the first of its kind for his feet. For the village, as well. He wore, in his entire life, a pair of sandals locally made from cattle hide; simple soled with supporting straps at the back end. He is, nowadays, the only wearer of the shoe with the distinctive footprints in the whole village.

Sensing envy in the eyes of the village elders, something jingled in his mind. Before Ahmed-saafi ‘finished the twelve rooms’- as Aw Nuur sold one sheep after another to keep him in school; what were they saying? Was it not ‘the dung beetle’ that they used to call him?

He wanted to scream loud like the ant that bemoaned with glee the insect’s indiscretion in the La fontaine tale of the French. When the winter set in (and the insect found itself without food and home), the ant asked, ‘what have you been doing in the summer?’ The insect replied ‘I was singing’. The ant, then, said ‘Dance now! Dance!’ and left it in the cold. Aw Nuur almost heard his scream: ‘what were you doing, villagers?’ insulting me? Cry now! Cry!’

He knows he bequeathed the good art of of valour and prudence to his son. Prudence that made the young boy relentlessly pursue education, in the face of enormous difficulties. Yet, he would be selfish to attribute all to himself. Ahmed-saafi was also made by the iron fist of his mother- the late Cibaado.

But, it didn’t take him more than two weeks to realize that the shoes were proving to be more of a curse than a blessing. His life and privacy was messed up.
‘Aw Nuur, you were with Cali-dhuux last night. I saw your footprints next to his house.’
‘Why didn’t you come in? For the ducco. We know you went back from the door. Anyway, we sent some meat and rice to your wife’.

The talk of villagers who spotted his footprints here and there was getting to his nerves. His wife, Dahabo, rebuked him for not coming home directly from the mosque. She told him that the ‘marks’ of his shoes are everywhere that some impish neighbors started to tease her. ‘Is the old man a policeman in a nights shift? He treks around too much.’

It was getting nasty. The shoes must disappear. Disappear totally. He threw them into a not-so-far swamp. It was the rainy month of the year. He could hear the crocking of the frogs in the mud that evening. What were they so happy about? The new company -his shoes? Or was it that routine delight rain brings to this land. If only the frogs knew how fleeting it is! And after all, who cares about it anymore? Not Aw Nuur. He lost the reason to wait for the gritty dusts that swirl from the distance heralding the arrival of new life- the rain; when Gabbad perished.

The next absurd Monday, a young girl who went down to the river to wash clothes found it. She gave it back to his wife. Aw Nuur came out of the house five minutes later, half-awake. ‘Thank you, young lady. It is good of you’. On any other day, he would have taught ‘this girl is the perfect match for my son. She wears all the emblems of the good breeding of olden days.’ Aw Nuur was not happy, though. That is why after three days, he threw it on the grass and soil roof of one of the mud houses in the village.

The same afternoon, the twin brothers -Ilmo Dhegacadde- were playing with a ball made of old socks. One of them hit the ball high and it went to the top of the house nearby. The boys knew they can not climb up the roof. So, they waited until their friends arrive. The friends arrived and quickly threw down the ball to the ground. One of them gasped, ‘Haaah! Aw Nuur’s shoes!’

‘Adeero, we got your shoes. Bless us.’ They said cheerfully.
‘I bless you’ Aw Nuur felt despair inside. ‘Why can’t I lose this damn shoes’.

Only last night, in his dream, he was murdered. His killer lurked on a corner of one of the narrow alleys Aw Nuur used for the first time. He was coming back from the house of his friend who was sick. On the funeral -in the absurdity of death in dreams- he could hear what the grave-diggers were saying.
‘The killer confessed that he knew the whereabouts of Aw Nuur by following his footsteps from the village market.’ Sacaba-weyne said. He also understood that apart from Xaashi, No one vowed to avenge his death. So much for tolnimo.
‘It is good to know who is a friend and who isn’t’, he said in the morning, ‘in your dreams’. He also refused to tell the dream to anybody. ‘Bad dreams are not talked about’ he knows.

Aw Nuur set out to get rid off the shoes once and for all. He traveled for a full day, meandering in the bush and finally laid it beneath thick shrubs. Not together. But one here and the other further apart. He saw to it that no one will ever find it, again.

When he came back home, he was a relieved man. That night, he wandered through the village from house to house, gossiping, having tea with friends and practicing poetry with Cali-dhuux. Cali-dhuux is the best poet in the village. And in the morning, no one came forward with the irritating ‘you were there, last night’ hassle.

His relief lasted only for four days. According to the man who found the shoes, he suddenly went inside the bush to relieve himself, (when returning from the latest safar (journey) to the town), and found one of the shoe.

‘I was shocked. I thought a lion ate you. Yet, I saw no blood.’ The man said and handed back the shoes to the owner; adding ‘it took me and the rest of the group quarter of a day, before we located the second shoe’. He said, ‘the journey itself was not good this time around. We didn’t get good prices for the sheep.’

The men left. For Aw Nuur, it was time to do some serious thinking. Why is this shoe sticking to me like a gum glued to a tree? Is it a sign of good or bad things to come? The spirit of my son felt bad? Might throwing it be an affront and ingratitude?

He decided to wait for a while until he sees another dream. He trusts his dreams. That will be after he comes back from the big town. He has planned to go to Hargeisa, long time ago. Ahmed-saafi told him to go and check his eyes.
The bustling city of Hargeisa was too fast for the eyes of the old man. Too many cars and too many people. And people don’t great each other. How rude! He was taken to the house of a relative. Later in the afternoon, he went to a mosque nearby. He made the prayers and emerged from the mosque a happy man.

The shoes were nowhere to be seen. Was it not at the main gate that he left it? How many gates has the mosque got, anyway? He checked all. No shoes. He decided to speak to the small congregation remaining in the mosque. ‘Has anyone seen a shoe with…’ he almost said. And then it occurred to him. It might be the sign he has been waiting for. He preferred to leave it there.
‘At least, I won’t be bothered again when I go back to the village’, he thought, with a tinge of delight in his weary eyes.
The noise coming from cars and people was deafening. Aw Nuur woke up. Back in his village, the cooing of birds in the nearby roost was refreshing in the mornings. Soon, a small car full of soldiers arrived at his guest’s house.
‘Is anybody by the name Aw-Nuur here?’ the police man asked.
‘Yes, he is. What is…, why, who wants him?’ Ducaale, the owner of the house was anxious.
‘The Chief Inspector. The chief inspector wants to have a word with him.’
When they ushered a bewildered Aw-Nuur inside the office of the station chief; a short man with a bloated belly greeted him. The face of the man beamed with fondness.
‘It is so nice to see you. I haven’t slept last night. Congratulations. We caught the thief who stole your shoes. We interrogated him intensely thinking he might have harmed you. Thanks God, You are alive. When I saw the shoes-presented as an exhibit, I recalled our small village. I was there three months ago.’
‘Who are you? Aw Nuur inquired said with a repressed rage.
‘Oh! My mistake. I shouldn’t have assumed you know me. I am the son of Sheekh Ibrahim. The Imam of the village, who is also your close confidant.’
‘haaa! You are the son of the Sheekh? I am your uncle then. Thank you for the concern and support.’

A triumphant inspector opened the drawer of the cabinet on his right, and took out the shoes. ‘Here It is. Your shoes. Please watch it carefully; this town is infested with thieves.’ He warned. ‘The thief is in custody. We will take him to the court.’
‘Can I ask for a favour? Aw Nuur’s voice was getting reedy.
‘At your service, uncle. What can I do for you?’ the chief inspector stood up from the chair he was sitting on.

In life, some things just won’t leave you alone. Like this shoes. Aw Nuur wondered why. The old man, then, pleaded. ‘Would you please set the thief free and instead detain the shoes?’

KALSUUMO’S SHACK

The walls of the tiny four-by-six meters wide Kalsuumo’s shack are packed out with scrapes of old newspapers to cover the foliage and wooden bits and pieces it is made of. From the surreal frieze that beautifully whittled out of the mosaic of papers stitched up to one another; Arabic, English, Chinese, Somali and several other languages can still be spotted effortlessly.

Immaculately dressed bollywood, middle-eastern and Western stars and tycoons gaze from the glamorous pictures on the old and not-so-old papers on all sides of the walls. Heaps of grain-sacks that dangle down from the top formed a well-decorated ceiling. The inscriptions on the sacks are covered with dust but are still visible: ‘A gift from the people of the United States of America’ it reads.

On the whole, the interior of the shack offered a view of a colourful billboard strewed with details of the latest movies, hot gossips in town, and news and arts of yesteryears and the contemporary.

Dr. Deeq is like a son to Kalsuumo. He seldom misses out of the afternoon qat-chewing routines; unless he is sick or he has got some ‘big’ money. In the latter case, he vanishes for weeks, only to re-appear after few days with mountains of lame-excuses. And, miyaad ogtihiin waxa igu dhacay whines.

He, like all the other clientele, calls the old women aunt Kalsuumo to show gratitude for the kindness she accords to all of them; when fate refuses to oblige and their day goes tough. She lends them money from her meager income.

‘Kalsuumo, please give us five cups of tea.’ Deeq said
‘You will have to wait for few minutes. It is boiling’ she replied.
‘Your tea is always boiling. Look, all the plates people ate from are still littered around. If I were you husband, I would have divorced you in a day’. It was Ina Koreeye who cut in with rough tone, feigning anger. Kalsumo’s sells food at lunch time. Sometimes, the ‘chewers’ come early and inconvenience her.

Ina Koreeye, is an escapee form the ‘devils island’. That is what they say. He shows no mercy to anybody. In fact, he overly practices his native prejudices on this quiescent women, for the fleeting approval of his likes in the room; who would giggle at his vulgar remarks. Kalsumo made a habit of ignoring him.

Kalsuumo knows Dr. Deek behaves himself well in her place, and don’t approve of the mean language and bad-mouthing some customers hurl at him.

The other day, Ina Koreeye was adamant that Dr.Deek is not superior to him in medicine.
‘You don’t have to tell me what to use for my stomach-ache.’ He snapped at him, when Deek suggested he should try some antibiotics.
‘You know nothing.’ he said.

Ina Koreeye is the famous dilaal (broker) in the livestock market few meters away from the Kalsuumo’s teashop.
‘You! You respect no one. So, you don’t deserve to be talked to.’ Deekq said blithely.

Of course, Deek is not a trained medical doctor. He has started his ‘town’ life when he returned to Somalia, after the 1977 Ethio-Somali war. He was a brave fighter in Duufaan unit - of the Western Somali Liberation Front (WSLF). Later, he was promoted to taar-wade (radio-man).

Kalsuumo knows a lot of things. What story had she not heard! When they come to her place, with their Qat and order tea; they tell her all their problems. And as if she is a psychiatrist or a psychologist, she has the patience of Prophet Ayuub; to listen and listen to their tales.

Kalsumo presents the biggest the challenge to Deeq’s expertise. Unintentionally. She always complains to him about her health problems.
‘Deeqoow’, she said, ‘I am very sick today.’
‘What happened? Which part?’
‘It is all my body. No part is spared.’
‘You could have caught cold. Or it could be malaria’.
‘I don’t think. I know what hit me. ‘
‘What is that? You fell down?’
‘No. qumaydaii aanu jaarka aheyn baa I gashay’, she revealed. It was uncharacteristic of her to extend discussion beyond yes or no replies. Maybe, it is the illness.

Now, therein is where Deeq differs from the conventional medical practitioners. He doesn’t stick to the ‘dogma’ of those who are versed with medicine. He understands, not all things are explicable scientifically.
‘Taxaliil dhigo.’ He prescribed.

Yes, he is not a conventional doctor. And, he doesn’t like to talk about how he got himself into this profession.

He only says, ‘since when Somalia collapsed, and I returned to my home town; I have done my ‘best’ to cater to the needs of the sick in my community’.

He got ‘robust’ knowledge from his friend-a Nurse with whom he was a business associate. The nurse would send him to Somalia with a list of drugs to purchase, and Deek would get a commission for taking the arduous journey back and forth across the border. Overtime, he learned what is administered for Malaria, Diarrhrea, Headache, and how to inject with needles.

That is why he is employed by the regional Health Bureau as a nurse. And although he doesn’t insist, he doesn’t discourage either; when ‘grateful’ patients from the rural areas call him ‘Dhakhtar’ Deeq. His handsome looks and white attire he wears all the time, gives him a scholarly allure and cement his claims. He is likeable, funny and engaging. So much that, even those who know he is not a doctor, don’t mind when others call him so.

Her customers’ think Kalsumo suffers from depression. They don’t see her getting excited, or happy. She is silent and is usually detached from what is going on around her. Nonetheless, all of them appreciate her good manners. It is only Ina Koreeye who insists her serenity is not innocence but cynicism. Balaayey la aamusan tahay, he says.

Kalsumo lost her only daughter in South Africa. She was murdered by thugs. And she is not usually enticed to have fun.

But, the day she heard what Deek did in Saylo town, she couldn’t help but burst in wild uproar. He was there with a group of Islamic preaches (tabliiq), they told her.
When the elder of the host village uttered the words ‘welcome to Saylo’; Deek rushed forward with excitement. He loves music.

‘Is this Saylo? Are you sure this is Saylo?’ he asked twice with incredulity.
Before anyone gave him a reply, he abruptly sung.
‘Sayloo guyaal badan ‘
Soo baxaa kaliishii
Seel seela loo dagay
Sannad geelu wada dhalay…’

Ma tii loo qaadaybaa? He asked.

The rest of Jamaaca looked at one another in bewilderment. He quickly cut off the song, but friends tease him with that blooper, thenceforth.

Mecaad’s long story interrupted the harsh exchanges between Deeq and Ina Koreeye. He was a stranger to this ‘majlis-miskiin’. He came from America, three weeks ago.
‘I came from America to satisfy my fleshy temptations. I came for a piece of tumasho and Beer. I like to do it the cheap way with Axmaaro girls. I have big battle with my elder bothers who reject my drinking habits and lusty life-style.’ He started.

Looking at the long faces of few who were taken aback by his audacity to narrate such filth, he introduced himself.
‘Excuse me. I am Meecad. I am fifty three years old. I am telling you about this bad thing, because I am stunned by what is going on here in Jigjiga.’

Ina Koreeye was the first to mount the onslaught.
‘Go elsewhere and tell your dirty things to whoever is interested’. He told him. He was visibly angry.
‘Look at your age, and what spews out of your stinking mouth. Instead of spending your last few years in tranquility, praying for God’s forgiveness; you brag about your sinful exploits’.

Others, mainly Muxyaddin who is the most polished and by far most ‘educated’ among the group; wanted the man to get to the moral of his story.
‘Waryaa, Ina Koreeye; leave the man alone. Let him finish what he begun. You know how deafening your monotonous sheekada ceelasha is. And yet, we give you time to speak.’

Muxyaddin is crafty when hammering this loquacious man. He always taunts him with references to Ina Koreeye’s rural background.

So, Mecaad was cleared to continue.
* * * * * *
‘I was picked up by policemen from the airport as soon as I arrived; and was put behind bars. I didn’t know why? On my second day in custody, I needed Beer. I am addicted and could not hold back for any longer.’

He paused to puff off the smoke from the cigarette he was ‘guzzling’ in.
‘I called the young policeman, who was looking down from the guards-post with intense vigilance. I gave him a bottle and asked him to bring beer from the bars. In exchange, I promised him five dollars.’

It was what Meecaad says the policeman told him, that made everybody gasp with shock.
‘The policeman looked at me, his mouth wide-open with disbelief; and asked me if I know what charges I am facing.’ Meecad squinted his eyes and got silent for few seconds.
‘I said no. the policeman, then, told me that I am suspected of being Al-Itixaad ’.
‘Al-Itixaad! You?’, the men around shouted.
‘I have thought my life will end one day when a drunken prostitute cracks my cranium open with a sharp-edged bottle’, Meecaad seemed genuinely surprised.
‘But, never imagined I will be incarcerated for being a religious fanatic’.

Some didn’t get the story at all; others were hilarious. But none wanted to listen anymore, as Duwane suddenly came into the room.

Duwane was furious.
‘Why did none of you attend my wedding last night?’ he asked.
‘Who did you tell to? We know your wife was laboring for the last three nights? That is what you told us before yesterday?’ Muxiyaddin was calm.’ By the way, has she delivered yet?
‘And, so you didn’t hear I married another wife last night?’ Duwane queried and then said; ‘The first wife got a baby girl. But she is in a bad shape. She needed a surgical operation.’

Kalsuumo overheard the discussion. It made her queasy.
‘Oo ma iyadoo mid foolanayso, yaad midkale aroostay?’ she was not indignant. She has heard similar or even more chilling stories about the marriage of families in the neighborhoods before.
‘Give us tea. And as to your question, I am allowed four wives’.
‘I would have killed you, if I were the unfortunate first wife!’ remarked Kalsuumo. It was one of the two or three comments she throws around the whole day.
‘I love the thrill of the chase and drama of a triangular or rectangular love-affair. As long as it doesn’t end up in a crime of passion, as you seem to suggest, eeddo!’ he joked.

Kalsuumo lunged forward to the old flask on the metal-box that she serves her as a safe to keep her money in. She had no time for a debate she knew she wouldn’t win.

She didn’t hear what he was telling the other clients.
‘I will buy her gold when she recovers’, he said with pride, as if that will expiate him from the appalling neglect of his responsibilities. He thinks he is a believer in the utilitarian concept of matrimony. But no one knows if he pays attention to how make it functional. And attractive as well.

Duwane has just been selected as a senior cadre of the Somali peoples’ Democratic Party. And whenever he comes to pay a visit to his old friends, he comes with a bit of politicking.
‘Politics is poison. It needs guile.’ He starts with.
And concludes, ‘it is not a beauty contest but a beastly business. Only men like me, who can tread where the angels fear to tread, can swim through its murky waters.’

Minutes later, he broke the breaking news of the day.
‘Our party today decided to honuor the contribution of women to the society by observing a one-minute silence in commemoration of the oppressions they had undergone’ he told them.

Muxyaddin pretends to be too-sophisticated and all-knowing; thanks to his modest schooling in Somalia where he completed intermediate school. But, He is not someone who likes to pass baloney with a shrug of the shoulders.
‘Duwane, I think your rhetoric about ‘honouring’ women contradicts your deeds. I think the best example of honouring women is not set by abandoning your wife on a delivery-table; and flirting with another one.’ He said, contemptuously.
‘Do you know who I married?‘, Duwane was agitated.
‘She is the nephew of the head of Finance Bureau. If you are a smart politician, you take tough decisions. Remember, audacity is an asset.’

the last few days, Kalsuumo couldn’t understand why most of her age-old clients stopped coming to her place. What has she done to alienate all of them? As far as she knows, she was good to them. She gave them tea, and food-whenever they asked for. Both, when they paid or when they promised to pay. She has written-off the debts of many; although she herself earns less than five dollars a day.

So she asked Dr. Deeq who never disappeared.
‘Ina koreeye has gone to Nazreth for training. He is recruited by Duwane as a party member.’ He told her, smiling smugly.
‘Do you remember Meecaad? The old man with the curly hair. He is sick. They say he is admitted to the TB ward of the hospital.’
‘What happened to the poor man?’ Kalsumo asked.
‘I saw a relative of him. He says, the doctors say he might not survive. He is not responding to the drugs.’
‘Ilaahay ha u sahlo.’ She prayed for the man she doesn’t know.
‘Ilaahay ha u sahlo, but he was a bit of waayeelka jaqafsada.’ Dr. Deeq said.

Kalsumo didn’t get what Deeq was driving at. Even if, she was told Meecaad was HIV positive, she wouldn’t have understood.

Deeq told her that Muxyaddin is arrested on charges of ‘spreading subversive lies on the internet’. Muxyaddin has the habit of exaggerating his skills. And one day, he bragged about how he is an expert on matters pertaining to computers.

In deed, he was only capable of writing and reading e-mails, and browsing websites. He could not have posted the pictures in the blog he is accused of running.

A week before he stopped showing up; as Muxyaddin walked was strode from the nearby market to her hovel, in the midst of a gentle drizzle that was falling, she heard one man in her teashop, pointing fingers at him.
‘You see that man coming. The one with the hat. Waa dadka internet yadda wax galgaliya.’
‘What is that he puts in?’ she asked him, not knowing where he is alleged to have put things to.
‘I don’t know. But I know the man is our enemy. Reekanaga lama tussi karo.’ The man said.
‘Most Somali’s are tied with shackles of narrow-tribalism; and fight over trifling matters’, a Whiteman who once visited her teashop commented to her.
‘Gaalkii baa idin sheegay, what you are made from’, she says since then when she gets fed up of the fiery soundbites.

Muxyaddin recalls the analogy Mr. Hugh Scofield, the British veterinarian who lived with this community for three years, drew when he spoke about the conflict among Somali’s. It was the conflict between the fictional tribes in Jonathan Swift’s widely known book Gulliver’s Travels. The conflict between Lilliputians who preferred cracking open their soft-boiled eggs from the little end, and Blefuscans who preferred the big end.

Three months after the day Duwane’s marriage was announced to her; she heard him over the radio. Over Idaacadda Afka-Somaliga ee Radio Addis Ababa.
‘We have to use our knowledge, skills and experiences to develop our people.’ He was saying. She couldn’t agree more.

If Muxyaddin was listening, he would have said, ‘War Ina Koreeye, are you not going for the Presidency?’ That is, if Duwane was by his side. ‘Unless, he is so daft, he would get the hint’, Muxyaddin would have thought.

Kalsuumo wasn’t expecting Duwane to transform her life. Instead, she was thinking about whether he will have the time to remember and to come back to pay the fifteen dollars he owes her.

DEGREES OR DRIVING LICENSES?

If I had a hammer
I’d hammer in the morning
I‘d hammer in the evening - all over this land
I’d hammer out danger
I’d hammer out a warning
[To my brothers and sisters]
[To stay away of the danger]

Adaptations of the music by L.Hays and P.Seeger, if I had a hammer

Time was young boys would scuttle from the infamous Ethiopian Civil Service College (ECSC) gasping for breath; and would quickly sit on the swivel chairs of big offices, trumpeting ill-defined ‘revolutionary democracy’ and brimming with abrasive zeal.
It looks alumni’s from a far away institution, in the form of the ‘driving schools’ in Minnesota, are up to the challenge, of late. And refuse to play second-fiddle to anyone.
In the past few weeks, driver after driver; brandishing credentials from instructional to full licenses are arriving home. Neither to drive vehicles in the dusty roads of the opulent prison in the name of Somali region. Nor to offer trainings for their ‘equivalents’ in Jigjia.
Oddly enough, it is to take up key leadership posts in the misnamed Somali People’s Democratic Party (SPDP). Indeed, those of you who followed the recent reshuffle in the latest party conference might agree with my categorization of the whole charade: It was garbage in, garbage out!
But that is not what I am trying to look into, here. It is the new phenomena of a distinctive group of ‘graduates’ craving voraciously for a job they are not qualified for. Any harm in that? Plenty of it. But are they the only ones? Absolutely not!
Then, why all this fuss about the taxi drivers from Minnesota –who aspire to lead the ‘politics’ in the region? I am afraid it might have a domino effect on others; and whatever is left of respect for profession and the principle of ‘the right man for the right position’ in the mind of our progeny will lose ground.
I am not one of them, but those who think development of the Somali region is achievable under the current setting– that of policy and governance practices; believe the region needs technocrats and clean public servants to make a quantum leap towards progress. I have no problem with these recommendations but I differ on the logical disposition of the argument; as it is my judgment that the entire issue is past development and a question of typology of administrative organization.
I believe the wider issues of human rights, identity, and democratic choice of the people in the region must be answered first. Once, the Somali people in the region choose its destiny-and are freed from the unbridled killings and displacements; could only a meaningful plan of reconstruction and development be put in place.
But for the sake of argument, let me spend time with the futile proposition that who rules the region matters. Under such hypothesis, ideally, it is when meritocracy and rule of law prevails that the right track for a social and economic transformation is being treaded upon. Not with the prevailing mobocracy and enthronement of mediocrity.
In view of that, it is hard to fathom what a taxi driver would contribute to that ‘declared developmental goals’ of the ‘pseudo’ structures in jigjiga. Fulus, the protagonist in this ‘club of the weirdo’s’ came and has fallen.
Can he point to any measure of a value he added? Except, inciting the Rer-Dalal sub-clan against kins; and causing the death of civilians he led to the furnace to please Tigre army commanders and to cement his position?
Can his rumored replacement, Ina Macaliin Ilyas, turn to a seasoned geologist or hydrologist, or even to a manager; overnight? If he has any senses left in him, he will understand that the man he used to drive around as a president – the current state-minster, Khadar Mo’alin; is a top official; but obviously not ‘top’ enough, to salvage his sister from prison for over a year now. Power or the perception of it, is therefore, deceptive in Ethiopia.
TPLF’s vulgarity is so vile, and its ostentation of power so audacious that taxi Drivers (no offence intended to the hardworking and honest men engaged in this otherwise noble occupation); are being paraded as a ‘peace-loving converts’ from the Diaspora who bear out the participation of citizen’s in all corners of the globe in the ‘development’ of their regions.
As if the people of the region are eagerly awaiting the arrival of large consignments of vehicles from Japan; that there is an effective and immediate need for relevant manpower to handle them!
In all honesty, they are simply a de trop.
Yet, who will blame them; if any Mohamud Cadde, or a pretentious Ahmed Nur Hussien- for all the humiliation I feel in mentioning their names -now lay claim to the Ministry’s of Health and Education, respectively? They have seen ‘colleagues in the service alma mater’ do it; why can’t they? Mohamud’s ‘a bull gave birth’ fibs about KAAH money transfer are not less valuable than whatever those who are in Jigjiga brought back, I guess.
Such is the measure of the ultimate debasement this region has been plunged into by the tyrants of Addis Ababa; that Farah Dhuub will leave no stone unturned to make the most out of the grieve families of his dead uncle go through; calling the name of a martyred good old man to make a living out of it-by betraying what the man stood for. With a mock flaunt of anger against his ‘assassins’!
Perhaps, the biggest mystery of all is how the marriage between Civil Service College ‘illuminati’s’-themselves alien to the grit of epistemological exploration and the bliss of free-thinking; the new ‘mechanical’-minded arrivals, and the ruthless ‘gunners’ led by the head of security in the region will work out. Judging by the purge of the preceding weeks, it is an interesting chemistry, worth watching.
The people in the Somali region had watched with horror, travesties of the cruel masters for a long time; and this new trend of ‘anointing’ mechanics as ‘intellectuals’ is not confusing anyone here. But the stupidity of those who are involved in the spectacle is confounding.
At a time drought has connived with the deliberate starvation strategy of the Tigre Regime; and at a time when the old-habit of ‘can you give us water’ amongst our communities gave way to the harsh reality that it is no more a quaint formality- and that indeed people are fighting over a drop of dirty water from the water trucks of the humanitarian agencies; it is sad to see fellow sons prostrating themselves at the feet of the perpetrators of these crimes for leftover bones.
The ignominious demise of the commanding ‘colonel’ of these ‘elite’ corps of worldling opportunists and traitors doesn’t bode well for those to whom the art of scrambling for pilferages is bequeathed to. Or so it seems.
I hope the fifteen minutes or so loquacity of Fulus in the Cabinet; when the coup de grace is finally served to him; will bring sanity back to their throbbing heads. I hope it will give them the opportunity to have a foresight to anticipate what is in store for them. And that, it is not wise to forgo the respect of your people for an ephemeral gain.
The white and luxurious land cruisers they firmly set their bulging eyes on; are comfortable and classy. But they are also the casket that will soon hold their dead bodies. And dead souls, to boot.